“in a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. he wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a scepter, and his eyes followed dany with mute appeal.”

the undying were all around her, blue and cold, whispering as they reached for her, pulling, stroking, tugging at her clothes, touching her with their dry cold hands, twining their fingers through her hair. all the strength had left her limbs. she could not move. even her heart had ceased to beat. - acok, daenerys iv

meera reminded bran of his sister arya. she wasn't scared to get dirty, and she could run and fight and throw as good as a boy. 

for a moment bran thought it was his sister arya … madly, for he knew his little sister was a thousand leagues away, or dead. 

the girl was the older and taller of the two. arya! bran thought eagerly, as he watched her leap up onto a rock and cut at the boy. but that couldn't be right. if the girl was arya, the boy was bran himself, and he had never worn his hair so long. and arya never beat me playing swords, the way that girl is beating him.

that night she lay in her narrow bed upon the scratchy straw, listening to the voices of the living and the dead whisper and argue as she waited for the moon to rise. they were the only voices she trusted anymore. she could hear the sound of her own breath, and the wolves as well, a great pack of them now. they are closer than the one i heard in the godswood, she thought. they are calling to me.

No one ever looked for a girl... It was a prince that was promised, not a princess... What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one.

Daenerys Targaryen is no maid, however. She is the widow of a Dothraki khal, a mother of dragons and sacker of cities, Aegon the Conqueror with teats. She may not prove as willing as you wish.

Nervously Dany gathered the reins in her hands and slid her feet into the short stirrups. She was only a fair rider; she had spent far more time traveling by ship and wagon and palanquin than by horseback. Praying that she would not fall off and disgrace herself, she gave the filly the lightest and most timid touch with her knees. And for the first time in hours, she forgot to be afraid. Or perhaps it was for the first time ever.

Old Nan told him a story about a bad little boy who climbed too high and was struck down by lightning, and how afterward the crows came to peck out his eyes. Bran was not impressed. There were crows' nests atop the broken tower, where no one ever went but him, and sometimes he filled his pockets with corn before he climbed up there and the crows ate it right out of his hand. None of them had ever shown the slightest bit of interest in pecking out his eyes.