When you knew you were going to hang, the only thing to do was grin at the noose.

One pretty woman means fun at the dance. Two pretty women means trouble in the house. Three pretty women means run at the hills.

Bashere shrugged, grinning brhind his grey-streaked moustaches, "When I first slept in a saddle, Muad Cheade was Marshal-General. The man was as mad as a hare in spring thaw. Twice every day he searched his bodyservant for poison, and he drank nothing but vinegar and water which he claimed was sovereign against the poison the fellow fed him, but he ate everything the man prepared for as long as I knew him. Once he had a grove of oaks chopped down because they were looking at him. And then insisted they be given decent funerals; he gave the oration. Do you have any idea how long it takes to dig graves for twenty-three oak trees?" "Why didn't somebody do something? His Family?" "Those not as mad as him, or madder, were afraid to look at him sideways. Tenobia's father wouldn't have let anyone touch Cheade anyway. He might have been insane, but he could outgeneral anyone I ever saw. He never lost a battle. He never even came close to losing.

Burn you, Nerim, that's a leg not a bloody side of beef!"
"As my lord says," Nerim murmured. "My lord's leg is not a side of beef. Thank you, my lord, for instructing me.

Take it with a grin of salt.

Don’t worry, you will live through this,” his devilish grin flashed for a brief moment before he rocked back onto his heals, closing his eyes in a meditative state.