Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the Other, who would drag us all into his eternal night.

A lord may love the men that he commands, but he cannot be a friend to them. One day he may need to sit in judgement on them, or send them forth to die.

He drew the dagger and laid it on the table between them; a length of dragonbone and Valyrian steel, as sharp as the difference between right and wrong, between true and false, between life and death.

You kill men for the wrongs they have done, not the wrongs that they may do someday.

A lot of writing takes place in the subconscious, and it's bound to have an effect.

The old man laid a withered, spotted hand on his shoulder. "It hurts, boy," he said softly. "Oh, yes. Choosing . . . it has always hurt. And always will. I know.

You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you.