I know nothing and perhaps I never will.

I never finished any of my early stories. They were all beginnings, an endless number of beginnings.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end.

Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths.

She never forgets a slight, real or imagined. She takes caution for cowardice and dissent for defiance. And she is greedy. Greedy for power, for honour, for love.

Ofttimes a very small man can cast a very large shadow. Tyrion smiled. Lord Varys, I am growing strangely fond of you. I may kill you yet, but I think I'd feel sad about it. I will take that as high praise.

Woman? Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man. - Daenerys Targaryen