Half-truths are worth more than outright lies.

There’s part of me that loves words. But sometimes it feels like you’re trying to drive nails with your shoe.

Ser Barristan loves his honor, Grand Maester Pycelle loves his office, and Littlefinger loves Littlefinger.

You lie. Worse, you lie poorly.

When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

Pyp had stabbed a turnip with his knife. "The night is dark and full of turnips," he announced in a solemn voice. "Let us all pray for venison, my children, with some onions and a bit of tasty gravy.

Kind? How boring that would be. I aspire to be wicked.