"Weese," she would whisper, first of all. "Dunsen, Chiswyck, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Gregor, Ser Armory, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei."

His eyes were open wounds beneath his heavy brows, a blue as dark as the sea by night.

If I took it away, no doubt I'd find a morningstar hidden under your pillow within a fortnight. Try not to stab your sister, whatever the provocation.

If a man paints a target on his chest, he should expect that sooner or later someone will loose an arrow on him.

Fire consumes, but cold preserves.

The distinction between literary and genre fiction is stupid and pernicious. It dates back to a feud between Robert Louis Stevenson and Henry James. James won, and it split literature into two streams. But it's a totally false dichotomy.

Give me honorable enemies rather than ambitious ones, and I'll sleep more easily by night.