An awful lot of fantasy, and even some great fantasy, falls into the mistake of assuming that a good man will be a good king, that all that is necessary is to be a decent human being and when you're king everything will go swimmingly.

Men are men, vows are words, and words are wind.

Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.

Of course you know him. Everyone knows a pear-shaped man.

I heard of a man who had a razor made of Valyrian steel. He cut his head off trying to shave.

If I look back I am lost.

Oh, my sweet summer child," Old Nan said quietly, "what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods