The morning air was dark with the smoke of burning gods.

He raised his eyes. "Sister. See. This time I knew you." Asha's heart skipped a beat. "Theon?" His lips skinned back in what might have been a grin. Half his teeth were gone, and half those still left him were broken and splintered. "Theon," he repeated. "My name is Theon. You have to know your name.

Power resides where men believe it to reside.

Nothing. My father is very good at doing nothing. He calls it thinking.

I've said in many interviews that I like my fiction to be unpredictable. I like there to be considerable suspense.

Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.

Shattered legs may heal in time, but some betrayals fester and poison the soul.