It was a story called ‘The Hero’ which I sold to Galaxy magazine in 1970, for $94.

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.

That was the way of this cold world, where men fished the sea and dug in the ground and died, whilst women brought forth short-lived children from beds of blood and pain.

I've never been quite sure what the point of a eunuch is, if truth be told. It seems to me they're only men with the useful bits cut off.

The great thing about reading is that it broadens your life

A hedge knight must hold tight to his pride. Without it, he was no more than a sellsword

Most people were startled to find out there were books that preceded Game Of Thrones. I'm a case of working forty years to be an overnight success.