Little redcape," he snarled, "when next you bare steel on Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your manhood and roast it in the fire." "What, no goats?" Tyrion said, taking a bite of his cheese.

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

And all was black and still, and black and cold, and black and dead, and black.

I've written some standalone novels, but a book series allows fans in. There's much more intense involvement.

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.

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

I have always regarded historical fiction and fantasy as sisters under the skin, two genres separated at birth.