The city?" Tyrion was lost. "What city would that be?" "King's Landing. I am sending you to court." It was the last thing Tyrion Lannister would ever have anticipated. He reached for his wine, considered for a moment as he sipped. "And what am I to do there?" "Rule," his father said curtly.

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile. He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

a few days ago she had been wandering around with a swatch of black silk tied over her eyes. Syrio was teaching her to see with her ears and her nose and her skin, she told him. Before that, he had her doing spinds and back flips. "Arya, are you certain you want to persist in this?" She nodded. "Tomorrow we're going to catch cats." "Cats." Ned sighed.

The girl had hoped for fog, but the gods ignored her prayers as gods so often did.

Not all men were meant to dance with dragons.

I feel satisfaction at the end of the day when I've written a scene that I really like or when I write a good line of dialogue that I read out to my wife or something like that. But there's also days where it's just bloody agony and I go, 'ugh, this is such crap! Why did I think I had any talent?

So be it. I'll wear my iron and hold my tongue. A man who won't listen can't hear.