What is dead may never die, but rises again, stronger and harder.

I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.

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

Why ask for truth," Ser Barristan said softly, "if you close your ears to it?

One of the hardest parts of writing is writing from the gut or the heart or something like that rather than intellectually.

You look pale, Sansa," Cersei observed. "Is your red flower still blooming?" "Yes" "How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here.

What do you like to do?” She scuffed a toe amongst the rushes. “Needlework.” “Very restful, isn’t it?” “Well,” said Arya, “not the way I do it.