Unfortunately in television, for whatever reason, fantasy became thought of as a kids' genre.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end.

His eyes were open wounds beneath his heavy brows, a blue as dark as the sea by night.

Politicians were mostly people who'd had too little morals and ethics to stay lawyers.

No fight is hopeless till it has been fought.

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

Ned was clad in a white linen doublet with the direwolf of Stark on the breast; his black wool cloak was fastened at the collar by his silver hand of office. Black and white and grey, all the shades of truth.