The white horse and the black one wheeled like lovers at a harvest dance, the riders throwing steel in place of kisses.

Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the Other, who would drag us all into his eternal night.

Every once in a very long while, Lord Tywin Lannister would actually threaten to smile; he never did, but the threat alone was terrible to behold.

I have idea files of books that I want to write one of these days, stories I want to write one of these days, but I'll probably never get to them.

The women are the strong ones, truly.

Why do the Gods make kings and queens if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?

I've always taken that as my guiding principle and the rest is just set dressing. You can have dragons in it, or aliens and starships, or a western about a gunslinger, or even literary fiction, and ultimately you're still writing about the human heart in conflict with itself.