Don't write outlines; I hate outlines.

When Maester Aemon heard him sing, he said his voice was honey poured over thunder.

The Beauty raised her eyes, the only part of her that was truly beautiful.

I have some other novels I want to write. I have a lot of short stories - I love the short story.

Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.

You always try to do your own thing. One of the things I wanted to do was to write a book that combines some of the best traits of contemporary fantasy with some of the traits of the historical novel.

Do you want to die old and craven in your bed?- How else? Though not till I'm done reading.