She could not bear to look at him just now. If she did, she might well slap him again. Or cry. Or kiss him. And never know which was right and which was wrong and which was madness.

He drew the dagger and laid it on the table between them; a length of dragonbone and Valyrian steel, as sharp as the difference between right and wrong, between true and false, between life and death.

Believe it or not, I worked four summers in college as a sports writer covering baseball for a parks and rec department in Bayonne, N.J.

Words are wind, Brienne told herself. They cannot hurt you. Let them wash over you.

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

Historical fiction is not history. You're blending real events and actual historical personages with characters of your own creation.

They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man’s laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death,” Ned said evenly. “Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor.