She narrowed her eyes. “What is our heart’s desire?” “Vengeance.” His voice was soft, as if he were afraid that someone might be listening. “Justice.” Prince Doran pressed the onyx dragon into her palm with his swollen, gouty fingers, and whispered, “Fire and blood.

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

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.

If you die before you say her name, ser, I will hunt you through all seven hells.

...if you dance with dragons, you must expect to burn.

Some gave me soft words and some blunt, some made excuses, some promises, some only lied. In the end words are just wind.

The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real, for a moment at least, that long magic moment before we wake.