Lady," she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

a man who hates music can’t be trusted, I always say.

The north remembers, Lord Davos. The north remembers, and the mummer’s farce is almost done. My son is home.

I wanted to write a big novel, something epic in scale.

That was the way of this cold world, where men fished the sea and dug in the ground and died, whilst women brought forth short-lived children from beds of blood and pain.

The unseen enemy is always the most fearsome.

He had found over the years that silence sometimes yielded more than questions. And so it was this time.