Some writers enjoy writing, I am told. Not me. I enjoy having written.

Tyrion: My gentle sister seems to have mistaken me for Ned Stark. Bronn: I hear he was taller. Tyrion: Not after Joff took off his head.

Have a care how you speak to me, Imp. Doubtless he meant to sound threatening, but that absurd wisp of a mustache ruined the effect.

What was it Catelyn Stark had called them, that night at Bitterbridge? The knights of summer. And now it was autumn and they were falling like leaves.

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

I could have written a story about a well-adjusted family. Ned Stark comes down to King’s Landing and takes over and solves all their problems. Would that have been as exciting?

I'm sorry that I never trusted you. I don't know how to do that anymore.