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

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end.

Remember Old Nan's stories, Bran. Remember the way she told them, the sound of her voice. So long as you do that, part of her will always be alive in you.

I don't want to be a queen. I want to be the queen.

The world is full of cravens who pretended to be heroes.

I never wanted to see half the things I've seen, and I've never seen half the things I wanted to. I don't think wanting comes into it. You'd best go all the same.

It's different for every writer. It's not a career for anyone who needs security. It's a career for gamblers. It's a career of ups and downs.