A lord may love the men that he commands, but he cannot be a friend to them. One day he may need to sit in judgement on them, or send them forth to die.

There’s part of me that loves words. But sometimes it feels like you’re trying to drive nails with your shoe.

Trust is earned. Like gold.

I have idea files of books that I want to write one of these days, stories I want to write one of these days, but I'll probably never get to them.

You must put these dreams aside, they will only break your heart.

"You look different now. Like a proper little girl," (said Gendry.) "I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns," (said Arya.) "Nice, though. A nice oak tree. [...] You even smell nice for a change."

If I die, I die friendless and abandoned. What choice did that leave him, but to live?