Just where do you think you are going, Arya?' the septa demanded. Arya glared at her. 'I have to go shoe a horse,' she said sweetly taking a brief satisfaction in the shock on the septa's face.

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

a few days ago she had been wandering around with a swatch of black silk tied over her eyes. Syrio was teaching her to see with her ears and her nose and her skin, she told him. Before that, he had her doing spinds and back flips. "Arya, are you certain you want to persist in this?" She nodded. "Tomorrow we're going to catch cats." "Cats." Ned sighed.

There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs.

Writing is like sausage making in my view; you'll all be happier in the end if you just eat the final product without knowing what's gone into it.

Every once in a very long while, Lord Tywin Lannister would actually threaten to smile; he never did, but the threat alone was terrible to behold.

She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean.