Quotes from George R.R. Martin

Let me give you some counsel, bastard. Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strenght. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.

That's what they always ended up saying: "But I'm just sad." Feeling sad means having too much time on your hands, usually. Really. I'm not a licensed therapist but usually it means too much time.

Aguja era Robb, Bran, Rickon, su madre y su padre, hasta Sansa. Aguja era los muros grises de Invernalia y las risas de sus habitantes. Aguja era las nieves del verano, los cuentos de la Vieja Tata, el árbol corazón con sus hojas rojas y su rostro aterrador, el cálido olor a tierra de los jardines de cristal, el sonido del viento del norte contra los postigos de su habitación. Aguja era la sonrisa de Jon Nieve»

Once a man has seen a dragon in flight, let him stay at home and tendi his garden in content, someone had written once for this wide world has no greater wonder.

I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.

That was his mistake, the false humility of youth that is itself a sort of pride.

If the novels are still being read in 50 years, no one is ever going to say: 'What's great about that sixth book is that he met his deadline!' It will be about how the whole thing stands up.

Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.

The world made no sense when a great prince died so a hedge knight might live.

Which king?" "All of them. The true and the false alike. If they would claim the realm, let them defend it.

Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade in between them for honor's sake, but he thought this must be the first time where a direwolf took the place of the sword.

So long as she could kill with a whisper, Arya need not be afraid of anyone . . . but once she used up the last death, she would only be a mouse again.

They are still unblooded, Catelyn thought as she watched Lord Bryce goad Ser Robar into juggling a brace of daggers. It is all a game to them still, a tourney writ large, and all they see is the chance for glory and honor and spoils. They are boys drunk on song and story, and like all boys, they think themselves immortal.

Bran was relieved . . . but disappointed too. So long as there was magic, anything could happen. Ghosts could walk, trees could talk, and broken boys could grow up to be knights. "But there isn't," he said aloud in the darkness of his bed. "There's no magic, and the stories are just stories." And he would never walk, nor fly, nor be a knight.

This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.

Seventeen, and beautiful, and already a legend. Half the girls in the Seven Kingdom want to bed him, and all the boys want to be him.

Now, who is inside my solar?' 'Lord Littlefinger.' Podrick managed a quick look at his face, then hastily dropped his eyes. 'I meant, Lord Petyr. Lord Baelish. The master of coin.' 'You make him sound a crowd.

Robert could piss in a cup and men would call it wine, but I offer them cold clear water and they squint in suspicion and mutter to each other about how queer it tastes.

Tyrion wondered whether this was the last sunrise he would ever see … and whether wondering was a mark of cowardice.

Death is so final, whereas life is full of possibilities'' - Tyrion Lannister

If I look back, I am lost.

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Until what? Foolish woman, will holding it secret in our heart make it any less true? If you never tell, never speak of it, will it become only a dream, less than a dream, a nightmare half-remembered? Oh, if only the gods would be so good.

The cheese will be served when I want it served, and I want it served now.