Quotes from George R.R. Martin

She had never loved him so much as she did in that instant.

Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted her his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.

She wants fire, and Dorne sent her mud. You could make a poultice out of mud to cool a fever. You could plant seeds in mud and grow a crop to feed your children. Mud would nourish you, where fire would only consume you, but fools and children and young girls would choose fire every time.

Perhaps I cannot make my people good, she told herself, but I should at least try to make them a little less bad.

Shattered legs may heal in time, but some betrayals fester and poison the soul.

Asha Greyjoy did not intend to be taken alive. She would die as she had lived, with an axe in her hand and a laugh upon her lips.

Hodor," said Hodor.

The ruby at Melisandre's throat gleamed red. "It is not those foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and sharpen their knives when you turn your back. You would do well to keep your wolf close beside you. Ice, I see, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel. It was very cold." "It is always cold on the Wall." "You think so?" "I know so, my lady." "Then you know nothing, Jon Snow," she whispered.

Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is truly like.

Go Ahead, call me all the names you want," Sansa said airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Joffrey. You'll have to bow and call me Your Grace." She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap. "You have juice on your face, Your Grace ," Arya said.

Jon:'What are you doing up there? Why aren't you at the feast?' Tyrion: 'Too hot, too noisy, and I'd drunk too much wine', the dwarf told him. 'I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother.

The Lord of Winterfell would always be a Stark

If ice can burn," said Jojen in his solemn voice, "then love and hate can mate. Mountain or marsh, it makes no matter. The land is one.

In the end words are just wind.

Those are brave men," he told Ser Balon in admiration. "Let's go kill them.

The North remembers.

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.

Before he had lost his sight, the maester had loved books as much as Samwell Tarly did. He understood the way that you could sometimes fall right into them, as if each page was a hole into another world.

We were king's men, knights, and heroes . . . but some knights are dark and full of terror, my lady. War makes monsters of us all." "Are you saying you are monsters?" "I am saying we are human. You are not the only one with wounds, Lady Brienne

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.

Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens.

We're children. We're supposed to be childish.

Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends.

Perhaps that is the secret. It is not what we do, so much as why we do it.