I Stayed Sober For This?

I Feel Satisfaction At The End Of The Day When I've Written A Scene That I Really Like Or When I Write A Good Line Of Dialogue That I Read Out To My Wife Or Something Like That. But There's Also Days Where It's Just Bloody Agony And I Go, 'ugh, This Is Such Crap! Why Did I Think I Had Any Talent?

He Had Found Over The Years That Silence Sometimes Yielded More Than Questions. And So It Was This Time.

Drifting Snowflakes Brushed Her Face As Light As Lover’s Kisses, And Melted On Her Cheeks. At The Center Of The Garden, Beside The Statue Of The Weeping Woman That Lay Broken And Half-buried On The Ground, She Turned Her Face Up To The Sky And Closed Her Eyes. She Could Feel The Snow On Her Lashes, Taste It On Her Lips. It Was The Taste Of Winterfell. The Taste Of Innocence. The Taste Of Dreams.

He Pushed Away From Her And Raised His Arm, Forcing His Stump Into Her Face. "a Hand Without A Hand? A Bad Jape, Sister. Don't Ask Me To Rule.

All Fiction Has To Have A Certain Amount Of Truth In It To Be Powerful.