Trust Is Earned. Like Gold.

The Stone Is Strong. Bran Told Himself, The Roots Of The Trees Go Deep, And Under The Ground The Kings Of Winter Sit Their Thrones. So Long As Those Remained, Winterfell Remained. It Was Not Dead, Just Broken. Like Me, He Thought. I'm Not Dead Either.

Only The Soldier Pines And Sentinels Still Showed Green; The Broadleaf Trees Had Donned Mantles Of Russet And Gold, Or Else Uncloaked Themselves To Scratch Against The Sky With Branches Brown And Bare.

How I Have Yearned For The Sound Of Your Sweet Voice,” Tyrion Sighed To Her. “how I Have Yearned To Have That Eunuch’s Tongue Pulled Out With Hot Pincers,” Cersei Replied.

The Women Are The Strong Ones, Truly.

Fiction Is Lies; We're Writing About People Who Never Existed And Events That Never Happened When We Write Fiction, Whether Its Science Fiction Or Fantasy Or Western Mystery Stories Or So-called Literary Stories. All Those Things Are Essentially Untrue. But It Has To Have A Truth At The Core Of It.