What's Dead May Never Die.

Littlefinger Looked Like A Boy Who Had Just Taken A Furtive Bite From A Honeycomb. He Was Trying To Watch For Bees, But The Honey Was So Sweet.

I Wonder What The High Septon Would Have To Say About The Sanctity Of Oaths Sworn While Dead Drunk, Chained To A Wall, With A Sword Pressed To Your Chest?

When I Sleep I Turn Into A Wolf. Bran Turned His Face Away And Looked Back Out Into The Night. Do Wolves Dreams?

The North Remembers, Lord Davos. The North Remembers, And The Mummer’s Farce Is Almost Done. My Son Is Home.

The Odd Thing About Being A Writer Is You Do Tend To Lose Yourself In Your Books. Sometimes It Seems Like Real Life Is Flickering By And You're Hardly A Part Of It. You Remember The Events In Your Books Better Than You Remember The Events That Actually Took Place When You Were Writing Them.