When We Speak Of The Morrow Nothing

I Have Always Regarded Historical Fiction And Fantasy As Sisters Under The Skin, Two Genres Separated At Birth.

The Singers Make Much Of Kings Who Die Valiantly In Battle, But Your Life Is Worth More Than A Song.

But The Real Enemy Is The Cold. It Steals Up On You Quieter Than Will, And At First You Shiver And Your Teeth Chatter And You Stamp Your Feet And Dream Of Mulled Wine And Nice Hot Fires. It Burns, It Does. Nothing Burns Like The Cold. But Only For A While. Then It Gets Inside You And Starts To Fill You Up, And After A While You Don't Have The Strength To Fight It. It's Easier Just To Sit Down Ot Go To Sleep. They Say You Don't Feel Any Pain Toward The End. First You Go Weak And Drowsy, And Everything Starts To Fade, And Then It's Like Sinking Into A Sea Of Warm Milk. Peaceful, Like.

I Will Teach Them What It Means To Put A Lion In A Cage, Cersei Thought.

The Unseen Enemy Is Always The Most Fearsome.