George Martin

“In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.”

“The Watch needs good men,” he told them as they set out, “but you lot will have to do.”

The world had tightened around them, but beyond the walled wood still stood the great grey caves of man-rock. Winterfell, he remembered, the sound coming to him suddenly. Beyond its sky-tall man-cliffs the true world was calling, and he knew he must answer or die.

This world is twisted beyond hope, when lowborn smugglers must vouch for the honor of kings.

She could smell out falsehood, she could, but she was dead, Father had killed her, on account of Arya.

The face of a drowned woman, Catelyn thought. Can you drown in grief?

They are boys drunk on song and story, and like all boys, they think themselves immortal.

I may be a poor envoy, but I am a good mourner, gods save me.

The Blackfish was the veteran of half a hundred battles; Edmure was the veteran of one, and that one lost.

“I am their rightful queen,” Dany protested.

“You are a stranger who means to land on their shores with an army of outlanders who cannot even speak the Common Tongue. The lords of Westeros do not know you, and have every reason to fear and mistrust you. You must win them over before you sail. A few at least.”