As We Sin, So Do We Suffer

I'm Sorry That I Never Trusted You. I Don't Know How To Do That Anymore.

In The World As I Have Seen It, No Man Grows Rich By Kindness.

It Was The Easiest Thing In The World For Arya To Step Up Behind Him And Stab Him. “is There Gold Hidden In The Village?” She Shouted As She Drove The Blade Up Through His Back. “is There Silver? Gems?” She Stabbed Twice More. “is There Food? Where Is Lord Beric?” She Was On Top Of Him By Then, Still Stabbing. “where Did He Go? How Many Men Were With Him? How Many Knights? How Many Bowmen? How Many, How Many, How Many, How Many, How Many, How Many? Is There Gold In The Village?

I Always Give My Students Exercises Where They Really Have To Open A Vein And Bleed All Over The Paper And That's The Way You Get The Important Characters. Sooner Or Later Every Writer Worth Reading Writes A Story His Mother Wouldn't Read And Having To Get That Stuff Out Is Part Of One's Growth As A Writer.

Needle Was Robb And Bran And Rickon, Her Mother And Her Father, Even Sansa. Needle Was Winterfell's Grey Walls, And The Laughter Of Its People. Needle Was The Summer Snows, Old Nan's Stories, The Heart Tree With Its Red Leaves And Scary Face, The Warm Earthy Smell Of The Glass Gardens, The Sound Of The North Wind Rattling The Shutters Of Her Room. Needle Was Jon Snow's Smile. He Used To Mess My Hair And Call Me "little Sister," She Remembered, And Suddenly There Were Tears In Her Eyes.