For The Night Is Dark And Full

There Are A Number Of Things That I'm Trying To Get Into The Books. There's A Meta-fictional Aspect, If I May Use That Pretentious Word, To Writing Anything. You're Writing In The Shadow Of All The People That Have Gone Before And, In A Way, You're Having A Dialogue With Them. As Someone Who's Read J.r. Tolkien And Robert E. Howard And All The Great Fantasists Before, This Is Almost My Answer To Them.

She Went To The Window Seat And Sat There, Sniffling, Hating Them All, And Herself Most Of All. It Was All Her Fault, Everything Bad That Had Happened.

Be Careful You Don't Cut Yourself. The Edges Are Sharp Enough To Shave With.' 'girls Don't Shave', Arya Said. 'maybe They Should. Have You Ever Seen The Septa's Legs?

She Could Not Bear To Look At Him Just Now. If She Did, She Might Well Slap Him Again. Or Cry. Or Kiss Him. And Never Know Which Was Right And Which Was Wrong And Which Was Madness.

Fantasy Is Silver And Scarlet, Indigo And Azure, Obsidian Veined With Gold And Lapis Lazuli.