Power Resides Where Men Believe It To

Historical Fiction Is Not History. You're Blending Real Events And Actual Historical Personages With Characters Of Your Own Creation.

Go Ahead, Call Me All The Names You Want," Sansa Said Airily. "you Won't Dare When I'm Married To Joffrey. You'll Have To Bow And Call Me Your Grace." She Shrieked As Arya Flung The Orange Across The Table. It Caught Her In The Middle Of The Forehead With A Wet Squish And Plopped Down Into Her Lap. "you Have Juice On Your Face, Your Grace ," Arya Said.

My Featherbed Is Deep And Soft, And There I’ll Lay You Down, I’ll Dress You All In Yellow Silk And On Your Head A Crown. For You Shall Be My Lady Love, And I Shall Be Your Lord. I’ll Always Keep You Warm And Safe, And Guard You With My Sword. And How She Smiled And How She Laughed, The Maiden Of The Tree. She Spun Away And Said To Him, No Featherbed For Me. I’ll Wear A Gown Of Golden Leaves, And Bind My Hair With Grass, But You Can Be My Forest Love, And Me Your Forest Lass.

But A Voice Inside Her Whispered, There Are No Heroes, And She Remembered What Lord Petyr Had Said To Her, Here In This Very Hall. 'life Is Not A Song, Sweetling,' He'd Told Her, 'you May Learn That One Day To Your Sorrow.' In Life, The Monsters Win, She Told Herself.

And I Have A Tender Spot In My Heart For Cripples And Bastards And Broken Things.