George RR Martin

She wants fire, and Dorne sent her mud.

You could make a poultice out of mud to cool a fever. You could plant seeds in mud and grow a crop to feed your children. Mud would nourish you, where fire would only consume you, but fools and children and young girls would choose fire every time.

Sunset found her squatting in the grass, groaning. Every stool was looser than the one before, and smelled fouler. By the time the moon came up, she was shitting brown water. The more she drank the more she shat, but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew.

Women were always the cruelest where other women were concerned.

“You are not wrong.” Jon said. “I do not know. And if the gods are good, I never will.”

“The gods are seldom good, Jon Snow.”

Parchments had been signed, but wars were not fought on parchments.

When you bugger a man you expect a squeal or two.

He did his duty. Some nights, Ser Barristan wondered if he had not done that duty too well.

The most insidious thing about bondage was how easy it was to grow accustomed to it.

Pain is the price of power.

The Drowned God did not answer. He seldom did. That was the trouble with gods.

No dragon chair can replace a dragon no matter how elaborately it's carved.

Men may be fond of maidens, but women like a man who knows what he's about in the bedchamber.