George R. R. Martin

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

Black moleskin gloves covered his hands; the right because it was burned, the left because a man felt half a fool wearing only one glove.

Catelyn had never liked this godswood. She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.

The common people pray for rain, healthy children and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace.

...the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." "...a ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.

If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him--valar morghulis.

Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.

The gods made our bodies as well as our souls, is it not so? They give us voices, so we might worship them with song. They give us hands, so we might build them temples. And they give us desire, so we might mate and worship them in that way.