A Long Summer Always Meant A Long

I Have An Instinctual Distrust Of Conventional Happy Endings.

Time Is Different For A Tree Than For A Man. Sun And Soil And Water, These Are The Things A Weirwood Understands, Not Days And Years And Centuries. For Men, Time Is A River. We Are Trapped In Its Flow, Hurtling From Past To Present, Always In The Same Direction. The Lives Of Trees Are Different. They Root And Grow And Die In One Place, And That River Does Not Move Them. The Oak Is The Acorn, The Acorn Is The Oak.

Generally Speaking, I'm Much More In Favour Of Penises Entering Vaginas Than Axes Entering Skulls. But The World Seems To Accept The Violence A Lot Easier Than The Sex.

She Yearned To See Her Mother Again, And Robb And Bran And Rickon… But It Was Jon Snow She Thought Of Most. She Wished Somehow They Could Come To The Wall Before Winterfell, So Jon Might Muss Up Her Hair And Call Her “little Sister.” She’d Tell Him, “i Missed You,” And He’d Say It Too At The Very Same Moment, The Way They Always Used To Say Things Together. She Would Have Liked That. She Would Have Liked That Better Than Anything.

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.