Everyone Who Isn't Us Is An Enemy."

But The Real Enemy Is The Cold. It Steals Up On You Quieter Than Will, And At First You Shiver And Your Teeth Chatter And You Stamp Your Feet And Dream Of Mulled Wine And Nice Hot Fires. It Burns, It Does. Nothing Burns Like The Cold. But Only For A While. Then It Gets Inside You And Starts To Fill You Up, And After A While You Don't Have The Strength To Fight It. It's Easier Just To Sit Down Ot Go To Sleep. They Say You Don't Feel Any Pain Toward The End. First You Go Weak And Drowsy, And Everything Starts To Fade, And Then It's Like Sinking Into A Sea Of Warm Milk. Peaceful, Like.

I Am Surrounded By Flatterers And Fools.

If I Wanted To Honor You, I´d Let You Retire. I Am Planing To Make You Run The Kingdom And Fight The Wars While I Eat And Drink

The Lord Of Winterfell Would Always Be A Stark

From Where I Sit, Battles Are Hard. I’ve Written My Share. Sometimes I Employ The Private’s Viewpoint, Very Up Close And Personal, Dropping The Reader Right Into The Middle Of The Carnage. That’s Vivid And Visceral, But Of Necessity Chaotic, And It Is Easy To Lose All Sense Of The Battle As A Whole. Sometimes I Go With The General’s Point Of View Instead, Looking Down From On High, Seeing Lines And Flanks And Reserves. That Gives A Great Sense Of The Tactics, Of How The Battle Is Won Or Lost, But Can Easily Slide Into Abstraction.