I Work For Two Years On A

The Odd Thing About Being A Writer Is You Do Tend To Lose Yourself In Your Books. Sometimes It Seems Like Real Life Is Flickering By And You're Hardly A Part Of It. You Remember The Events In Your Books Better Than You Remember The Events That Actually Took Place When You Were Writing Them.

And All Was Black And Still, And Black And Cold, And Black And Dead, And Black.

Tears, She Said Scornfully To Sansa As The Woman Was Led From The Hall. The Woman's Weapon, My Lady Mother Used To Call Them. The Man's Weapon Is A Sword. And That Tells Us All You Need To Know, Doesn't It?

She Remembered The Godswood, Drooping Branches Heavy With Moisture, And The Sound Of Her Brother’s Laughter As He Chased Her Through Piles Of Damp Leaves.

An Admiral Without Ships, A Hand Without Fingers, In Service Of A King Without A Throne. Is This A Knight Who Comes Before Us, Or The Answer To A Child's Riddle?