If Somebody Dies And You Just Go

I've Always Taken That As My Guiding Principle And The Rest Is Just Set Dressing. You Can Have Dragons In It, Or Aliens And Starships, Or A Western About A Gunslinger, Or Even Literary Fiction, And Ultimately You're Still Writing About The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself.

You Always Try To Do Your Own Thing. One Of The Things I Wanted To Do Was To Write A Book That Combines Some Of The Best Traits Of Contemporary Fantasy With Some Of The Traits Of The Historical Novel.

It Seemed Cruel For A Day To Dawn So Fair And End So Foul As This One Promised To.

Needle Was Robb And Bran And Rickon, Her Mother And Her Father, Even Sansa. Needle Was Winterfell's Grey Walls, And The Laughter Of Its People. Needle Was The Summer Snows, Old Nan's Stories, The Heart Tree With Its Red Leaves And Scary Face, The Warm Earthy Smell Of The Glass Gardens, The Sound Of The North Wind Rattling The Shutters Of Her Room. Needle Was Jon Snow's Smile. He Used To Mess My Hair And Call Me "little Sister," She Remembered, And Suddenly There Were Tears In Her Eyes.

The Women Are The Strong Ones, Truly.