But prominent families, often forget a simple truth, I've found.
Knowledge is power.
«Si el hielo puede arder, el amor y el odio se pueden emparejar. Montaña o pantano, da igual. La tierra es una» —Jojen.
George R.R. MartinStichwörter: bran-stark meera-reed jojen
We're fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us. Remember that time he proposed to outlaw brothels?
George R.R. MartinEverything Syrio Forel had ever taught her vanished in a heartbeat. In that instant of sudden terror, the only lesson Arya could remember was the one Jon Snow had given her, the very first.
She stuck him with the pointy end, driving the blade upward with a wild, hysterical strength.
I often said that writers are of two types.
There is the architect, which is one type. The architect, as if designing a building, lays out the entire novel at a time. He knows how many rooms there will be or what a roof will be made of or how high it will be, or where the plumbing will run and where the electrical outlets will be in its room. All that before he drives the first nail. Everything is there in the blueprint.
And then there's the gardener who digs the hole in the ground, puts in the seed and waters it with his blood and sees what comes up. The gardener knows certain things. He's not completely ignorant. He knows whether he planted an oak tree, or corn, or a cauliflower. He has some idea of the shape but a lot of it depends on the wind and the weather and how much blood he gives it and so forth.
No one is purely an architect or a gardener in terms of a writer, but many writers tend to one side or the other. I'm very much more a gardener.
Stichwörter: writing writers authors creative-writing architect gardner
He won the war on the battlefield and lost it in a bedchamber, poor fool.
George R.R. MartinI do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.
George R.R. MartinEl hombre que dicta la sentencia debe blandir la espada. Si le vas a quitar la vida a un hombre, tienes un deber para con él, y es mirarlo a los ojos y escuchar sus últimas palabras. Si no soportas eso, quizá es que ese hombre no merece morir".
George R.R. MartinShe stood on the end of the dock, pale and goosefleshed and shivering in the fog. In her hand, Needle seemed to whisper to her. Stick them with the pointy end, it said, and, don’t tell Sansa! Mikken’s mark was on the blade. It’s just a sword. If she needed a sword, there were a hundred under the temple. Needle was too small to be a proper sword, it was hardly more than a toy. She’d been a stupid little girl when Jon had it made for her. “It’s just a sword,” she said, aloud this time . . .
. . . but it wasn’t.
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.
Friend or foe, the crows care not.
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