It's Really Irritating When You Open A

I Dreamed... In The Black Of Night A Man Asks All The Questions He Dare Not Ask By Daylight. For Me, The Past Years, Only One Question Has Remained. Why Would The Gods Take My Eyes And My Strength, Yet Condemn Me To Linger On So Long, Frozen And Forgotten? What Use Could They Have For An Old Done Man Like Me? ... I Remember, Sam. I Still Remember. Remember What? Dragons, Aemon Whispered.

I Hate Outlines. I Have A Broad Sense Of Where The Story Is Going; I Know The End, I Know The End Of The Principal Characters, And I Know The Major Turning Points And Events From The Books, The Climaxes For Each Book, But I Don't Necessarily Know Each Twist And Turn Along The Way. That's Something I Discover In The Course Of Writing And That's What Makes Writing Enjoyable. I Think If I Outlined Comprehensively And Stuck To The Outline The Actual Writing Would Be Boring.

Does He Think To Scare Me? Arya Kissed Him Where His Nose Should Be And Plucked The Grave Worm From His Eye To Eat It, But It Melted Like A Shadow In Her Hand. The Yellow Skull Was Melting Too, And The Kindliest Old Man That She Had Ever Seen Was Smiling Down On Her. "no One Has Ever Tried To Eat My Worm Before," He Said. "are You Hungry, Child?" Yes, She Thought, But Not For Food.

A Reader Lives A Thousand Lives Before He Dies.

Oh, My Sweet Summer Child," Old Nan Said Quietly, "what Do You Know Of Fear? Fear Is For The Winter, My Little Lord, When The Snows Fall A Hundred Feet Deep And The Ice Wind Comes Howling Out Of The North. Fear Is For The Long Night, When The Sun Hides Its Face For Years At A Time, And Little Children Are Born And Live And Die All In Darkness While The Direwolves Grow Gaunt And Hungry, And The White Walkers Move Through The Woods