“I have a hole where my heart should be, she thought, and nowhere else to go.”

“You heard me. Go away.But... where should I go?To hell or home, as you prefer.”

“I am become a sour woman, Catelyn thought. I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings. There is an empty place within me where my heart was once.”

“Just where do you think you are going, Arya?' the septa demanded.Arya glared at her. 'I have to go shoe a horse,' she said sweetly taking a brief satisfaction in the shock on the septa's face.”

“I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings. There is an empty place within me where my heart was once.”

“I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they're going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there's going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don't know how many branches it's going to have, they find out as it grows. And I'm much more a gardener than an architect.”

“And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.”