Light Our Fire And Protect Us From

If I Die, I Die Friendless And Abandoned. What Choice Did That Leave Him, But To Live?

I Have Always Been A Dark Writer.

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

Free Folk Don't Follow Names, Or Little Cloth Animals Sewn On A Tunic," The King-beyond-the-wall Had Told Him. "they Won't Dance For Coins, They Don't Care How Your Style Yourself Or What That Chain Of Office Means Or Who Your Grandsire Was. They Follow Strength. They Follow The Man.

The Heart Lies And The Head Plays Tricks On Us, But The Eyes See True. Look With Your Eyes. Hear With Your Ears. Taste With Your Mouth. Smell With Your Nose. Feel With Your Skin. Then Comes The Thinking, Afterward, And In A Way Knowing The Truth.