Men Have Scars, Women Mysteries.

There Are No Men Like Me. There's Only Me

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

Do Dead Man Dream? The Dead Themselves Are Silent On The Matter

No One Will Be Alive By The Last Book. In Fact, They All Die In The Fifth. The Sixth Book Will Be Just A Thousand-page Description Of Snow Blowing Across The Graves.

A Reader Lives A Thousand Lives Before He Dies.