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One night, in his cups, he drank a jar of wildfire, after telling his friends it would transform him into a dragon, but the gods were kind and it transformed him into a corpse.

George R. R. Martin

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George R. R. Martin
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: September 20
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Bayonne
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George Raymond Richard Martin
GRRM
George R.R. Martin
George Raymond Martin
Kind
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Give me a good sharp knife and a good sharp cheese and I’m a happy man.
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Aemon’s blind white eyes came open. “Egg?” he said, as the rain streamed down his cheeks. “Egg, I dreamed that I was old.
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I did not do it. Yet now I wish I had.’ He turned to face the hall, that sea of pale faces. ‘I wish I had enough poison for you all. You make me sorry that I am not the monster you would have me be, yet there it is. I am innocent, but I will get no justice here.
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When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, the best thing to do is close your eyes and get on with it
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Jon: Have you seen the wall? | Sam: I'm fat, not blind.
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The Beauty raised her eyes, the only part of her that was truly beautiful.
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Fiction is lies we're writing about people who never existed and events that never happened when we write fiction, whether its science fiction or fantasy or western mystery stories or so-called literary stories. All those things are essentially untrue. But it has to have a truth at the core of it.
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It was a story called ‘The Hero’ which I sold to Galaxy magazine in 1970, for $94.
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A lion doesn't concern itself with the opinion of sheep.
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The white horse and the black one wheeled like lovers at a harvest dance, the riders throwing steel in place of kisses.
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Jon shrugged. 'Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister.
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His dagger was out, poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.
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You are an honest and honorable man...Ofttimes I forget that. I have met so few of them in my life.
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That little touch is not in the books, but I wish it had been in the books because it was a great addition.
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Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli.
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I know nothing and perhaps I never will.
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All the world knew that a maester forged his silver link when he learned the art of healing—but the world preferred to forget that men who knew how to heal also knew how to kill.
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When you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him.
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If H. P. Lovecraft and H. L. Mencken had ever collaborated, they might have come up with something like The Edge of Reason. This one will delight thinkers-and outrage true believers-of all stripes.
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Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is.
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