What's Dead May Never Die.

As Daenerys Targaryen Rose To Her Feet, Her Black Hissed, Pale Smoke Venting From Its Mouth And Nostrils. The Other Two Pulled Away From Her Breasts And Added Their Voices To The Call, Translucent Wings Unfolding And Stirring The Air, And For The First Time In Hundreds Of Years, The Night Came Alive With The Music Of Dragons.

The Beauty Raised Her Eyes, The Only Part Of Her That Was Truly Beautiful.

Trust Is Earned. Like Gold.

For Men, The Answer Was Always The Same And Never Farther Away Than The Nearest Sword. For A Woman, A Mother, The Way Was Stonier And Harder To Know.

I've Always Taken That As My Guiding Principle And The Rest Is Just Set Dressing. You Can Have Dragons In It, Or Aliens And Starships, Or A Western About A Gunslinger, Or Even Literary Fiction, And Ultimately You're Still Writing About The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself.