Why do I miss this show that, let’s be honest, was brutal more often than uplifting, relied on heaps of shock value and gratuitousness, left a huge swath of its characters in various states of exile (or outright death) in its resolution, and, even for us book readers, was something of a traumatic experience? I think there’s more to it than just the underlying source material having been a consistent part of my life for the past decade-and-a-half, and more to it than my admittedly questionable mental state. It stayed with me during the advent of our current COVID-19 isolation, and it’s become a regularly recurring companion all the way ‘til now, in late April, when all but one of Thrones’s eight seasons would either just be starting or have already been on the air for the past few weeks.īut along with this longing has come another – and, perhaps, more interesting – emotional punctuation mark: the question of why. It’s an epiphany that first hit me in early March, the usual period of time when I would begin revisiting past episodes and prepare my articles for the new ones.
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I’ve since written about both the literary and television series for at least six different websites, edited and published a small berth of ebooks on the subject, obsessively listened to the soundtracks while working, and – my personal favorite – prepared countless Feast of Ice and Fire meals with friends (and, even, befriended that cookbook’s author in the process).Īll of which, I suppose, helps to explain the realization that has been slowly dawning on me: I miss Game of Thrones – terribly. A Song of Ice and Fire, the long-running and still-incomplete saga of books that, of course, HBO’s Game of Thrones was based upon, has been part of my life since 2006, when I tore through the novels to help pass the time on my considerable commute while living in Japan.