I, like every other needy and frustrated Game of Thrones fan, am getting rather tired of waiting for the sixth instalment of the sprawling franchise. I will freely admit that the history and various tidbits of back story we’ve been fed over the years is interesting. Every now and then though, a particularly laboriously lengthy folk tale will become just a tad wearing, a relatively unnecessary device that stalls the plot. And now we should prepare to be presented by a whole book full of them. What fun.
Of course, because I am an increasingly feral and rabid consumer who is terribly vulnerable to this particular form of obvious fobbing off, I will be purchasing a copy of this tome the moment it comes out. I’ll feverishly devour it and no doubt wind up more irritated than ever that the plot lines I’m so invested in have failed to progress one inch. It’s a smart idea because at this point I can’t be the only reader ready to fork out for more Westeros related content even though it’s not the one everyone was hoping for.
I can’t help but feel really quite disappointed in George R R Martin, a man who owes me nothing and doesn’t give even the tiniest of craps about my opinion. It would seem, according to the articles about the release of the new book, that his work on Winds of Winter has taken a back seat to the time he’s put into this new one. It’s like he’s actually trying to wind everyone up. It’s definitely working. Is it really so much to ask that this man gets a wiggle on? If we have to wait this long for book six how many years will drag on before the one after is published? I’ll be in employment, supposedly responsible or something, I won’t have anything like this much time to fritter away on caring so much about a series of fantasy books. Rowling never tortured her readers like this. And she killed Dobby. She’s clearly as big a monster as George could ever hope to be.