The Games Highborns Play Or, my new obsession with Game of Thrones
By
Sean Margaret Wagner
But
there’s a problem that stares back at me from every bookshelf I admire most.
There always seems to be an abundance of Tolkien, Rowling, Ursula K. Leguin and
Dianna Wynne Jones. Classics of young-adult fantasy novels that have all the
broken spines of books well read. I never got a steady diet of fantasy growing
up, and as a result, those literary muscles have atrophied. Blame my years as
an impressionable reader spent gobbling horror novels, science fiction, comedy
and plays. It’s not that I can’t appreciate Frodo and Samwise’s epic Fodor’s
Guide to Middle Earth, but when devotees insist I will love each ‘Rings’ book
more than the last, it’s a little disappointing when I can’t drum up the same
enthusiasm they’ve had since age eight.
This
may be what drew me to Game of Thrones.
The
series seemed to be free of all the trappings that frustrated me about beloved
fantasy. Complete devotion to the characters was not a prerequisite, in fact,
most readers assured I’d come away jaded and heartbroken the moment I started
picking favorites. “If they aren’t killed off randomly, they live to suffer in
solitude, or become nightmarishly evil,” my circle of GOT readership warned,
“nobody wins in the Game of Thrones. Well, wait, there may be an exception or
two…”
As
I began to read (and watch on generous friends’ cable queues not long after), I
took note of the characters that ruthless George RR Martin had spared no suffering
or death, but who’s stories we followed quite closely in the absence of a
single heroic protagonist. Characters who were notably different from the norm
in Martin’s noble populace, physically, mentally and sexually. For all the
magic and mythical creatures inhabiting Westeros, human relationships and
social standing were still very much grounded in a historic realism we might
all recognize. Those born different, suffering disfigurements, disease or
bucking social tradition are derided and mocked openly by Martin’s populace,
but readers like me can’t help but grow attached. How could we find ourselves
in the treacherous political slog without them?
We
follow a noble boy, Bran who’s just lost the use of his legs and must rely on a
hulking mentally impaired man to keep him safe and mobile. A lady and knight,
Brienne who can’t seem to pass a cart on the road without having to announce
that yes, she is a woman, though she may not look like it. Royal bodyguard Sandor
“The Hound” Clegane allows the burn scars on his face to do the talking and
seal his reputation of bloodlust for him, and countless others are blinded,
maimed or otherwise rendered broken and unmarriageable in world that rewards
the ruthless more than the fair.
Last
(and least), there’s our antihero: Tyrion Lannister. You can hardly call him a
protagonist, or esteemed; he’s not a fixed friend or enemy to anyone, just a
wealthy opportunist with an uncanny ability to stay alive even as more and more
people call for his death. In the world of these novels, goodness and
righteousness are commonly believed to be expressed physically. If you meet the
wealth and attractiveness criteria, your virtues are assumed and your deviant
actions are swept under the rug. Alternately, the worst is assumed of Tyrion,
by nature of his small stature. Bad omens, demonic traits and murderous deeds
are all assigned to him without a second thought. Even more savvy denizens have
turned on him, not due any belief in superstition, but because he (along with
many of Martin’s differently abled characters) cannot provide for himself in
some ways, and they must pick up his slack.
The
ruthlessness is even more potent for the differently abled of Westeros, because
they must constantly work to have leverage in situations that they must be
cared or vouched for by other characters. Shiftless people who may ultimately
decide that Tyrion, Bran or Brienne for instance, are more trouble than they
are worth. That has led to more than a few bears baited, beheadings and trails
by combat.
One thing I’ve come to enjoy is Martin’s lack of sympathy
for any character prone to wallowing in misery. I get a little impatient when a
heroic fantasy character is allowed the luxury of depression, even if it’s well
earned (I’m looking at you, Potters, Everdeens and *Gollum accent* Baggins-es).
Each of the Stark children bemoans their lot in
life to Tyrion Lannister and he councils them as they’re forced from the idyllic
North into increasingly more difficult lots; bad marriages, wandering the
wilderness, war and taking the cloth. He urges them to forget their pride and
anything else that they may think they are owed for being noble children. The
great ideals they've grown accustomed to will be the first things to crumble
away in shifting topography. Eat well, secure yourself anyway you can, and
don't let anything petty like honor keep you from staying alive, he says. And
with that, he's done more for the kids than their parents, trusted underlings
and feckless allies, combined.
So far I’ve been ruined for real-life politics
and family dynasties, and I’m not even finished with the fifth book. But, I
feel as if I’ve found a profane and sexually explicit fantasy universe that I
can cram into my overloaded bookshelf with pride. Westeros allows for
complexity in character, refuses to tie up dozens of loose ends, and avoids
becoming a dystopia or utopia like many fantasy novels. Instead, we see a world
more or less based in our own history… with added dragons and zombies- I mean,
white walkers.
Sean
Margaret is a Chicago playwright, musical bookwriter/lyricist and storyteller.
You can find her on Twitter: @SMargaretWagner
Read more at Sporkability.org
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