Holy Fuck. Fuckin’ fuck fuckety fuck.
I’ve realized that it is such a rare occasion that in a fiction series, whether it’s written or on the big screen, do the characters we have grown to love and admire DIE. (Or at least, die without any warning). It’s as if even the creators themselves are too scared to piss off the fans. That’s what is so brilliant about Game of Thrones. In real life, people die. Horribly. Inexplicably. I find myself investing in these people and their quests and then out of nowhere something tragically brutal happens and POOF! they’re gone.
Sorry, but if you aren’t up to date on Game of Thrones, DO NOT READ THIS.
This week was the
second, wait third, no, fourth unexpected and highly unwanted thing to happen. (Going back, the first incident that bothered me was Ned Stark’s death, the second was when Joffrey took up archery in Little Finger’s red-headed’s chest, but neither of those was as massive as the Red Wedding which was spectacularly awful) But this one, for some reason, hit me the hardest. My heart was literally pounding when Oberyn died. I was so fucking pissed off. Guess I kinda fancied him. Didn’t realize how much, though, until his face was a pile of mush on the pavement. It was like someone punched me in the gut and the feeling lasted for a good fifteen or twenty minutes after. Now THAT’s good TV. (Still really pissed, though).