It’s been nine years since the last instalment of A Song of Ice and Fire was released, and G.R.R. Martin promises (as he does every year) the next in the series, The Winds of Winter, would be released this year.

The franchise started great, like a nice morning coffee, but as it progressed, just as caffeine slips through the digestive system, it became increasingly indigestible until blooming into metaphorical laxative; draining poor fans of pacing, quality and satisfaction, like poorly-scripted pornography.

These books have overextended their half-life. I hope 2020 helps propel an already decreasing popularity. Ice and Fire, you were great when you started, but you aged as badly as bread I forgot about when I went home for Christmas.

Unless Martin is lying again, and Winter isn’t released this year. But he wouldn’t do that, I’m sure. He’s not the equivalent of a lazy, unmotivated fresher starting his summative in the final week of the semester, I hope.


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