George R.R. Martin on the process of creating A Game Of Thrones (1/3)
You hold in your hands the second volume of A Song of Ice and Fire… but not the second volume as originally intended. Although I wrote the opening of A Game of Thrones back in the summer of 1991, as related in my introduction to the Meisha Merlin edition of that volume, it was not until October of 1993 that I drew up a proposal for my agents to take to publishers. There is no mention of any book titled A Clash of Kings in that proposal. In 1993, I was under the impression that I was writing a trilogy.
Trilogies had been the dominant form in epic fantasy ever since J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings had been broken apart by publishers and released in three volumes. And the story that I wanted to tell divided quite naturally into three parts; much more so, in fact, than The Lord of the Rings, which is actually one fairly seamless narrative, and not a trilogy at all. I planned to title the books A Game of Thrones, A Dance with Dragons, and The Winds of Winter. I knew right from the start that they would all be large books. Huge books, even. But there were to be only three of them, and…and none were to be called A Clash of Kings. Sometimes the author is the last to know.
As I write this, I am halfway through the writing of A Feast for Crows, the fourth volume of my ‘trilogy.’ There is no mention of that title in my 1993 proposal either. These days, when pressed, I confidently assert that A Song of Ice and Fire will ultimately run to six books… but behind my back I know my lady Parris is smiling knowingly and holding up seven fingers. She may be right. Though I may dream of six books, plan for six books, work toward six books, the only thing that truly matters is the story. And the story needs to be as long as the story needs to be.
In Hollywood, the suits will tell you how long that is. A television show has to fit within its allotted time slot, of course, and you cannot beg, borrow, or steal an extra minute, no matter how much the story needs it. Running times are somewhat more flexible for films, though not as much as one might think. For the most part, the studios still want movies to run about two hours, so they look for screenplays of 120 pages or less, and demand cuts in any scripts that come in longer. My own screenplays and teleplays were almost always too long and too expensive in first draft, so in my later drafts, along with addressing the inevitable notes from studio, network, and producers, I was constantly trimming. In the end, I would deliver a shooting script that was the right length and under budget, but it was never a happy process… and I often went away feeling that the earlier drafts were the better ones.
The size of A Song of Ice and Fire was in no small part a reaction to ten years of trimming. I wanted to do something epic in scale, something at once grand and sprawling and complex and subtle, with a cast of thousands, huge battles, mighty castles, gorgeous costume, lavish feast, great rivers, towering mountains, vast fields… all the things I could not do in television. In short. I wanted to make a world. And for that you need a bit of room.
In my original proposal, I estimated that each volume of the trilogy might run as long as 800 pages in manuscript. The novels that I had written during the 70's and 80's, before Hollywood, had generally come in at 400 or 500 pages or thereabouts, so an 800 pages book seemed very lengthy indeed. The three books of the trilogy would be structured around the long, slow seasons of Westeros. A Game of Thrones would be summer’s book, A Dance with Dragons would take us through autumn, and The Winds of Winter… well, the title says it all. Even in the Seven Kingdoms, where a season can last for years, 800 pages ought to give me enough room to reach the end of summer and conclude the part of my tale, I reasoned.
‘Twas a lovely plan of battle… but no plan of battle ever survives contact with the enemy, it has been said. Writers know the truth of that as well as any general, though our wars are fought on blank white sheets of paper and empty computer screens. For the map is not the territory, the blueprint is not the house, the recipe is not the dinner… and the outline is never ever the book.
- George R.R. Martin, A Clash of Kings Limited Edition Introduction (2002)
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Answers
Who In their right mind would ever want to marry Tywin Lannister....
The tittering of the ladies around her had bled into a monotonous sort of scrabbled noise, as she ran her needle through the fabric on her embroidery hoop one more time. Why Margery insisted on dragging her to these sewing circles, she'd never understand. Slipping into the recesses of her mind, she turned to glance out the window.
How she'd love to be anywhere else besides this stuffy room.
Tyrion was late for a meeting of the small council. In and of itself that fact wouldn't be terribly important. It wasn't as if his punctuality would have caused his father to look at him with any less disdain than he did on a daily basis. He shook his head and quickened his pace as he passed by the solar, currently spilling over with the eligible young hens of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Oh, naturally Jaime Lannister." A feminine voice whispered with a giggle.
Tyrion paused and raised a brow. Taking several steps backwards, he leaned closer to the door curious as to the contents of this particular conversation.
"And you, Lady Lorena?"
"Oh, your own brother, my lady." Another higher pitched voice offered. Tyrion leaned against the wall and folded his arms.
"And you, cousin?" Margery's eyes flit to her cousin and she sighed when she saw her looking longingly out the window. "Cousin!" Margery said more firmly, causing the woman to stiffen slightly before turning her head.
"Yes, Margery? What is it?" She glanced around the circle and raised a brow at the conspiratorial looks many were giving each other, as if they'd traded secrets of a life-or-death magnitude.
"I'm asking each lady," Margery shifted on her stool to better engage her cousin in conversation. "If they had the freedom to choose, of all the eligible men in Westeros, who would they take as husband." Her eyes danced mischievously. Her cousin looked unimpressed and hummed before returning to her embroidery.
"That seems an exercise in futility, Margery." She said dryly, all the while never taking her eyes off of her needlework.
Tyrion stifled a chuckle. The girl certainly had cheek. Something he appreciated in a woman. He sensed, however, that as reticent as this mysterious woman might be to answer her cousin's question, she'd likely cave under the hounding looks of those chattery hens.
"Oh, come cousin. Everyone else has answered. Come now, you wouldn't want to spoil our fun, would you?" Margery coaxed softly, looking at her cousin encouragingly. She looked up at Margery skeptically for a moment before returning her attention back to her needlework.
"Very well." She said simply. The very atmosphere seemed to be holding its breath waiting for her answer. Even Tyrion had to admit he was more than a little curious. No doubt she'd say Jaime or Loras as the other ladies had. "If given my choice, I'd wed a Lannister."
Jaime. Tyrion thought to himself with a smirk. He raised a brow, amused at the image of all these noble women desperately chasing his brother, demanding his hand.
"Come cousin, you can be specific. There are more than just one Lannister." Margery leaned forward on her stool and gave her cousin a knowing look.
"Well, we can't very well all marry Jaime Lannister." One of the more garishly dressed ladies cut in swiftly. Keeping her eyes on her work, she refused to rise to that bate.
"You may keep Jaime Lannister." The threaded needle ran through the material once more, distracting her attention.
"That only leaves the imp and the father." The young lady scoffed. She hummed and cut off a thread to knot it.
"Given my choice, I'd wed Tywin Lannister." The air seemed to freeze and shudder. Tyrion's eyebrows seemed determined to raise so far that they disappeared into his scalp.
"Tywin Lannister? He's practically old enough to be your father!" She merely shrugged and flipped over her needlework.
"I believe I answered the question." Rising from the couch, she gathered her needlework and gave Margery a nod of her head. "If you'll excuse me, Margery. Ladies." She addressed the dumbstruck women, still reeling from her recent admission. No sooner had her skirts swished out of the solar, when the brood descended on Margery in a chattering, nosy huddle.
Tyrion stayed pressed against the wall. He was dying to see what sort of woman would be so bold as to suggest that she wanted... well, his father. Her shoes made a quiet sound, and he was pulled from his revelry to see the backside of her as she began walking down the hallway. Sensing she was being watched, she turned to see Tyrion in the torch light.
"Lord Tyrion?" She raised a brow and inched closer to him, tucking her needlework into her bag. Slowly Tyrion's eyes trailed up her form, studying her as if he were taking in her measure, which he was doing. She dressed well, but certainly not in a display of money as so many women seem fond of these days.
"Lady Tyrell." He dipped his head. She responded in kind and glanced from him to the open door and back.
"Were you spying on us, Lord Tyrion?" She blinked and affected a dethatched attitude.
You two might be perfect for each other. He thought sarcastically to himself.
"On the contrary, my lady, I merely passed by at an opportune moment and heard some rather... enlightening opinions." He looked up at her intently, curious as to what might be swirling around in that brain of hers. She merely smirked and met his eyes with unwavering certainty.
She chuckled, a rusty sound.
"Good day, Lord Tyrion." She turned to go.
"Good day, Lady Tyrell."
And with that, she rounded one of the corners in the halls. Standing for a moment longer, he was driven out of his thoughts by the sounds of the ladies gathering their things. Tyrion quickly hobbled down the other hall, hurrying to at least make an appearance at the meeting. Climbing the stairs to the Hand's Tower, he ran over Lady Tyrell's answer in his mind, and he still had no reasonable reason for why on earth such a woman would speak about his father with such a casual air. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and swung the doors open.
"Tyrion." His father's only word in his direction before he turned back to council discussions. Tyrion stared singularly at his father, taking every in every line on his face, curiosity still swirling around his mind.
Why on earth would she want to marry Tywin Lannister?
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