The lights dim. The air stills. The warning of impending nudity and violence flashes up on screen. And Throners – my beloved, wonderful, powerfully sexual Throners – we're home.
You know, I'd always hoped there would be cause to use the words "Jon Snow" and "head" in a sentence again, but I must admit to hoping it would be in another context. Much the same way I thought the idea of the new Lord Commander "brandishing his sword" would be more exhilarating than it turned out to be.
This is undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveller returns. We cannot go back. We look upon ourselves of a year, two years, three years ago, and we wonder at our youth, our naivety. We shake our heads and let a grin wry amusement play upon our lips as we remember how blithe we were about those so-called shocks of yesterday. Ned Stark's decapitation? Pfft, child's play. The Red Wedding? Puppets on a string.