Watching "Game of Thrones" is an act of courage.
Not just because of the level of commitment it takes to grasp the implications of every scene in this ornate, medieval fantasy world, but because of the base emotions that its countless souls, sprawling realms and ruthless politics can stir.
HBO's ambitious plan, led by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss, to adapt George R.R. Martin's "Song of Ice and Fire" novels was first jokingly billed as "The Sopranos" meets Middle-earth. The gritty, darkly comic, deliberately paced result turned out to be closer to "The Wire" than to "The Hobbit," dragons notwithstanding.
Martin's novels, with 15 million copies sold, follow the bloody struggle between several clans for control of the Iron Throne, the seat of power that controls the diverse continent of Westeros. Despite the lurking presence of the supernatural, this world operates like Western Europe in the Middle Ages, a harsh reality unkind to women, children and the weak. Summers and winters can last decades, and mysterious, malevolent species lurk behind a massive wall dividing most civilization from the Land of Always Winter.
Every densely layered, hourlong episode consistently attracts more than 10 million fans across all viewing platforms. (The network's much-discussed critical darling "Girls" draws about 1.1 million.) And the audience is likely to grow this season: Season 2's finale set a ratings record for the series, and its DVD sales shattered another HBO record. "Game of Thrones" was also the most pirated show of 2012.
With two seasons and a pile of Emmys under their belts, Weiss and Benioff have arrived at the novel they were looking forward to filming, "A Storm of Swords." It contains a scene so disturbing and grisly that some fans put down their books forever after reading it.
"A Storm of Swords" is so long that it might be spread over two seasons, so there's no telling when the event will occur. If the showrunners stick to the spirit of Martin's books - which they consistently do - the level of bloodletting could set a precedent for the small screen. HBO recently sent out a casting notice for extras that read "Seeking Leg Only, Male Amputees."
If that doesn't sound like fun diversion, fair enough: "Game of Thrones" isn't for everyone. A devoted fan might do well to recline on a couch and ponder "How does it make you feel?"
It makes you feel literary and accomplished. Martin's books, with two more yet to be written, collectively total about 4,300 hardback pages. But the show is hardly a Reader's Digest version; dozens of characters are constantly in play in double-digit storylines. Martin occasionally writes episodes for the show, which toes the line pretty well, avoiding the kind of structural tinkering that can strengthen some shows ("Dexter") or weaken others ("True Blood").
For those who haven't conquered Martin's Seven Kingdoms on paper, anything less than rapt attention is a waste of time. Every meeting of the king's Small Council, every whisper in a darkened hallway, reveals agendas that will pop up later. Everyone, down to silly squires and feral nomads, can sway the struggle for power.
It makes you feel righteous contempt. Westeros is home to some odious creatures, most notably the teenaged Joffrey Baratheon, who begins this season on the Iron Throne with a new fiancée and a deadlier crossbow. He likes long walks past rows of heads on spikes, making prostitutes hurt each other and abandoning his men in battle. It's not his fault his parents are twins, but you can't sympathize with a twerp who says things like, "Everyone is mine to torment."
It makes you feel naughty. Sex drives Martin's narrative from the beginning, when 10-year-old Bran Stark is pushed from a high window after witnessing a forbidden coupling. Daenerys Targaryen, sold in marriage to a barbarian king in Season 1, took lessons from a slave girl so that she could take charge in bed as she gained a place in the Dothraki society.
Westeros has the same oldest profession as we do, and major cities support Pompeii-like levels of commerce. The brothel owned by the king's bookkeeper, Littlefinger, functions as a medieval Bada Bing, hosting several meetings a week against a shifting backdrop of ripe nudity. Let's not forget, we're paying for this channel.
It makes you feel dread. Last season ended with an army of supernatural undead called White Walkers shuffling southward toward unsuspecting Westeros. Evil priestess Melisandre still has deadly visions to summon for Stannis Baratheon, and Robb Stark has just ignored his arranged engagement to a dangerous lord's daughter. Not to mention the dreams of the show's budding psychic, Bran Stark, which are growing darker and more intense. Those who haven't read the books won't know what's coming, but those who do might be worse off.
It makes you feel morally subversive. Westeros isn't a place for the stubbornly upstanding or anything close to it, shockingly established when first-season hero Ned Stark was beheaded in front of his daughters. That effectively left an alcoholic playboy with dwarfism and a revenge-obsessed princess-in-exile to root for. And that princess's dragons need to eat their Wheaties so they can lay waste to some cities already.
In King's Landing, spending an afternoon with unwashed orphans earns you a halo, something the future queen Margaery puts to use alongside her backless dresses. (You might recognize Natalie Dormer from "The Tudors," where she played another conniving royal hopeful, Anne Boleyn.)
It makes you feel bloodthirsty. Or, as Bob Dylan once said, it makes you feel violent and strange. For a show about war, "Game of Thrones" doesn't show many battle scenes; they're too expensive. Because a lot of the hacking and stabbing occur off-screen or at night, the up-close-and-personal clashes pack more punch.
Last season's Battle of the Blackwater, a siege complete with flaming arrows, a magical green accelerant, exploding ships, battering rams and drawbridges, was an hourlong exercise in war as entertainment. "Those are brave men knocking at our door," Tyrion Lannister (a dwarf wielding an ax) cried from the fortified walls of King's Landing. "Let's go kill them!"
Of course, Blackwater sounds like a Swedish massage compared to what's coming. The White Walkers keep staggering south and adding to their icicle-covered zombie army, while the living kill one another by the thousands in their mad scramble for dominance. In the midst of so many quests for revenge, no one will go home happy.