“For the first time since the Doom of Valyria, dragon contended with dragon in the sky, even as battle was joined below. Quicksilver, a quarter the size of Balerion, was no match for the older, fiercer dragon, and her pale white fireballs were engulfed and washed away in great gouts of black flame. Then the Black Dread fell upon her from above, his jaws closing round her neck as he ripped one wing from her body. Screaming and smoking, the young dragon plunged to earth, and Prince Aegon with her…”
- George R. R. Martin, Fire and Blood
This is admittedly a difficult book to review with an objective eye. It is only fair to take George R. R. Martin’s Fire and Blood on its own terms, gauging it for what it sets out to be, rather than what I might have wished.
In other words – and despite the difficulty – I feel I must judge this on its own merits, rather than bemoan the fact that this is not The Winds of Winter, the long-gestating, long-promised sixth book of Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire cycle.
At a certain level, Fire and Blood is the ultimate work of a troll. Once upon a time, Martin had a wonderful relationship with his fans, and interacted with them freely and positively. Lately, however, that has started to change, as those wishing to see the conclusion of A Song of Ice and Fire are forced to wait, and wait, and wait, and wait some more.
The trouble is that Martin, despite advancing age, does not seem to care anymore about what his fans want. He gleefully and publicly embarks on other projects, and otherwise occupies his time with such trivialities as filling his blog with updates on the New York Jets (which is a waste, by any measure), rather than devoting himself to finishing the saga of Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister, and Daenerys Targaryen (which is going to be his legacy, or not). Fire and Blood represents a bit of a procrastination flex, an apex exhibit of task avoidance. It is 706 pages that could have been – and many feel should have been – devoted to a better story. The story millions have come to care about a great deal.
(A note on the length: Portions of Fire and Blood have been published elsewhere, though nowhere else that I have been. Martin, however, has stated that his manuscript for Fire and Blood was closer to a thousand pages, so I’m guessing there’s a lot of new material, even for people who read everything he produces).
But I’m not here to bemoan what Martin does with his free time. Strike that. I won't bemoan it any further. And at a certain level, I can’t begrudge him wanting to spend his generational wealth in the manner that pleases him most. Thus, I have done my honest best to read Fire and Blood with an open mind, and not toss it on the slag heap simply out of spite.
With that said, Fire and Blood is not very good.
The conceit here is that this is the first volume (more time wasting to come) of a two-volume series covering the Targaryen dynasty of Westeros. It is “written” by Archmaester Gyldayn and “transcribed” (har, har) by Martin. Volume one covers the period from Aegon I to Aegon III (who, despite this tome’s ponderous lack of wit, are not real people, and are not actually worth studying).
Fire and Blood has been aptly described as Martin’s version of The Silmarillion, providing a pseudo-scholarly review of the history of the world (or rather, an exceedingly narrow slice of the world) made famous by A Game of Thrones and its progeny.
This entry is an interesting career choice for Martin, for two reasons.
First, Martin did not start as a prolific world-builder ala J.R.R. Tolkien. To the contrary, to quote Laura Miller’s 2011 New Yorker profile, “[he] sometimes fleshes out only as much of his imaginary world as he needs to make a workable setting for the story.” Indeed, he even copped to the fact that he only “invented seven words of High Valyrian.” (It is the HBO show, not the books, that created the languages you’ll find uttered in line at a comic con). The takeaway is that something in Martin changed since 2011, and the laser-focus on tight story lines and evolving characters has morphed into a self-indulgent wallow in minutiae. I assume this is related to the unrelentingly high expectations created by the global phenomenon of Game of Thrones, which is slowly crushing poor George in a golden vise.
Second, Fire and Blood strenuously avoids all of Martin’s strengths as an author, while leaning heavily into his weaknesses. Martin can be a fantastic plotter, setting up glorious long-games, layering twists upon turns, and dropping some of the most gut-wrenching set pieces in literature. (I’m thinking, for instance, of a certain colorful ceremony of holy matrimony). But Fire and Blood has no plot. Martin – or rather, Archmaester Gyldayn – does not spend any time modulating tension, constructing scenes, or building to a climax. Instead, roughly 150 years of Targaryen family history is related with all the fervor, emotion, and verve of a recorder’s deed. (I will allow that occasionally, the mask of Gyldayn slips, and Martin’s talents shine through).
Another Martin strength is in his ability to carve incredibly complex and multifaceted characters. Think, for example, of the arc traveled (so far) by Jaime Lannister, from pariah and sister lover to something resembling an honorable knight. Fire and Blood does not care about characters. It only cares about names (and unfortunately, many of the names are recycled over and over again).
I assume that most people who read Fire and Blood are fans of A Song of Ice and Fire, which makes it strange that there are so few connecting threads between the two works. With some exceptions that I will not spoil (since A Song of Ice and Fire is ground-zero of the Spoiler Wars), Fire and Blood does nothing to enrich A Song of Ice and Fire and refuses to be enriched in turn.
Martin has always been a writer that walks up to the line of good taste, drops his trousers, and poops on the line. It is part of what makes A Song of Ice and Fire so memorable, this willingness to provide a fully un-PC, X-rated take on classic fantasy tropes. Unfortunately, in Fire and Blood, he doubles down on the grosser aspects of his previous novels, to the extent that they feel less like plot-points and more like pathologies. If you read only Fire and Blood and were asked to describe Martin, you would be forced to say he is a man that is obsessed with incest, “lustily” nursing infants, underage sex (try not to throw up when a “beautiful” six year-old is presented for marriage), and underage sex between brother and sister, resulting in a nursing infant.
Admittedly, this is not a book designed for my interests. I love A Song of Ice and Fire, and have read the five extant novels three times apiece (which I typically never do). However, neither the Targaryens (with their ridiculous silver hair, purple eyes, and pyromaniacal urges) nor dragons do much to interest me. To the contrary, one of the reasons I started A Game of Thrones, despite a fantasy aversion, was the promise that it was gritty and realistic, with the fantastical elements backgrounded. In Fire and Blood, the two things I like least about A Song of Ice and Fire comprise 99 percent of the novel. The things that I loved – the fantastic locales, the strange rituals, the intricate systems, the ancient tales as told by Old Nan – are nowhere to be seen.
Fire and Blood could have worked. It is doomed, though, by Martin’s idiosyncratic decision to channel the mind and pen of a gassy, judgmental, and pious archmaester, which stifles almost every page with a tone seemingly designed to avoid being entertaining. The authorial viewpoint is gods-eye, the prose often formal or stilted.
Within these pages, there is a book-within-a-book that Archmaester Gyldayn frequently consults as a reference. The book was written by a dwarf named Mushroom, who was a court fool for the Targaryens. Mushroom’s retellings are raucous and bawdy, joyously embracing the salacious and prurient, the devious and violent.
It is a shame that Martin didn't choose Mushroom to write Fire and Blood.
It would have been a lot more fun.
It would have been a lot like A Song of Ice and Fire.
And despite what Martin himself seems to think, that would have been a good thing.