King Robert Baratheon of Westeros enjoyed winning his crown more than he does wearing it. When he was young and strong, he overthrew the sadistic regime of Aerys Targaryen, “the Mad King.” Now he’s middle-aged and fat; married in a loveless political alliance to Queen Cersei , daughter of the wealthy, cunning Lannister family; and sitting on the Iron Throne, forged from the swords of vanquished foes and literally painful to occupy. Embittered by success, Robert passes an afternoon reminiscing with one of his guards about his first kill in battle: a highborn boy who begged for his life as Robert raised his war hammer. “They never tell you how they all s— themselves,” Robert says with a grim laugh. “They don’t put that part in the songs.” HBO’s ambitious, visually stunning Game of Thrones puts that part in the songs. Like The Lord of the Rings, Thrones is set in a quasi-medieval world with a mythic history, riven by conflict. But there are no singing elves, tubby halflings or noble wizards. There is a dwarf–crafty lordling Tyrion Lannister –but he frequents whorehouses, not Bilbo’s hobbit hole. And there are hints of magic, mostly in the past, but Westeros is a postmagical world. Where centuries ago there were dragons and sorcerers, now there are only steel and blood and the cheap grubbings of men. As did HBO’s western Deadwood and historical drama Rome, Thrones takes a familiar, oft-romanticized genre–epic fantasy–dirties it up and blurs the moral lines. Based on a millions-selling series of novels by George R.R. Martin
