Beyond the Wall: Exploring George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, From A Game of Thrones to A Dance with Drago (10 page)

The Prequels to A Song of Ice and Fire

AS ANYONE WHO EXAMINES
the results can attest, a multi-volume fantasy epic requires an enormous amount of writing, and one might imagine that authors in the midst of such projects would focus their undivided attention on completing their tasks. Instead, they are often diverted into writing prequels, stories taking place before the original works begin, which may add to the depth and complexity of authors’ creations but do nothing to advance the series toward the conclusion that readers are eagerly anticipating.

To be sure, the phenomenon is not limited to fantasy: in the field of science fiction, Isaac Asimov wrote his last two Foundation novels about Hari Seldon, the psychohistorian whose life predated the original trilogy, and the protagonist of Robert A. Heinlein’s final Future History novel was the mother of the series’ central character, Lazarus Long. But fantasy writers seem especially prone to looking backward into their epics’ prehistory: among other examples, before and after finishing The Lord of the Rings (1954–1955), J.R.R. Tolkien famously kept working on a never-completed chronicle of the events in Middle-earth that occurred long before his trilogy, assembled after his death by Christopher Tolkien as
The Silmarillion
(1977) and other works; David and Leigh Eddings wrote two prequels to their series that started with
Pawn of Prophecy
(1982); Terry Brooks has written several prequels to his original trilogy that began with
The Sword of Shannara
(1977); Robert Jordan interrupted his Wheel of Time series to produce a prequel novella, “New Spring” (1998), later expanded into a novel (2004), and intended to write other prequels before his death. And today, while writing his series A Song of Ice and Fire, George R.R. Martin has paused three times to produce novellas featuring the characters of Dunk and Egg, who lived a hundred years before the epic began, and has announced plans to write a fourth novella, assemble the existing prequels as a novel, and write additional stories about the pair. Yet readers of the series, who waited five years for its fourth installment and six years for its fifth, might well prefer that Martin focus exclusively on completing the epic’s final two novels, instead of working on side projects.

Of course, it is hard to enter the minds of writers to determine precisely why they might write prequels. We know that Jordan and Martin were prodded to write their first prequels by Robert Silverberg, who solicited original novellas set in famous authors’ fantasy worlds for his anthology
Legends: Short Novels by the Masters of Modern Fantasy
(1998), and that Martin’s second prequel was written for Silverberg’s successor volume,
Legends II: New Short Novels by the Masters of Modern Fantasy
(2004). Both writers could have fulfilled Silverberg’s assignment with stories occurring in the present or future of their worlds but chose instead to venture into the past. They also continued working on prequels after Silverberg was out of the picture, suggesting sincere interest in the task. Indeed, the enigmatic first part of the dedication to
Legends II
—“For George R.R. Martin who baited the trap”—suggests that he in some fashion inspired Silverberg to edit the second anthology, perhaps to provide a venue for another Dunk and Egg story. It is also true that fantasy writers necessarily spend a great deal of time developing the prehistory of their imagined settings, and some aspect of the chore might naturally inspire a story idea deemed worth pursuing—in Martin’s case, the early life of one king, Aegon V, in his Targaryen dynasty. Finally, dedicated fans often crave more information about their favorite fantasy worlds, so writers may respond by publishing prequels as a way to satisfy readers’ curiosity about an imagined realm’s background and history.

All of these factors might have been involved in the creation of the Dunk and Egg stories, but Martin’s prequels may also demonstrate that there is something about the nature of high fantasy itself that inspires authors to keep returning to their epics’ pasts instead of advancing into their futures: the main story begins to feel confining, and its past offers the possibility of freedom. Ironically, however, these prequels also suggest that such authorial efforts to temporarily escape from their own epics may ultimately prove futile.

To understand what might lead fantasy authors to write prequels, one can begin by noting that fantasy epics are usually driven by a strong sense of destiny: as a practical matter, the creators of imaginary worlds, more so than other writers, must engage in extensive planning before they begin writing, so the events they describe may project an aura of predetermination; and perhaps as a reflection of this, their characters often feel impelled to do certain things because of prophecies or prophetic signs. In the first chapter of
A Game of Thrones
, for example, Lord Eddard Stark agrees to spare a litter of direwolf pups when his bastard son, Jon Snow, points out that they correspond in their number and genders to his own children: “Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.” In this way, Martin immediately establishes that in his world, as in other fantasy worlds, people regard predictions and omens as important matters; further, as the epic unfolds, we learn that certain members of the Targaryen family tend to have prophetic dreams. More broadly, as in other fantasies, the major characters in the series are compelled to maintain certain loyalties, or take certain actions, solely because of the families that they were born into, or else face accusations of treason or betrayal, as various families compete for power in Westeros and beyond.

If characters feel bound to move in particular directions due to portents or family history, they may regret the loss of personal freedom but can also relish the positive outcomes that may be foretold, or that may emerge from their family connections. Yet in a still broader sense, A Song of Ice and Fire, like many fantasy series, may seem haunted by a general prediction of eventual doom. This is an argument put forth most elaborately in Northrop Frye’s
Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays
(1957), an oft-cited literary study that, in the words of the online Canadian Encyclopedia, “has had a powerful international influence on modern critical theory.”

In its most influential section, covering his “Theory of Myths,” Frye envisions all literature as falling within what he describes as four
“mythoi
or generic plots,” corresponding to the four seasons. In this scheme, as shown in the diagram, comedy is the
mythos
of spring, which moves linearly from the dark world of experience to the bright world of innocence; romance (including fantasy) is the
mythos
of summer, which moves cyclically within the world of innocence; tragedy is the
mythos
of autumn, which moves linearly from innocence to experience; and irony and satire are the
mythos
of winter, which moves cyclically within the world of experience. Each
mythos
is further subdivided into six phases, which may shift into corresponding phases in the adjacent
mythos
, so that extended narratives can move cyclically through two or more
mythoi
. Further, while the third phase of romance, representing the quest myth that is the ancient counterpart of modern fantasy, may move on to the later phases of romance, wherein a desired outcome is successfully defended, it may also shift into the third phase of tragedy, in which heroes achieve a certain sort of triumph while also reaching a tragic end in worlds that may then descend further into the dark terrain of experience. In Frye’s vision, then, the happy endings of fantasies may only be preludes to tragedies to follow, tempered solely by the hope that, after a long time, the cycle may continue turning and the narrative will pass through irony and satire to achieve the heartening rebirth of comedy. By this argument, then, all fantasies implicitly lead to tragedies.

One hardly needs to mention that such intimations are central to the somber conclusion of The Lord of the Rings, as characters foresee the end of their magical realm and the ascendancy of the human race in the manner of the third phase of tragedy. In Martin’s epic, an ominous future for his fictional world is conveyed in a literal fashion by means of seasonal imagery that Frye would understand, as the land of Westeros is entering a long, cold winter of unknown duration, and the unchallenged reign of the humans is about to be disturbed by the reappearance of the feared, frigid Others from the North. Martin has also crafted a world in which the iconic animals of fantasy, dragons, are already extinct, although the surprising births of three dragons under the control of Daenerys Targaryen provide a modicum of hope that the species may be revived. Perhaps Martin envisions a conclusion in which, all family conflicts resolved, an admirable global civilization of knights and magic is permanently forged; but considering that his saga is modeled so explicitly on Earth’s medieval past, one might also anticipate that this fantasy world will eventually come to the end, to be succeeded, as in Tolkien, by a fallen world not unlike our own.

If, then, there are inevitable intimations of such dark possibilities within A Song of Ice and Fire, one alternative would be to take the story backward, into preceding phases of the cycle of romance that are related to comedy. Or, if authors resolve to explore the prehistory of their fantasy worlds for other reasons, they may find themselves naturally impelled toward stories that resemble comedy more than romance. Thus, while one can never be sure precisely what led Martin to begin writing his prequels, it is not surprising to find that, in contrast to the main epic, the resulting stories initially seem to project the lighter tone of an enjoyable diversion, reflecting the spirit of the springtime
mythos
of comedy.

The characters of Dunk and Egg, in fact, seem precisely crafted to serve as comic alternatives to the more serious-minded events of the main series. As a bastard who knows nothing about his parents, Dunk is entirely unconnected to the royal families in A Song of Ice and Fire and thus unencumbered by any inherited responsibilities. Though he impresses people with his great height, which is why he names himself “Ser Duncan the Tall,” Dunk does not always seem an especially talented fighter—in the third Dunk and Egg story, “The Mystery Knight,” he is easily defeated by a superior opponent. Neither does he appear to be unusually intelligent—whenever he makes a mistake, he mentally repeats what his knight used to tell him, “
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall
,” and he describes Egg as “
braver than I am, and more clever
.” Thus, unlike the princes and warriors of the main series, he is never burdened by high expectations as he muddles his way through an adventure. Further, by employing the accoutrements of knighthood he inherited from the knight he served as a squire, Dunk can improvise his way into the company of nobles. Yet, as a traveling “hedge knight,” he can serve whatever cause or employer that seems best. Thus, he may become any sort of person he wants to be, reflecting Frye’s observation that “there can hardly be such a thing as inevitable comedy,” in contrast to the sense of inevitability that may, as noted, haunt the
mythos
of romance.

As for Egg, he may be of noble birth, and destined to become King Aegon V, but he has literally escaped from all the normal responsibilities of a young prince. When Dunk first encounters him, the boy has been traveling incognito (his head shaved so as not to reveal his family’s distinctive golden and silvery hair), in an effort to avoid becoming his brother’s squire; Dunk takes him for a stable boy and, at the youth’s insistence, reluctantly employs him as his squire. Later, after his true identity is revealed, Egg insists upon remaining Dunk’s squire, and when Dunk refuses to serve at court, Egg is allowed to accompany him during his travels as a knight-for-hire, still disguised as a poor boy, which Dunk indicates will serve as the best sort of training for the youthful nobleman. His nickname, in fact, has at least three meanings: of course, “Egg” is a shortened form of “Aegon”; it is an appropriate name for a bald boy, as Dunk notes—“
His head does look like an egg
”; and the egg is regularly employed as a symbol of rebirth. In a sense, Egg is being reborn, as he sheds the clothing and duties of a prince to begin learning about life from the new perspective of a common man. Indeed, when Dunk first sees Egg, he is stark naked, emerging from a bath in a stream, much like a newborn child.

It is also worth noting, in terms of seasonal imagery, that “The Hedge Knight” begins during the spring, as Dunk buries his former employer and is thus free to begin his own career as a knight, in keeping with Frye’s dictum that comedy involves a transition “from a society controlled by habit, ritual bondage, arbitrary law and the older characters to a society controlled by youth and pragmatic freedom” (unlike romance, which generally focuses on the defense of an established order, not its overthrow). The introductory references to a shining sun, though interrupted by “spring rains,” are pointedly dissimilar to the cold, dark night that begins
A Game of Thrones
, immediately suggesting a story with a lighter tone. The story further seems like a comedy, in its Fryean structure at least, as the lowly Dunk first bests the dissolute Prince Aerion by preventing him from harming a female puppeteer, and later defeats him in a joust, temporarily upending the social order by having a peasant triumph over a prince—a reflection of Frye’s point that comedy involves “a reversal of social standards.” True, the story still has significant connections to the main series: the drunken Prince Daeron provides an aura of destiny by displaying the Targaryen gift for prophetic dreams, as he relates a dream of Dunk with a dead dragon that correctly predicts the death of Prince Baelor; and since Dunk’s battle with Aerion, in which each is accompanied by six knights, caused Baelor’s death and led to Aerion’s exile, the story contributes to the chain of improbable events that eventually placed Egg on the throne. Still, “The Hedge Knight,” as a whole, seems inconsequential, as it is not a story that anyone needs to know in order to appreciate the main series.