Prelude (and Postscript) to a Panel

Herein lies the semi-complete and partly lucid recounting of a FaB set to wander the geek-strewn halls of the San Diego Comic-Con, finding his way through a packed mass of hobbits and heroes and aliens and copyright editors (and a khaleesi or two), to finally perch in a forthright and slightly undignified manner at the head of a packed assemblage.

I arrived Wednesday and picked up my press passes, including the much-ballyhooed “Golden Ticket” that would allow me to be front and center to cover the Game of Thrones panel (more on that later). I spent the remainder of the day wandering the already-packed convention floor.

I saw all sorts of things. Mostly I saw people. Lots and lots of people, packed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, already vying for artwork, comics, you name it—and on a frickin’ Wednesday, too! (The floor had opened only one hour ago!) I would toss out the usual convention nerd complaint that the Con had “Gone Hollywood,” but the fact that it had gone Hollywood was exactly the reason I was there.

One of the first things I wanted to locate was artist John Picacio’s booth, wherein I would find the 2012 A Song of Ice and Fire calendar. Success was met, and oh, what a fine sight that was.

His vision is not precisely the television show’s vision, but damn, it’s hard to argue the finer points. He’s brilliant.

I talked to John briefly. Friendly guy, though perhaps a bit out of sorts (he didn’t have a signing pen on hand to autograph the calendars I bought). He looked as though he was looking forward to the press of potential customers with an equal mix of eagerness and dread. I sympathized with the man; if the convention floor was this chaotic already, what would it be like in the coming days?

I ran into fellow ‘Thrones addict Grant Gould hawking his awesomeness on the main floor, met his super-cool fiancé, looked at a few of his sketch books, and decided to pick one up. (The sketch book, not his fiancé.)

I also picked up a 24″ / 12″ print of Grant’s latest Game of Thrones rendering. Hello, Dany! It was the first (and not the last) time this week that a khaleesi made me reveal my inner Keanu Reeves.

“Whoa.”

The early evening was a professional one of sorts, spent in the good graces of my employers at Daemon’s TV dot com. I would tell you what we talked about, but sadly am sworn to secrecy. I can reveal that we discussed the website’s moniker and all agreed it was basically Satanic in origin.

The late night was spent in the company of my good friend and fellow Westeros-and-BwB luminary Erik “Blackfyre” Kluth, as well as Think Hero pioneers Dennis, Roth, and “Amber,” as well as David, or as we called him, the New Think Hero Guy.

They weren’t drinking at all. Here’s two of them the next morning, not hung over.

I ended the evening by forgetting the name of my hotel. I only knew the street. I had to check my phone and call my wife to make sure it truly was the Westin hotel, and not the Marriott, which I somehow kept confusing. (Too many Marriotts in my past? Despite my obvious “high roller” status, no. I fancy myself more a Best Western kind of guy.) (But only the empty bottles of Sambvca and the cheap hookers know for sure.) I also misnamed my hotel the following night; in case people thought I was purposefully misleading them, no, I really did forget where I was staying. Welcome to my life.

Game of Thrones Day dawned bright and not really that early. I had the Golden Ticket but my “photographer” did not, so we decided an 11:00 AM arrival would suffice for a 3:00 PM Thursday panel.

It did, but only barely.

The waiting in line was at least enjoyable, because I got to meet more than a few Game of Thrones fans. For instance, standing right behind us in line was the fantastic and statuesque Norwegian radio host / blogger Marte Hedenstad. Here’s a picture of Marte with… well, with the Khal.

Marte was not just covering the panel for her people at P3, she was there as a huge fan of the books as well. She was excellent company during the long wait. She and my photographer mocked me often.

(Note: the news of the horrible tragedy that befell the people of Oslo hit us the very next day. Our best wishes—prayers and good karma and whatever else we’ve got—go out to the people of Norway who continue to suffer because of the insanity of a madman.)

The cosplayers were out in force. It wasn’t just the Khal hanging with Norwegian beauties; Daenerys also showed up, full of sass and attitude, accompanied by a pouty Sansa (wielding a wooden short sword for some reason) and Arya, who (typical of her) could not stand still, but was (atypically) happily sewing repairs on Sansa’s dress.

I had a picture of Daenerys together with her Sun and Stars, but it turned out blurry. Hobbits too, but also slightly blurry.

And yes, I know, many of these pictures are actually sideways. One’s technically upside down. Don’t bitch at me; I don’t take pictures for a living. Be glad any of these are in focus.

Also in line (I thought perhaps they’d lost their way) were two Sword of Truth groupies, clearly bemoaning their status as Legend of the Seeker fans.

Yes, I asked them if they liked Game of Thrones better than Legend of the Seeker. Yes they did. And yes, they were just a bit jealous… though they preferred to talk about how awesome Game of Thrones was as opposed to how not awesome Legend of the Seeker was. Put it this way: they didn’t seem crushed that it had been cancelled.

And besides, it’s not like the costumes are a waste. Boiled red leather will never, ever go out of style.

The line moved inexorably. We regretted the fact that we hadn’t brought any food; Marte’s colleague, not interested in Game of Thrones in the least, went and and got her lunch. My photographer and I could only watch, stomachs rumbling. I reflected then that if Winter were with me, by gum, he would have at least brought me some burgers from In-N-Out—but only if he wasn’t in danger of losing his place in line.

We finally saw the light of day by being ushered out of the light of day, brought into the second story interior of the massive building that houses ballroom 20. We were greeting by fantastic Game of Thrones house banners, hung with honor from the hallway ceiling.

HBO: they know how to promote.

The line moved down long halls, and dutifully we followed. Despite the fact that we had already missed two panels and were now missing the panel for Sarah Michelle Gellar’s new show, Ringer (painful for us all, I’m sure), spirits were high. Ballroom 20 was just around the corner. It seemed only a matter of moments before—

Oh, bloody hell.

It was then that Blackfyre tweeted his status to me (Twitter is how real people communicate): he had somehow finagled a way into the ballroom already. When last I had checked, he had been 60 people behind me, and now he somehow had moved ahead—playing either the WesterosDotOrg card or the BwB card, both apparently as potent as the House Gatewatch card—and was now happily seated in the front row. Bastard!

All I could do was nerdrrrrrage in line. Still, I thought, my place was safe. I still had the Golden Ticket! But I fretted for my photographer.

Long story short: we both got in, though my photog was consigned to back-row limbo. And my Golden Ticket…?

I wasn’t the only one with the Golden Ticket. It seemed, to my eyes, that they had handed out more tickets than there were actual seats; the entire first chunk of seats were reserved for “media,” and apparently an extremely large number of them were interested in this panel. I saw people I recognized; Mo Ryan, and Blackfyre of course… and even my boss at Daemon’s TV, who had somehow scored herself a front-row seat! Probably in part because I had been pimping the show so hard!

But there were not, at first glance, any seats remaining for the FaB. I’m sure a look of pure desperation crossed my face. A timely announcement on the loudspeaker said, “You cannot hold a seat for someone else,” and so I jumped into an empty seat next to a guy in a wheelchair, who complained loudly that he was holding it for his mother.

I’ll repeat that for you: I stole the seat of an elderly woman whose son was wheelchair bound.

The things I do for love. (Forsaking personal honor for the honor of my House is a mark in my favor.)

Luckily, my honor was saved at the Nth hour when Blackfyre came looking for me, saying he’d somehow scored a front-row seat for the FaBster. Yet another Blackfyre mystery—I have no idea who he talked to, but man, I want his connections.

(The little old lady with the wheelchair-bound son? That seat was promptly re-stolen by a sour-looking young woman carrying a tote the size of a body bag. So much for honor.)

And that was how I arrived to await one of the most awesome television show panels I have ever seen. The getting-there was rough, but man, the show was worth the spectacle. I left happy, and even bumped into yet another khaleesi. (Yes, her dress is in the Qartheen style, one breast exposed. Yes, she kept the dragon up there the entire time she was at Comic-Con. I imagine there were hidden pins somewhere involved, but I felt as though peering too closely would look unseemly.)

(Thumbs-up number one!)

One would think that the adventure might end there, but no! I still had loyal House Gatewatch subjects I wanted to meet—knights and freemen and freeloaders alike! Twitter was a-flurry with requests and locations and lewd suggestions, so I thought it proper to make certain all (or most) were responded to. Some requests did fall through the cracks, and for that I apologize, however there is always next year, as we invade Comic-Con 2012 with overwhelming numbers in preparation for season three of Game of Thrones!

And we’ll have to have yet another House Gatewatch meet-and-greet. Because…

EPILOGUE: A Gathering of Chairs

It was well past dark when the rogue scion of House Gatewatch, Ser Tobian MacFaBio, gathered together certain notables of a like mind and mien. They came in pairs, in fours, and alone; they came to gather in the shadows, helping to plot the overthrow of Lord Phildiculous. MacFaBio had a plan, aye, a plan that meant murder. And better: he would pin the dastardly deed on Ser Markos Hearmerore of Farflung Hold.

The place of their meeting was secret yet strategically centralized (with fair prices and decent food; a great place for family and friends, come see our tourist-filled halls!) … and in the shadows all secrets could be laid bare.

The names of these would-be usurpers would one day be the stuff of legend and infamy (from left to right):

Jinn Blackrose, a lover of men and tangental sentences alike, quick of tongue and questionable of taste; her laugh draws you in and her sorcerous words soon spell the doom of any man who dares to try her patience. She will speak, yes; she will be heard. And if her words do not suffice, your blood may yet spill, for she comes with a Khal as her thrall.

Aeryca of Harrenhal, a walker of dark paths and expensive retail stores, her vaguely amused visage hides a murderous intent. Shadows dance in her dark eyes, and she gives no hint as to when she may strike, or who. Only a quiet word need be spoken—two, perhaps—and rest assured your ending will not be a happy one.

Daesirae the Dagger, thin as a knife, silent as a wisp of smoke; the sunlight in her hair hides a much darker countenance than anything the naked eye might claim to see. She listens, expression fixed and carefully neutral (or bored), but only for a while (because bored). Make no enemy of her: Daesirae holds the reins to an entourage as evil as any hell.

Some guy. (Thumbs-up number two!) (Apparently he does this a lot.)

Brynden the Beardless, taller than a tale, long and lean, willowy as a ship’s sweetest sail, and near as pretty. A mummer’s hat he wears, but mischief dances within the shadows of his eyes beneath. He will dance with you, dice with you, sing sweet songs to you. And when the time dawns ripe, he will bow a gentlemanly bow and end your life. He refuses all drink.

Mhegan the Gentle, careful of word and soft of hand. Poison is the weapon of women, cravens, and eunuchs—and some whisper that Mhegan is not tall enough to be any of these. (Say this not to her face!) Her soft gaze distracts, her careful hands gesture what seem to be in a vague manner… and that is when the venom is let slip. You die, horribly, as she smiles adoringly at you.

Lairen of the Dreadfort, a powerful warrior lass, stronger and more boastful than any Umber, and as old and wise as any Nan. She appears twenty-four, perhaps twenty-five in years… but in truth she is nearly seventy, and has seen many, many winters. If you oppose her she will crush your face.

Khal Romo, thickset with a bull’s neck, slow to rouse but unstoppable when in a fury. He has not had his braid cut since he was thirteen, then and only then defeated by a larger man with a taste for small farm animals. He is nearly mighty enough to break free from the spell Blackrose has placed upon him—but does not attempt it. Not yet. He enjoys her attentions well.

And a good time was had by all.

(I can’t wait to see who we get to try and murder Winter next year!)

~FaB~

• Published on 07/28/2011 at 12:24 AM CDT
• Last updated on 10/20/2016 at 6:03 PM CDT