There’s a scene in Silver Linings Playbook, one of last year’s big Oscar contenders, in which Bradley Cooper’s mentally unstable character, Pat Solitano, is reading Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. He ends up tossing the book through a window, following with a rant about the unnecessary heartbreak that plays out near the end of the oft-assigned reading for high schoolers. It’s bullshit, he shouts in the wee hours of the morning (I’m paraphrasing, of course). Why should an otherwise heroic and heartwarming story end with such agony? Mental instability aside, I know that feeling. I remember it vividly. My moment occurred similar to that of the fictional Pat, both happened in the wee hours of the morning and both involved throwing a book violently in disgust with a particular turn of events. The only difference, of course, is that I don’t look much like Bradley Cooper. And the slayer of my goodwill and optimism wasn’t Ernest Hemingway, it was George R.R. Martin. Tonight, somewhere around 10:00PM in whatever time zone you reside, those of you who have never read any of the Song of Fire and Ice books found out exactly to what I am referring. And thanks to some exceptional storytelling choices by the Game of Thrones team, you really got to feel it. Like that night I put a dent in the wall with A Storm of Swords, this is one you’ll never forget.