Dragons, treachery and bloodshed: Sophie Turner has grown up in the fantasy world of Game of Thrones and not only survived, but flourished in a drama that has defined the decade.
On the way to interview Sophie Turner (‘Don’t call her Sansa,’ I repeat to myself en route), a suited City boy barges in front of me on the escalator at Baker Street Station. I experience a bright, brief moment, somewhere between a dream and a hallucination, where I cleave him from collar to pelvis with a blade of Valyrian steel. I have, I realise, been watching rather too much of HBO’s award-winning swords, sex and sorcery drama, whose fifth series airs on Sky Atlantic in March.
I meet Sophie Turner at Home House on a bitter early-December day (‘Winter is coming,’ I say on arrival, a nod to one of the show’s leitmotifs). The interview has provided a welcome excuse to immerse myself anew in Game of Thrones. I’d tried when it first appeared on television in 2011, but my wife pulled the plug after the third or fourth beheading, deciding she’d rather spend time in the more genteel company of Don Draper and Peggy Olson. I hadn’t left Westeros altogether, though. Guiltily, and between more high-minded fare, I’d been working through the absurdly gripping novels upon which the series is based. As my meeting with Sansa Stark approached, I drew the blinds, banished the children and watched almost 40 hours of bloodshed and treachery, high Shakespearean drama and dark political machinations. And, um, dragons.
For the uninitiated, Game of Thrones is a labyrinthine, multi-layered epic set in a world that owes much to Wars of the Roses England and Tolkien’s Middle-earth. Based upon George RR Martin’s sprawling, densely plotted A Song of Ice and Fire novels, the series traces the fortunes of warring families on the fictional continents of Westeros and Essos. Most striking about the success of the franchise is that both the books and television series have ridden roughshod over traditional notions of genre. It was once thought that fantasy was a strictly male area of interest, and a very particular type of male, at that – bespectacled, hirsute, slightly grubby and snickering (Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons). But Game of Thrones, with its cast of beautiful, regularly nude starlets (of both sexes), its utterly compelling plot-lines and Wagnerian aesthetic, has drawn in a vast following from across the gender divide, tempting viewers and readers who would usually run as swiftly from dragons in fiction as in real life. Crucially, more than 60 per cent of Martin’s readership is female (in the US, at least).
The show is now a global success, watched by tens of millions worldwide (including Barack Obama, who was given an early copy of season four, saying he could not wait for it to air on television). This number rises to hundreds of millions, once you factor in that it’s the most pirated programme in the world (with, bizarrely, Australia leading the charge in illegal downloads). The series brings Martin, already worth upwards of $50 million, more than $15 million a year, and has made its cast, mostly more-or-less unknown pre-Game of Thrones, both extraordinarily famous and, particularly after a recent fee negotiation for series six and seven, hugely wealthy.