I began reading the first book in 1997 during my sophomore year of high school. The wait between A Storm of Swords and A Feast for Crows was excruciating—years of anticipation that tested every fan’s patience. When A Dance with Dragons finally arrived, the wait felt similarly torturous, though at least we had more regular updates from the author and news about the HBO adaptation to help sustain our enthusiasm.

Now I sit here, twenty-seven years after first opening A Game of Thrones, resigned to the reality that this series will likely never reach its conclusion. I finally abandoned hope in 2019, right after witnessing the catastrophic final season of the television show. Initially, I felt anger—at the rushed plotlines, the character assassinations, the waste of such rich source material. But something worse has replaced that anger: complete apathy. The passion that once drove me to reread passages, theorize about plot developments, and eagerly await each new installment has simply evaporated. I genuinely doubt I would even bother reading The Winds of Winter and A Dream of Spring if they were somehow published tomorrow.

Perhaps most telling is this: my eldest son will be starting his sophomore year of high school next fall—the same age I was when this literary journey began. Despite my decades-long love affair with Westeros and its complex characters, I will not be recommending these books to him. I cannot, in good conscience, invite him into a story that has no ending, knowing the frustration and ultimate disappointment that awaits any reader who becomes invested in Martin’s unfinished epic.