Knock, knock.

Knock, knock.

"Who is at the table, writing? Nobody in the schools learns cursive anymore, so it could be your mum." So my dad told me mum had started writing a book. What a stunning surprise!

"And apparently I am to transcribe every draft," Dad continued with forlorn humor. He showed me Mum's manuscripts, the galactic timelines, the Tanith-Lee-meets-Dostoevsky webs of

intertwining storylines,often told from multiple viewpoints and happening at the same time.Mum's script contained no less than 674 characters,each with its own biography.Dad sighed

, "I'm sorry you had to find out this way, son... But mom is actually George R R Martin. I mean, not really, but she's what we call a ghost-writer." It suddenly made so much sense

why mom babbled about dragons in her sleep. Why she insisted my sister's wedding be heavily guarded. Why she talked about winter's approach in spring. My mom wrote Game of Thrones!

That's the when I noticed the draft version of Game of Thrones Season 13 on my mother's desk. I could almost see the spoilers jumping out from the pages. With trembling fingers, I

set fire to the draft. Never again was a spoiler going to hurt me. I watched the flames flicker as the GoT S13 draft burnt to cinders. My mom walked in and gazed at the blaze

and said "Back in my day it was Fahrenheit 451..." Then we roasted marshmellows together over the burning manuscript.