Relief is at hand, at last.

In the show's first season, we were introduced to Martin’s vast chessboard, the land of Westeros, and its central pieces: the Starks of Winterfell (chilly, stubborn, loyal to a fault), the Lannisters of Casterly Rock (rich, sly, addicted to ambition), and, spiraling outward from them, Arryns, Baratheons, Targaryens, and their respective retinues of warriors and whisperers. The dynastic was leavened with just a hint of the fantastic: a pack of dire wolves, a crate of dragon eggs, a smattering of undead.

With the second season, set to premiere this Sunday, the focus widens further still: wildlings from the north, the Ironborn from the west, storylines scattered across two continents. Indeed, nearly every one of the early episodes has been forced to amend the mechanized map featured in the show's title sequence in order to squeeze in yet another relevant locale: the island redoubts of Dragonstone and Pyke; cursed, molten Harrenhaal; exotic Qarth. (Not to be confused with Tarth, which is another place altogether, the alphabet itself scarcely capable of accommodating the breadth of Martin's vision.) The peace that had prevailed in Westeros has been broken, and self-anointed kings lie thick on the ground. Plots and counter-plots unfurl, alliances are made and betrayed. Through the first four episodes (which are all I've seen), no one of consequence has yet lost his head. But unless I'm mistaken, regal blood will run red before the credits roll in episode 5.

Like the first season, this one looks to be a triumph, though (also like the first) it takes a little while to gather velocity. Unlike Martin, who dumps readers in the middle of unfamiliar settings and circumstances and challenges them to keep up, showrunners Benioff and Weiss are more deliberate. Several scenes have been inserted with the apparent intent of reintroducing existing characters—here's a quick confrontation that tells you what you need to know about Cersei Lannister; here's another that summarizes the history between Catelyn Stark and Petyr Baelish—presumably on the assumption that there will be a sizable population of new viewers who skipped season one. (If I may pause to offer advice: Don't be one of them. Start at the beginning like a sensible person.)

Thus far the second season takes greater liberties than the first: some, as above, in the service of clarity; others for the sake of concision (an issue that will loom ever larger); and still others to make explicit an idea that Martin's books offered only obliquely—the fate of Craster's sons, for example, or the exact provenance of Melisandre's shadow assassin. In Martin's telling, it is unclear whether newcomer Margaery Tyrell is a true innocent or devious schemer; the casting of Natalie Dormer (Anne Boleyn in Showtime's The Tudors), with her sloe eyes and longitudinal necklines, quickly puts that question to rest, substituting one kind of mystery for another.