Category: British TV

There’s something about Westeros that keeps pulling us back. Game of Thrones ended in 2019, and yet here we are in 2026, and we’re still talking about it. We’re watching House of the Dragon. We’re excited about A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. We’re reading fan theories, writing fan fiction, engaging with the world in a dozen different ways. It’s been years, and the fandom is still vibrant, still active, still genuinely invested in what’s happening in a fictional kingdom on a fictional continent.

That’s remarkable, actually. Most television shows end and fade away. You might rewatch them occasionally, but the active cultural conversation moves on. People stop making fan art. The subreddits get quiet. The conventions slowly shrink. But Westeros has this staying power that’s unusual. There’s something about this world that keeps it alive in our imaginations long after the main narrative has ended.

It would be easy to chalk it up to the spectacle — the dragons, the dragons, the massive battles, the elaborate costumes. But there’s more to it than that. Westeros has staying power because it’s built on a foundation of complex, human storytelling that resonates with something deep in us. Let’s dig into why this world is so hard to leave.

A World That Feels Real

The first thing that makes Westeros compelling is that it feels like a real place. This might sound obvious, but it’s actually crucial. Fantasy worlds can feel fantastical and distant, like a storybook you’re reading about abstract characters making abstract decisions. But Westeros feels lived-in. It has a history that predates the story. It has cultures, traditions, economies, and political structures that exist for reasons. When we encounter a house sigil, we’re not encountering a random symbol — we’re encountering a piece of the world’s history and identity.

George R.R. Martin didn’t invent Westeros and then write Game of Thrones in it. He built the world first. He created centuries of history. He thought through how different regions would develop different cultures, different economies, different religious practices. The iron islands have a different way of life than the Reach because of geography and history. The north is isolated and honor-driven because of both geographical necessity and historical traditions. The south is more cosmopolitan and trade-focused because of its position. None of this feels arbitrary. It all feels like the natural result of how people would adapt to and shape their environment.

This kind of worldbuilding creates a sense of reality that’s incredibly engaging. When you’re reading or watching Game of Thrones, you’re not thinking about how the writer created all these details. You’re thinking about Westeros as a real place with real history and real culture. You’re imagining what life would be like in different parts of that world. You’re understanding that the political conflicts happening on screen are part of a much larger tapestry of history and culture.

That sense of reality is intoxicating. It’s why fans spend hours researching the histories of houses, mapping the continents, learning the family trees. We’re not doing that because we have to — we’re doing it because Westeros feels real enough that we want to know more about it.

Moral Complexity Without Clear Answers

Another reason Westeros keeps drawing us back is that it presents moral problems that don’t have easy solutions. In most adventure fantasy, there’s a clear good side and a clear evil side. You root for the heroes, you oppose the villains, and when the heroes win, you feel satisfied. But Westeros doesn’t work that way. There are no clear heroes. There are people with understandable motivations, flawed values, and legitimate grievances on all sides.

Cersei is not a one-dimensional villain — she’s a woman trying to protect her children and maintain power in a world that gives women very little power. Jaime is a man who’s done terrible things but also has honor and love for his family. Jon Snow is noble and honorable but also naive and sometimes makes terrible decisions with massive consequences. Every character, even the ones we dislike, has reasons for being the way they are.

This moral complexity is compelling because it mirrors real life. We don’t live in a world of clear heroes and villains. We live in a world where people have competing interests, different values, and different understandings of what’s right. Westeros presents that same kind of complexity. It forces us to think about the questions that don’t have easy answers. What do we owe to our families versus what we owe to the greater good? Is it better to maintain power and protect your own interests or to sacrifice yourself for a principle? Is mercy sometimes cruelty, and is cruelty sometimes merciful?

These are genuinely hard questions, and Westeros doesn’t shy away from them. The narrative doesn’t tell you what to think. It presents characters making difficult choices and lets you judge whether those choices were right or wrong. And since different people reach different conclusions, the conversations about these choices never end. You can spend hours arguing about whether a character was justified in doing something, and there’s no objective answer. That’s incredibly engaging.

The Weight of Consequence

Most stories operate on a moral calculus where good characters survive and bad characters die, where noble actions are rewarded and evil deeds are punished. Westeros doesn’t work that way. In Westeros, bad things happen to good people. Honorable decisions lead to disaster. The smartest political move might result in your entire family being slaughtered. Marrying for love might get you murdered at a wedding. Doing what you think is right might doom your children.

This relentless consequence makes the world feel dangerous in a way that’s genuinely compelling. You can’t assume that your favorite character will survive. You can’t assume that the morally correct action will result in a positive outcome. Every decision feels weighted with genuine stakes because the story actually follows through on consequences. If a character makes a bad call, they suffer for it. If they’re too trusting, they die. If they’re too ambitious, it backfires.

This might sound depressing — and honestly, some of the consequences in Westeros are devastating — but it’s actually more engaging than the alternative. It means that every scene matters. Every decision has weight. You’re not watching a story where events are happening to an inevitable conclusion. You’re watching a story where any decision could change everything, where the outcome is genuinely uncertain, where the stakes are real.

That sense of genuine unpredictability is one of the things that makes Westeros so endlessly rewatchable. Even if you know what happens, even if you’ve watched or read the story multiple times, the emotional weight of the consequences remains. You know what’s coming, but knowing doesn’t make it any less devastating to watch.

Characters That Feel Like People

At its core, Westeros is compelling because the characters feel like people. They have flaws and strengths. They grow and change. They make mistakes and try to learn from them. They’re inconsistent and complicated in ways that mirror real human complexity. Tyrion is intelligent but not always wise. Sansa learns from her experiences and grows into her power. Jon Snow is honorable but sometimes lacks the political sophistication necessary to survive.

The television show casts these characters with actors who bring incredible depth to the roles. Pedro Pascal’s Oberyn Martell is menacing and charming and righteous. Lena Headey’s Cersei is powerful and vulnerable and terrifying. Emilia Clarke’s Daenerys is idealistic and ruthless and tragic. These characters are performed by actors who understand the complexity of their roles and bring it to life in ways that make them feel genuinely real.

But the characters are compelling even in the books, even when you’re reading descriptions of them rather than watching actors inhabit them. They’re compelling because they’re written as people, not as plot devices. They have interior lives. They have contradictions. They care about things that have nothing to do with the main plot. Tyrion’s love of wine and books, Sansa’s love of songs and beauty, Arya’s love of swordplay and independence — these details make them feel real because they’re not strictly necessary to the plot. They’re the kind of details that real people have, the things that make us individuals beyond our roles.

This is why we keep returning to Westeros. It’s not just about plot or spectacle. It’s about spending time in a world with people we care about. Even after the main story ends, even years later, we want to know more about them. We want to explore what their lives would be like in different scenarios. We want to imagine their futures and their pasts. That’s the sign of genuinely well-created characters — they feel real enough that we want to continue knowing them.

The Infinite Capacity for Interpretation

One thing that keeps Westeros alive as a universe is that it’s infinitely interpretable. There are details that are deliberately ambiguous. George R.R. Martin built the world with mysteries and unanswered questions. Some of those mysteries might be answered in future books or shows, but many of them might not be. And that ambiguity creates space for fan interpretation and theory.

The fandom doesn’t just passively receive the story. We actively engage with it, creating our own interpretations, our own theories, our own understanding of what’s happening. Is Daenerys supposed to be a liberator or a despot? Was Jon Snow justified in his actions as Lord Commander? What’s actually going on with the prophecies? What does Bran’s power actually mean? These are real questions with no definitive answers, and fans spend hours developing elaborate theories about them.

This kind of active engagement is more compelling than passive consumption. You’re not just watching a story unfold — you’re participating in the process of interpreting and understanding it. You’re having conversations with other fans about what things mean. You’re reading analyses and theories that offer perspectives you hadn’t considered. The universe becomes richer through this kind of collective interpretation.

This is also why the universe has so much longevity. As long as there are unanswered questions and ambiguous elements, there’s something to discuss, something to theorize about, something to engage with. The fandom doesn’t run out of things to talk about because the universe itself is deep enough to support endless interpretation.

The Escape to Another World

Let’s be honest about one more thing: Westeros is appealing because it’s a world you can escape into. Our actual world is complicated and frustrating and sometimes depressing. The challenges we face don’t have clear solutions. The political structures we live in feel broken. The future feels uncertain. Westeros has all of these same problems, but they’re removed from us by the buffer of fiction. We can engage with these complex issues without the weight of actual consequences. We can think about hard moral questions without the pressure of having to solve them in real life.

But it’s not just that Westeros is escapist. It’s that it’s a world that we can actually understand. In some ways, it’s simpler than our world. The social structures are more clear. The causes of conflict are more straightforward. Even when the consequences are devastating, the logic of why they happened is understandable. There’s something comforting about that, even when the story itself is dark and tragic.

Westeros is also a world where action matters. When a character makes a decision, they can see the consequences. They can change things through their choices and their actions. There’s no bureaucracy to work through, no massive systems that ignore individual agency. That’s appealing in a way that’s hard to articulate but genuine. We want to be in worlds where our choices matter, even if those choices are devastating.

The Ongoing Expansion

Finally, Westeros keeps drawing us back because the universe itself keeps expanding. We finished Game of Thrones, but we’re not finished with Westeros. House of the Dragon is exploring the earlier history of the world. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is telling stories about a different era. Future shows will presumably explore other times, other places, other stories within the same universe.

This creates a situation where there’s always more to discover, always new stories to engage with, always reasons to return to Westeros. It’s like living in a world with a really deep history — you can keep learning new things about it, keep discovering stories that enrich your understanding of the place.

Conclusion: The Enduring Appeal of a Living Universe

What makes Westeros so endlessly compelling is that it’s not just a world or even just a story. It’s a complete universe with history, culture, moral complexity, and characters that feel genuinely real. It’s a place where consequences matter, where choices have weight, where the future is genuinely uncertain. It’s a world that’s deep enough to support decades of interpretation and engagement.

George R.R. Martin created something remarkable: not just a story, but a world that people genuinely want to return to again and again. That’s rare. Most fictional worlds have a shelf life. You experience the story and you move on. But Westeros has a kind of permanence that keeps pulling us back. Whether it’s rewatching the shows, reading the books, engaging with the fandom, or watching new content set in the same world, there’s something about Westeros that keeps it alive in our imaginations.

It’s been years since Game of Thrones ended, and we’re still here, still talking, still engaged, still drawn to a fictional kingdom on a fictional continent. That’s a testament to how well that world was built, how deeply those characters were drawn, and how much care went into creating a universe worth returning to. As long as we have Westeros, we’ll have reasons to explore it, questions to ask about it, and stories we want to tell about it. The wheel keeps turning, and we keep coming back to watch.

The central relationship of House of the Dragon is not between enemies or antagonists in the traditional sense. It’s between two women who were once friends, who genuinely cared about each other, and who became bitter rivals because of circumstances, misunderstandings, and the weight of history and duty. That relationship between Rhaenyra and Alicent is the emotional core of the entire series, and understanding it is key to understanding why the Dance of the Dragons becomes so destructive.

This isn’t a story of heroes versus villains. It’s a story of two intelligent, complicated women caught in a situation where both of them feel like they’re fighting for their survival and their family’s survival, and both of them blame the other for creating that situation. It’s tragic because you can understand both of them, and you can see exactly how the friendship dies.

The Beginning: A Genuine Friendship

To understand where Rhaenyra and Alicent are in Season 2, we need to go back to where they started. In Season 1, these two women had an actual friendship. It wasn’t mandatory. It wasn’t forced by circumstance. It was genuine affection between two people who understood each other.

Rhaenyra, as the king’s daughter and heir to the throne, was isolated in a lot of ways. She had power and status, but she didn’t have many peers. Everyone either wanted something from her or resented her for being named heir. Alicent, as a young woman at court, had intelligence and wit but limited options in terms of agency and power. She was expected to eventually marry some lord and have his children and that was supposed to be her entire life.

When they met, there was a spark of recognition between them. They were both smart. They both could see through the courtly games. They had conversations that went beyond the usual court gossip and small talk. For a while, they were friends in a world where genuine friendship between women was actually pretty rare.

Part of the tragedy of Rhaenyra vs. Alicent is that we know from the beginning how this friendship is going to end. We know from the opening credits and from the title of the show that this is the House of the Dragon, and House of the Dragon means dragons and fire and war. We know Rhaenyra and Alicent aren’t going to stay friends. But watching the dissolution of their friendship is painful precisely because we remember what they had at the beginning.

The Poison: Marriage and Children

The thing that started to poison the friendship wasn’t any big betrayal or dramatic moment. It was something smaller and more insidious: Alicent married the king, and then she had his son.

Before Alicent married Viserys, Rhaenyra was the undisputed heir. She was secure in her position (or thought she was). She had been named heir by her father. The realm had accepted her as the future queen. But then Alicent married Viserys and had Aegon, and suddenly Rhaenyra’s position was a lot less secure.

Now, you can argue about whether this was Alicent’s fault or not. Alicent was essentially sold into marriage by her father Otto, who wanted to consolidate power. She didn’t wake up one day and decide to marry the king to undermine her friend. Her father basically told her she was going to marry the king, and she did what she was told. But from Rhaenyra’s perspective, it might have looked like betrayal.

The thing about the friendship between Rhaenyra and Alicent is that it was always going to be vulnerable to this kind of thing, because they were never actually in equivalent positions. Rhaenyra was the heir to the throne. Alicent was a lady-in-waiting, however intelligent and capable. Once Alicent married the king, the power dynamic shifted dramatically. Alicent went from being Rhaenyra’s equal in terms of friendship to being the king’s wife and the mother of the king’s son.

The Divergence: Love and Duty

Part of what makes the Rhaenyra vs. Alicent dynamic so interesting is that they actually wanted different things and made different choices. Rhaenyra wanted to be queen, wanted power, wanted to rule. Alicent initially didn’t have those ambitions. She wanted love and family and a decent life as a noble woman.

But here’s where the complexity comes in: Rhaenyra felt like she had to make sacrifices in service of her duty as heir. She couldn’t marry for love the way other women could. She had to marry for political reasons, to strengthen her claim and build alliances. Even her romantic life became instrumental.

Alicent, meanwhile, had been told she was going to be queen. She had been told that Viserys had whispered to her on his deathbed that Aegon should be king. (Whether this is true is debatable, but Alicent believed it.) She went from thinking she was going to be the queen in the background to thinking she had to actively protect her son’s claim against her former friend.

Both women made choices. Both women sacrificed things. Both women felt like they were doing what was necessary to protect themselves and their families. But because they were protecting themselves against each other, the friendship couldn’t survive.

The Breaking Point

The friendship finally breaks completely when Rhaenyra has a miscarriage at the end of Season 1, and it’s partially triggered by the death of Lucerys. Lucerys was killed by Aemond and Vhagar, and the order came from King’s Landing, whether Alicent intended it or not.

Rhaenyra, in her grief and rage, eventually learns that Alicent had told Aemond that Lucerys should be stopped at any cost. Now, Alicent almost certainly didn’t intend for Lucerys to be murdered. But she didn’t stop Aemond either. She didn’t prevent the killing. And from Rhaenyra’s perspective, someone she used to love murdered her son, and the only person at court who might have stopped it didn’t.

This is the moment where the friendship becomes a blood feud. This is the moment where Rhaenyra stops seeing Alicent as a friend and starts seeing her as an enemy. And this is where House of the Dragon’s portrayal of this conflict becomes really brilliant, because it shows that sometimes friendships don’t die because of betrayal. They die because of tragedy and circumstance and the weight of duty.

Alicent’s Perspective

It’s important to understand Alicent’s perspective on all of this, because she’s not evil, and she’s not trying to hurt Rhaenyra just for the sake of it. From Alicent’s point of view, she’s desperately trying to protect her children.

She genuinely believes (or has convinced herself) that she’s doing the right thing. She believes that her son should be king. She believes that she’s protecting Aegon from a threat. She believes that Rhaenyra would harm her children if given the chance. Whether these beliefs are accurate or not, they’re what drive Alicent’s actions.

Alicent is also deeply religious, and she ties her duty to her faith. She believes God wants a male king. She believes she’s doing God’s work by supporting Aegon. This adds another layer to her conviction that she’s right and Rhaenyra is wrong.

And here’s the thing: Alicent isn’t wrong that her children would be in danger if Rhaenyra became queen and Alicent was alive to remind Rhaenyra of all the ways she’d been wronged. History shows us that when one faction wins a civil war, the losing side gets… dealt with. Alicent’s paranoia isn’t entirely irrational. She’s fighting for the survival of her children in a world where succession disputes often end with everybody from the losing side being killed.

Rhaenyra’s Perspective

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra’s perspective is that she was the rightful heir. She was named by her father. She had the realm’s support. She was building her claim and preparing to be a good queen. Then her former friend’s husband (the king, her father) decided to undermine her by remarrying and having a son.

From Rhaenyra’s perspective, Alicent didn’t have to accept this role. Alicent could have refused the marriage. Alicent could have warned Rhaenyra about what was happening. Alicent could have been honest about whether the king wanted Aegon to be heir.

But instead, Alicent went along with whatever her father and the king wanted. And once she had a son, she started working to undermine Rhaenyra’s claim. The friendship became transactional from Alicent’s side, in Rhaenyra’s view. Alicent was using her friendship with Rhaenyra to get close to power, and then she turned against her.

Is Rhaenyra’s perspective entirely fair? Not really. Alicent didn’t have as much agency as Rhaenyra assumes. But that’s how Rhaenyra sees it, and she’s not entirely wrong about Alicent’s role in destabilizing her position as heir.

The Central Tragedy

The tragedy of Rhaenyra vs. Alicent is that neither of them is entirely wrong, and neither of them is entirely right. The conflict isn’t something that could have been easily solved with a conversation and an apology. The structural problems that created the conflict are too big for personal reconciliation to fix.

Alicent married the king and had his son. That’s just a fact that changed everything. Rhaenyra was named heir, and that’s also a fact that changed everything. These two facts are in direct conflict with each other. One of these women is going to lose something she cares about deeply. And both of them know it.

So they’re both doing what they think is necessary to protect themselves and their children. And in the process, they’re destroying the friendship that once existed between them. They’re becoming bitter enemies. And they’re dragging the entire realm down in the process.

The Question of Agency

One of the most interesting questions about the Rhaenyra vs. Alicent conflict is: how much agency did each of them actually have in creating this situation?

Alicent didn’t choose to marry King Viserys. Her father chose that for her. She didn’t choose to have children. Having children was a function of being married to the king. She didn’t choose to believe that she should be queen or that Aegon should be king—although she did eventually commit to that belief pretty strongly.

Rhaenyra did choose to be ambitious and to want the throne. She did choose to have children (by Daemon and others) outside of a formal marriage, which created legitimacy questions about her children. She did choose to build a coalition against Team Green. These were more active choices on her part.

But then again, Rhaenyra didn’t choose to be named heir. She didn’t choose to have her position threatened by her father’s remarriage. She didn’t choose to be pushed into a position where she felt like she had to fight for what she saw as her birthright.

The reality is that both of them had limited agency, and both of them made choices within those constraints. They’re not villains. They’re people caught in a situation that was never going to have a happy ending, and they’re doing the best they can to survive it.

Modern Parallels and Why It Matters

The Rhaenyra vs. Alicent conflict resonates with modern audiences partly because it’s about women fighting over power and legitimacy in a world that doesn’t want to give them either. It’s about the ways that patriarchal systems pit women against each other. Alicent is expected to defer to her husband. Rhaenyra is expected to defer to her father and brothers. Neither of them is supposed to actually want power and agency, but they do.

The tragedy is that instead of recognizing that they’re both victims of a system that doesn’t give them real agency, they turn on each other. They blame each other for the circumstances that neither of them actually created. And that blame, that sense of betrayal, becomes a wound that can never really heal.

The Ongoing Conflict

As House of the Dragon goes on, the Rhaenyra vs. Alicent conflict becomes less personal and more brutal. By Season 2, they’re not just rivals. They’re enemies in a war. The friendship is so far in the past that it’s barely relevant anymore. They’re just two women trying to save their families in a conflict that neither of them started and neither of them can stop.

The show is exploring what happens when a personal conflict scales up to the level of a civil war. When you start out with a friendship that falls apart, and that fallout becomes the foundation for a realm-wide conflict, you get a situation where the personal stakes are always tangled up with the political stakes. Rhaenyra isn’t just fighting Alicent for the throne. She’s fighting the person who betrayed her friend. Alicent isn’t just fighting Rhaenyra for her children’s survival. She’s fighting someone who will want revenge for everything that’s happened.

Why This Matters

The Rhaenyra vs. Alicent dynamic is what makes House of the Dragon work as a tragedy. A civil war about succession law and political power is interesting. But a civil war that’s rooted in a friendship that fell apart, in two women who loved each other trying to destroy each other, in the consequences of betrayal and ambition and desperation? That’s something that has real emotional weight.

This is the heart of the Dance of the Dragons. It’s not really about whether Rhaenyra or Aegon has the better legal claim. It’s about what happens when two women with legitimate grievances against each other are put in a position where they have to destroy each other to survive. And that’s a story that has stayed relevant for centuries, which is why House of the Dragon can draw modern viewers into caring deeply about a civil war that happened two hundred years before the events of Game of Thrones.

Rhaenyra and Alicent are never going to be friends again. That friendship is dead, and it died not because they didn’t care about each other, but because they both did care, and circumstances forced them to betray that care in the name of duty, ambition, and survival. That’s the real tragedy at the heart of House of the Dragon.

There’s this moment in Season 5 where Cersei Lannister sits in a cell, stripped of her power and dignity, awaiting trial by the Faith Militant. And you know what? You actually feel bad for her. Not because the show wants you to excuse her actions—she’s done horrific things, after all—but because in that moment, you see the frightened woman underneath the armor of cruelty. That’s the genius of Cersei’s arc, and it’s one of the most underrated pieces of character development in Game of Thrones. She starts as a one-dimensional villain, a scheming queen obsessed with power and revenge, and somewhere along the way, without losing any of her menace, she becomes one of the most profoundly human characters on the show. Her tragedy isn’t just that she falls from power. It’s that we understand exactly why she’s willing to burn the world down before she lets anyone else control her again.

The Queen Who Had Everything

When we first meet Cersei Lannister, she’s sitting on top of the world. She’s the queen consort of the Seven Kingdoms, married to King Robert Baratheon, and she’s got the backing of her ambitious, brilliant family. She’s got everything a woman in Westeros is supposed to want. Except, of course, she hates it. And that’s the first hint that Cersei isn’t your typical villain. She’s not power-hungry because power is inherently appealing to her. She’s power-hungry because she’s desperate not to be powerless. There’s a crucial difference there.

From the very beginning, Cersei’s driving motivation isn’t conquest or greed. It’s control. She needs to control her circumstances because she’s spent her whole life at the mercy of men. She married King Robert when she didn’t want to, watched him fall in love with a ghost of a woman, and had to bear his children and his infidelities in silence. Her father arranged her life. Her husband dismissed her opinions. Even her brother, who she loved in a twisted way, treated her as something to be used. So when you look at Cersei’s scheming in those early seasons, it’s not the scheming of a woman trying to rule an empire. It’s the scheming of a caged animal trying to get the bars off herself.

She’s also desperate to protect her children, and that’s another layer of her humanity that the show never lets you fully forget, even when you’re hating her most. The prophecy that haunts her—the one about the valonqar strangling her, about her children’s fates—consumes her because she’s terrified of loss. She loves her children fiercely, even when (especially when) that love manifests as control and poison. Cersei doesn’t see herself as a villain. She sees herself as a survivor, as someone willing to do whatever it takes to keep the people she loves safe and to keep herself from being victimized again.

The Illusion of Control

Here’s where Cersei’s tragedy really begins to take shape. No matter how hard she schemes, how many enemies she eliminates, how tight her grip seems to be, she never actually gets the control she craves. She thinks she’s orchestrating events, playing the game masterfully, but she’s actually just reacting to a world that’s constantly slipping through her fingers. She tries to control Robert, but he drinks himself to death. She tries to control Joffrey, but her own son becomes a monster that even she can’t predict or manage. She tries to marginalize Tyrion, her own brother, and he ends up being the one who actually destroys her family.

The genius of Cersei’s character is that the show never lets her strategy work, and we slowly realize that her strategies were flawed from the beginning. She’s brilliant, but she’s not strategic in the way someone like Tywin Lannister is strategic. Tywin thinks several moves ahead, accounts for variables, adjusts his plans based on reality. Cersei, beneath all her intelligence, is driven by emotion. She acts out of rage, fear, and wounded pride. Her decisions feel justified to her in the moment—they always do—but they have catastrophic consequences she never sees coming.

The destruction of the Sept of Baelor is the perfect example of this. Cersei finally achieves a kind of victory—she eliminates everyone who’s threatening her, in one spectacular move. But in doing so, she alienates nearly every ally she has, ensures that all the kingdoms will unite against her, and most importantly, she kills Tommen’s wife, which drives her son to suicide. She wins a tactical battle and loses the war. And you can see that realization dawn on her face as she watches Tommen walk toward the window. That moment, when she understands that her actions have destroyed the very thing she was trying to protect, is when you realize that Cersei isn’t a villain anymore. She’s a tragedy.

The Woman in the Tower

The later seasons of Game of Thrones shift our perspective on Cersei in a subtle but profound way. She’s still the same woman—still willing to commit atrocities, still driven by fear and rage, still capable of casual cruelty. But as the threats around her increase, as the White Walkers march south and her enemies close in, we start to see what’s really going on beneath the surface. Cersei is terrified. Not of death, necessarily, but of powerlessness. Of being controlled. Of being victimized again.

She surrounds herself with yes-men because she can’t tolerate challenge or dissent. She drinks more wine because she can’t handle her thoughts when she’s alone. She becomes increasingly paranoid because, in a way, her paranoia isn’t unfounded—everyone really is plotting against her. The difference is that her actions to prevent those conspiracies often cause them. She’s caught in a cycle of her own making, and she can’t escape it because escape would mean admitting that her methods don’t work, that her understanding of the world is flawed, that she’s not actually in control.

The final episodes of the series lean into this tragedy even more. Cersei, besieged in King’s Landing, refuses to surrender or flee because surrender would mean accepting that she’s lost. She’d rather die than admit defeat. And that moment, when she’s standing in the tower with Jaime, waiting for the world to end, is almost unbearably human. She’s scared. She’s wrong about almost everything. Her certainty has become delusion. But you understand her completely. You understand why she couldn’t bend, couldn’t compromise, couldn’t let go. Because for her, losing power means becoming nothing.

The Villainy Was Always a Defense Mechanism

Here’s the thing about Cersei that makes her tragedy so profound: her villainy was never really about being evil. It was about survival. Every cruel thing she did, every enemy she eliminated, every moral line she crossed—she did them because she believed it was necessary. Not necessarily true in reality, but true in her mind. And her mind was shaped by a world that told her, over and over again, that she was powerless unless she was ruthless. That she had to be better, smarter, and meaner than anyone else or she would be destroyed.

The show never fully excuses her actions, and it shouldn’t. She does horrible things. She’s responsible for tremendous suffering. But it makes you understand her in a way that transforms her from a villain into a fully realized character. She’s not a one-dimensional schemer; she’s a wounded, frightened woman who responded to her trauma by building walls so high that nothing could hurt her. Except, of course, the walls just meant nothing could reach her either. She isolated herself completely while believing she was protecting herself. She destroyed everyone close to her while believing she was keeping them safe.

Why It All Matters

Cersei Lannister’s arc is a masterclass in character development because it never sacrifices who the character is for the sake of making them sympathetic. She remains ruthless, self-centered, and dangerous even as we come to understand and even pity her. She’s a villain and a victim simultaneously, and the tragedy is that she could never be anything else. The system that shaped her, the trauma that molded her, the choices she made in response to her powerlessness—they all led inevitably to her destruction. She never had a chance to be anything different because she never believed a different path was possible.

And maybe that’s the ultimate statement the show makes about Cersei. She was never the villain because she was born evil. She was the villain because she was cornered, frightened, and desperate. And when you strip away the crown and the wine and the power plays, what you find is a deeply human person—flawed, broken, and completely understandable. That’s not a villain. That’s a tragedy. And that’s why, no matter how many terrible things Cersei does, you never quite forget that she was human. She was always human. She was just a human who was absolutely, irredeemably broken.

In the end, Cersei Lannister’s greatest power was never her manipulations or her cruelty. It was her ability to make us see ourselves in her desperation, to understand exactly why she did what she did, and to pity her even as we condemned her. That’s why she stands out among all the villains and antiheroes of Game of Thrones. She wasn’t just a character we loved to hate. She was a character who showed us how a human being can become a monster not through evil, but through fear.

Game of Thrones is full of amazing characters. It’s also full of characters who started amazing and then basically disappeared from the narrative without proper resolution. These aren’t minor characters—they’re experienced warriors, brilliant strategists, and deeply compelling figures who, at various points in the series, seemed poised to play major roles in the endgame. But as the show rushed through its final seasons, as the writers decided which characters deserved screen time and which ones could be quietly written off, a surprising number of genuinely great characters fell through the cracks. They got shoved to the side, their storylines abandoned, their potential unrealized. It’s one of the show’s great failures, and it’s worth examining exactly who got left behind and what we lost by forgetting them.

Barristan Selmy: The Warrior Who Became Irrelevant

Barristan Selmy is one of the greatest knights in Westerosi history. He’s served kings, saved Daenerys’s life multiple times, and becomes one of the most important advisors in her council. He’s introduced as a legendary warrior, and Sean Bean plays him with such gravitas and honor that you immediately understand why everyone respects him. He’s the show’s embodiment of the old ways, of chivalry and honor and loyalty. He’s also one of the few genuinely good people in the entire series, someone who actually cares about justice and honor rather than power.

And then the show just… forgets about him. In Season 5, Daenerys sends him away without really explaining why, and from that point on, Barristan is effectively gone. He’s in Meereen, dealing with political crises, but none of it gets screen time. None of his advice matters. He goes from being one of the central figures in Daenerys’s story to being a character who might as well not exist. When he dies—and he does eventually die, offscreen basically, mentioned in passing—it barely registers. You have to think hard to remember that he’s even dead, which tells you how completely sidelined he’d become.

What makes this worse is that Barristan was positioned to be so much more important. He’s a living connection to the history of the realm. He’s someone who could have served as moral ballast for Daenerys, who desperately needed someone willing to tell her when she was wrong. He’s a warrior who fought in wars that shaped the entire history of the continent, and his perspectives and experiences matter. Instead, he gets sent away and forgotten, and the space he might have filled is left empty.

The Blackfish: The Tactical Genius Who Got Trapped

The Blackfish, Brynden Tully, is introduced as something like the personification of strategic brilliance. He’s an old man, but he’s sharp, experienced, and when the Stark family needs help, he’s there with concrete advice and tactical expertise. He fights in the War of the Five Kings with distinction. He organizes defensive strategies. He’s tough as nails and utterly committed to the principles of honor and loyalty that the older generation in Westeros supposedly values.

And then Riverrun happens. The Blackfish gets trapped in Riverrun, dealing with Lannister armies outside the castle walls, trying to hold onto one of the most strategically important locations in the Reach. And the show… just ends his story there. Literally. He dies offscreen, mentioned in casual conversation, and we never see it. A man who could have been a crucial advisor to the Starks, who could have played a major role in the endgame, basically just disappears from the narrative when his location becomes inconvenient to the plot.

What’s particularly frustrating is that the Blackfish had so much more to give. He understood military strategy better than almost anyone else in the realm. He was loyal to the Stark family. He was tough and experienced and capable of genuine wisdom. The show killed him off not because his character arc demanded it, but because the narrative had moved on and they didn’t want to figure out how to incorporate him anymore. It’s a waste of a great character and a great performance.

Doran Martell: The Mastermind Who Never Got to Execute His Plan

Doran Martell is introduced as the Prince of Dorne, a man who’s been planning his revenge against the Lannisters for years. He’s methodical, careful, and seemingly brilliant. He’s been working toward an end goal that will take decades to achieve, and he’s patient enough to do it. The show builds him up as someone with a secret plan, someone who understands the long game in a way most of the other rulers don’t. He’s got dragons coming, he’s got legitimate grievances, and he’s got the intelligence and patience to act on them effectively.

And then Season 6 happens, and his eldest daughter basically says “no, we’re doing things my way instead,” and Doran gets killed. Not in a meaningful conflict, not because his plan failed for understandable reasons, but because the show decided it was more efficient to just get rid of him and replace him with a more aggressive leader. One of the most interesting political minds in the entire realm is disposed of because the show wanted to speed up the Dorne plot.

The thing about Doran is that he represented something important: patience, long-term thinking, and the kind of strategic brilliance that comes from genuine experience and understanding. Everyone else in Game of Thrones is reacting to immediate crises. Doran is playing a game that spans decades. That’s fascinating. That’s compelling. And the show just threw it away because his character was inconvenient.

Minor Characters With Major Potential

But it’s not just the big figures who got lost. There are dozens of secondary characters who seemed poised to matter more as the show progressed and then just disappeared. What about Davos Seaworth, who had actual moral convictions and strategic value? He’s still in the show technically, but his importance diminishes as the seasons go on. What about Theon Greyjoy, who gets a redemption arc that’s compelling until the show basically ends it abruptly? What about the Night’s King, who the show never properly explains despite introducing him as this terrifying existential threat?

There’s also characters like the Sand Snakes, who could have been interesting if they’d been given actual screen time and development instead of getting introduced as cartoon villains. There’s Daenerys’s kingsguard, who had potential. There’s pretty much the entire leadership structure of King’s Landing after Cersei—the people actually trying to govern the destroyed city, the people cleaning up her mess. They exist, but they don’t matter because the show has already decided the story is over.

Why Does It Matter?

Here’s the thing: Game of Thrones isn’t just a story about the main characters. It’s supposed to be about a world, about the complex interplay of forces and personalities that shape history. When you sideline characters like Barristan, the Blackfish, and Doran Martell, you’re losing crucial perspectives and tactical expertise. You’re losing the voice of experience, the wisdom of people who’ve been through these conflicts before. You’re left with a set of young, passionate, often inexperienced people making massive decisions without the counterweight of experienced advisors.

Daenerys desperately needed Barristan to tell her when she was wrong. The Starks desperately needed the Blackfish’s tactical knowledge. Dorne desperately needed Doran’s patient wisdom. Instead, they got hastier decisions, worse outcomes, and plots that felt rushed because the people who could have slowed things down and forced more careful consideration were gone.

The characters who got forgotten are important because they represent the institutional knowledge of Westeros. They’re the people who remember the last war, who understand the complexities of governance, who can advise younger leaders about the consequences of their actions. When you kill them off or sideline them, you’re left with a world that’s increasingly chaotic because there’s no one with the experience to say “wait, this is a bad idea, here’s what happened the last time someone tried this.”

The Larger Problem

These forgotten characters point to a larger issue with Game of Thrones’ later seasons: the show became increasingly focused on moving toward an ending rather than actually exploring the world it had built. It became more interested in shock moments and dramatic reveals than in letting characters develop naturally. It became faster, more impatient, less willing to sit with complexity.

A show with more time, with writers more interested in the full scope of the story, would have found space for Barristan’s wisdom. It would have paid attention to the Blackfish’s strategic genius. It would have let Doran’s plan actually matter. But Game of Thrones in its later seasons was so focused on getting to the next major plot point that it lost interest in the slow, careful development of character and strategy that made the earlier seasons so compelling.

The forgotten characters are a reminder of what Game of Thrones could have been if it had trusted its own complexity, if it had believed that the world it had built was interesting enough to justify a slower pace. Barristan Selmy didn’t need to fight in Meereen. But he deserved a proper ending, a meaningful exit from the story. The Blackfish didn’t need to single-handedly save the North. But he deserved to at least be on screen when his story ended. Doran Martell’s plan didn’t need to succeed completely. But it deserved to at least fail on screen, in a way that was meaningful and dramatic rather than just in passing.

These characters mattered. They represented important ideas about loyalty, about honor, about the value of experience and wisdom. And the fact that the show forgot them or sidelined them is one of its great tragedies. Because in forgetting them, Game of Thrones forgot some of what made it great in the first place: the belief that every character, even the ones without dragons or armies, could matter if they were written with enough depth and complexity. The show eventually decided that wasn’t true anymore. And we lost some genuinely great characters because of it.

You remember the lemon cakes, right? They’re mentioned exactly three times in the entire show, but they’ve somehow become one of the most iconic foods in Game of Thrones. Why? Because that throwaway line about Sansa loving lemon cakes from Dorne, a line that gets mentioned so casually you might miss it, encodes an entire character and her state of mind. When Sansa thinks about lemon cakes, she’s thinking about a memory of sweetness and safety and the time before everything went terrible. When Cersei orders them for Sansa to be nice to her, she’s attempting to buy loyalty and affection. When they’re not available, when Sansa realizes she’ll never have them again in King’s Landing, you understand a little more about her isolation and displacement.

That’s the genius of how Game of Thrones uses food. It’s not just about people eating. Food is a language, a way of communicating character and culture and history. It’s worldbuilding that happens at every meal. It’s a way of showing you how different the kingdoms are from each other, how much the show cares about the details of its world, and how intimately connected food is to memory, power, and the way people experience life.

Food as Character Development

One of the clearest examples of food as character development is the way the show uses feasts. When you see the Lannisters at a feast, you see their wealth, their confidence, their belief that the world is organized for their benefit. The food is extravagant, the wine is flowing, and everyone is performing for them. When you see the Starks at a feast, it’s more modest, more centered on actually feeding people rather than on demonstrating wealth. When the Freys throw a feast, there’s something off about it—the food is good, but the atmosphere is uneasy because you know the Freys are not operating in good faith.

The food tells you things about who these people are. It shows you their values, their priorities, their understanding of what matters. A feast can tell you more about a character’s beliefs and personality than pages of dialogue. And the show understands this so deeply that it uses food almost like a recurring motif. The food someone chooses to eat, or is forced to eat, tells you their story.

Theon’s journey back to himself is partially told through food. When he’s trapped in the Dreadfort, being tortured and broken down by Ramsay, the food becomes simpler and simpler. He’s being dehumanized, and part of that process is the reduction of his meals from the nourishing, complex food of a lord to the basic gruel of a prisoner. And when he finally starts to rebuild himself, when he starts becoming Theon again, part of that is having normal food again. The sustenance that lets you survive has to improve before the rest of you can improve.

Food as Cultural Identity

Each of the Seven Kingdoms has its own food culture, and the show uses this to ground the world and make it feel real and lived-in. The North eats hearty, warming food designed to sustain you through brutal winters. Dorne eats spiced food, influenced by its hotter climate and its connection to Essos. The Reach grows everything—it’s the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms, and the food reflects that abundance. The Riverlands have fish and fresh water and fertile soil. The Vale has mountain food, harder and less plentiful. King’s Landing has access to everything, which is part of what allows the ruling class to feel like they’re separate from and above everyone else.

This matters because it makes the world feel real. These aren’t just kingdoms; they’re places where food grows and people eat according to what’s available and what their culture values. Sansa’s homesickness for lemon cakes isn’t just about sweets; it’s about missing the specific culture of Dorne, about missing the sense of beauty and warmth and plenty that Dorne represents. When she’s in King’s Landing eating the North’s food or whatever’s available in the capital, she’s eating away from home. The lemon cakes are comfort, and King’s Landing doesn’t have room for comfort.

The show also uses food to show economic status and access. The poor people are eating bread, maybe some vegetables, occasionally meat if they’re lucky. The wealthy are eating roasted meat, fresh vegetables, fruits, wine, spices. Sansa’s comment about not being able to get lemon cakes isn’t just about missing Dorne; it’s about the reality that certain foods simply aren’t available to everyone. Food access is power. When you control what people can eat, you control their survival. This becomes increasingly relevant as the show goes on, as wars and droughts make food scarcer and more precious.

The Politics of Feasts

There’s a reason the show spends so much time on the feast scenes. Feasts are political events in Game of Thrones. They’re moments when enemies gather in the same room, when alliances are made and broken, when the social hierarchies of the kingdom are on display. Who sits where, who gets served what, who’s invited and who’s excluded—all of it means something. The food itself becomes almost secondary to the social dynamics happening around it.

The Red Wedding is the most obvious example of this. The feast is supposed to be a celebration and a peace-making event. Instead, it becomes the site of one of the show’s most shocking and horrific moments. And the fact that it happens during a feast, during a moment that’s supposed to be about communion and unity and breaking bread together, makes it worse. The violation of guest right, the breaking of the sacred duty to protect guests in your home, is connected directly to the food. Breaking bread together is supposed to be sacred. The Freys turn that sacred moment into a weapon.

But even less violent feasts show the political maneuvering. At Robert’s coronation feast, people are sizing each other up, trying to understand the new order, jockeying for position. At the feast after the Tournament of the Hand, people are celebrating Joffrey and also trying to figure out what comes next. Every feast is a moment where the social structure of Westeros is on display, where power dynamics are negotiable, where an astute observer (or a camera) can see the real relationships beneath the formal ones.

Starvation as a Weapon

As the show progresses, food becomes increasingly scarce, and that scarcity becomes a weapon. The War of the Five Kings disrupts the agricultural systems that keep the Seven Kingdoms fed. The Lannisters burn crops. The Boltons exploit the North. By the later seasons, food is genuinely hard to come by, and that impacts everything. It impacts how people think, how desperate they’re willing to become, what choices they’ll make.

Arya’s experience in Harrenhal shows this. She’s hungry constantly. She’s serving the Lannisters, watching them eat, knowing that some of that food could be hers but isn’t. Her hunger is part of her imprisonment, part of her vulnerability. When she finally escapes, her first concern is eating. The show uses food scarcity to make you feel Arya’s desperation and vulnerability. When she’s hungry, you understand how trapped she is.

The North, later in the series, is facing actual starvation because the Boltons have destroyed the agricultural base and the Lannisters have burned the crops. The scarcity of food is what drives the desperation, what makes people turn on each other, what makes Ramsay’s rule so brutal and so effective. He’s controlling people through fear, sure, but he’s also controlling them through access to food. When you’re starving, you’ll accept almost anything from the person who has food.

The Beauty of Simple Things

One of the most touching elements of how the show uses food is the way it portrays simple food as a source of comfort and joy. Not just in moments of plenty, but in moments where food is scarce and simple. Sam and Gilly sharing food is a moment of genuine tenderness. The wildlings and the Nights Watch sharing food after the Battle of the Blackwater, establishing a momentary peace, is a reminder that breaking bread together actually means something.

The show understands that food is more than just sustenance; it’s a way of showing care. When someone cooks for you, when someone ensures you’re fed, that’s an act of love. This becomes particularly clear when you look at how the show portrays motherhood and care through food. Catelyn Stark’s entire identity as a mother is partially expressed through her concern for her children’s wellbeing, which includes their nourishment. When she can’t feed them, when they’re on the run or in danger, the inadequacy of that care is devastating to her.

Sansa’s food preferences aren’t just character quirks; they’re a way of exploring what happens to you when you’re separated from home, from the foods of your childhood, from the nourishment that reminds you who you are. Growing up is partly about adapting to different kinds of food, different kinds of nourishment. The foods you grew up with are the foods that make you feel whole and safe. When you can’t have them, you’re displaced in a deeper way.

The Bowels of Brown and the Invisible Margins

And then there’s the flip side: the food that’s barely mentioned, the food of the poor and dispossessed. The “bowels of brown” that’s mentioned in passing, the food that Arya eats when she’s escaping King’s Landing, the bread and thin stews that make up the diet of most people in Westeros. The show acknowledges that this food exists but doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t make it central. And that’s actually a kind of realism—most of the people in Westeros are eating basic, simple food, and most of the show isn’t about them.

But the contrast matters. The contrast between the lavish feasts of the lords and the thin stews of the smallfolk is part of how the show communicates the vast inequality of Westeros. When you see lords eating roasted meat and fresh vegetables while commoners are eating bread and gruel, you understand something fundamental about how the world is organized. The food difference is a visual representation of the power difference.

Food as Memory and Identity

Ultimately, what the show understands is that food is one of the most powerful ways we connect to memory, identity, and home. The foods you grow up with shape who you are. The way your culture prepares food tells you something about what that culture values. The feasts you attend are the moments when you understand your place in the world’s hierarchy. The meals you share are the moments when you build intimacy and trust.

Game of Thrones uses food to do more than just fill people’s bellies. It uses food to build worlds, to establish character, to show relationships, to display power dynamics, and to trigger emotion. That lemon cake that Sansa mentions? It’s not really about the cake. It’s about home, about safety, about a time before everything went wrong. And the fact that the show can communicate all of that with a casual reference to a dessert is a testament to how carefully it’s constructed this world.

The feast scenes might seem like set dressing, like background atmosphere. But they’re actually central to how Game of Thrones tells its story. Every meal, every feast, every casual reference to what people are eating tells you something about the world, the character, or the moment. The show lavishes attention on the details of food because it understands that these details matter. They’re not just about sustenance; they’re about life, about culture, about the small, intimate ways that people experience their world.

In the end, Game of Thrones is a show about power, about survival, about the struggle to maintain dignity and identity in a world that wants to strip both away. Food touches all of those themes. It’s the most basic requirement for survival, but it’s also deeply connected to beauty, to care, to the creation of culture and meaning. The show’s attention to food is part of what makes it such a fully realized world. And it’s part of why something as simple as a lemon cake can carry so much emotional weight.

There’s something genuinely magical about watching a room full of Westeros’s most powerful people bicker, scheme, and occasionally agree on something. The Small Council scenes in Game of Thrones represent some of the show’s finest moments, yet they’re often overshadowed by the flashier spectacle of battles, dragons, and shocking deaths. But if you’re someone who found yourself leaning forward in your seat whenever the Small Council convened, pressing the rewind button to catch every delivered line and meaningful glance, you already know what I’m talking about. These chamber drama sequences were where the show truly sang, where political intrigue unfolded with surgical precision, and where some of the sharpest writing in television happened.

The beauty of the Small Council scenes is that they required no dragons, no mystical threats, and no CGI budgets. They required only smart writing, fantastic actors, and the willingness to trust your audience enough to hold on a conversation about policy, power, and personality for several minutes straight. In a show that often felt compelled to remind you of its own importance through spectacle, these quieter moments represented the beating heart of what Game of Thrones could be at its absolute best.

The Foundation: Politics as Drama

Game of Thrones borrowed liberally from historical dramas and George R.R. Martin’s own literary inspirations, but the Small Council scenes were where it most closely resembled something like The Crown or the intricate political maneuverings of historical fiction. These scenes took seriously the idea that power isn’t just about armies and proclamations—it’s about persuasion, leverage, and the ability to read a room. The Small Council table became a microcosm of Westeros itself, where alliances formed, fractured, and reformed again with each passing season.

What made these scenes work so effectively was the understanding that dialogue can be action. When Tyrion sits at that table as Hand and methodically outmaneuvers his rivals through wit and intelligence, he’s not less dramatic than someone swinging a sword. When Cersei lobbies for a particular policy while barely disguising her contempt for those around her, she’s just as compelling as any battle sequence. The show understood that the audience would stay engaged if the writing was sharp enough and the stakes were clear enough. And for most of the show’s run, that faith was justified.

The Small Council chamber became a crucible where different ideologies clashed. You had the military-minded, honorable figures butting heads against the pragmatic, sometimes ruthless political operators. You had ambitious younger council members testing their ideas against the entrenched wisdom of older hands. You had representatives of different kingdoms and factions trying to leverage their positions for advantage. Every council scene was a negotiation, and that’s inherently dramatic if you’re paying attention.

The Tyrion Years: When Competence Met Chaos

Tyrion Lannister’s time as Hand of the King, particularly during the War of the Five Kings, represents perhaps the finest sequence of Small Council scenes the show ever delivered. Peter Dinklage’s performance as Tyrion was already winning him accolades for his dramatic work in other scenes, but something about the Small Council table brought out a different flavor of his talents. Here, Tyrion was forced to work within systems rather than outside them. He couldn’t just talk his way out of problems with charm and wit alone—he had to actually convince these people to follow his lead, even when they resented him, distrusted him, or actively opposed him.

The scenes between Tyrion and Cersei in the Small Council are particularly masterful. Their dynamic shifts and evolves throughout his tenure, but what makes these scenes sing is that both characters are intelligent enough to understand what’s happening. They’re not fooling each other about their motivations or capabilities. They’re engaged in a kind of cold war conducted in front of subordinates, each trying to establish dominance and control. When Tyrion slowly realizes that his sister is undermining him at every turn, when he begins to understand that his clever plans keep getting sabotaged by forces within the very council chamber itself, the tension becomes almost unbearable. And it all happens through dialogue, through strategic pauses, through the way these actors use their eyes and posture.

What’s particularly brilliant about Tyrion’s Small Council tenure is how it illustrated the impossibility of the Hand’s job. Tyrion is intelligent, experienced, and willing to make hard choices. Yet even with all these advantages, even with the confidence of the King, he’s hampered at every turn by council members protecting their own interests, by the institutional resistance to change, by simple factual limitations on what one person can accomplish in a corrupt system. The Small Council scenes showed us that brilliance alone can’t overcome these obstacles. They showed us politics in its most brutal, honest form.

The Ensemble Chemistry That Made It Work

The Small Council wasn’t carried by any single character, though. What made these scenes truly exceptional was the ensemble nature of the group. When you had Tyrion, Cersei, Varys, Littlefinger, Pycelle, and others in that room together, you were watching people with genuinely conflicting interests, different agendas, and real reasons to distrust one another. The chamber became a chess match played out in real time.

Conleth Hill’s Varys deserves special mention here. In Small Council scenes, Varys was often playing a longer game than everyone else, protecting information, manipulating events from the shadows, and generally acting like he knew something no one else did. The interplay between Varys and Littlefinger was electric—two men playing the same game of manipulation but with completely different styles and objectives. Those scenes crackled with tension because you never quite knew what either of them was actually thinking.

The supporting characters also elevated these scenes immeasurably. Even relatively minor council members brought credibility to the room. The maesters, the military advisors, the lesser lords and officials—they all felt like they belonged there, like they had real authority and real opinions worth considering. The show respected these characters enough to give them moments, to let them voice their concerns, to occasionally win an argument. This made the Small Council feel like an actual body of governance rather than a staging ground for the main characters to deliver exposition.

Watching Incompetence and Corruption Unfold

Of course, not every Small Council scene showcased competence and intelligence. Some of the most devastating scenes showed the council descending into chaos, incompetence, and moral bankruptcy. The scenes under Joffrey’s reign, where the boy king would make disastrous decisions while the council scrambled to mitigate the damage, had a different kind of tension. These were scenes where intelligence and experience meant nothing because they had to defer to a spoiled, cruel adolescent with absolute power.

These scenes were effective because they showed us the fundamental instability of the system the show was built around. Monarchy, the Small Council scenes suggested, is only as effective as the person holding the crown. When that person is a man like Robert Baratheon, more interested in whores and wine than governance, the council has to carry the load. When that person is a boy like Joffrey, genuinely dangerous in his incompetence, the council becomes a body desperately trying to prevent total catastrophe. When that person is a woman like Cersei, motivated primarily by pride and paranoia, the council becomes a tool of personal ambition rather than the kingdom’s needs.

The Decline: When Politics Got Sidelined

As the show progressed into its final seasons, the Small Council scenes became noticeably less frequent and less central to the narrative. The show was moving toward spectacle, toward its endgame of dragons and battle sequences and shocking character deaths. The careful political maneuvering that had defined earlier seasons felt increasingly irrelevant to the grand destiny the show seemed to be working toward. Fewer scenes meant less opportunity for the kind of sharp ensemble work that had made these moments sing.

When we did get Small Council scenes in the later seasons, they often felt perfunctory, less interested in the actual work of governing and more interested in checking boxes—establishing alliances, delivering exposition, or moving plot pieces into position. The room that had once felt like the true center of power in Westeros started to feel like just another set piece the show occasionally visited. This was a loss, though perhaps an inevitable one as the show scaled up its ambitions and shifted its focus toward the larger, more mythic elements of the story.

Why We Miss Them

The Small Council scenes represented the best version of Game of Thrones—intelligent, ambitious, trusting the audience to follow complex political maneuvering, and confident enough in its writing and cast to make dialogue feel like the highest stakes. These scenes proved that you don’t need massive production values or shocking moments to hold an audience. You just need smart characters, conflicting interests, good actors, and lines that crackle with meaning and subtext.

In hindsight, those Small Council scenes feel like they came from a different era of the show, one where the creators believed that watching smart people navigate impossible situations was compelling television. And they were right. Those scenes have aged better than most of what came after precisely because they weren’t dependent on shocking the audience or overwhelming them with spectacle. They were dependent on craft, and that craft remains evident every time you rewatch them.

For those of us who loved those scenes, there’s still plenty to appreciate in rewatches. The ensemble work, the layered performances, the way the dialogue conveys so much more than the words being spoken—it’s all still there. The Small Council at its peak was where Game of Thrones proved it could be the smartest show on television, and that excellence deserves to be celebrated and remembered.

There are few positions in Game of Thrones more thankless than serving as the Hand of the King. You’re the second most powerful person in the realm, theoretically, yet you’re constantly undermined, overruled, and blamed for problems that aren’t actually your fault. The Hand answers to a king who may be brilliant or may be a complete moron. The Hand must navigate council politics, manage the kingdom’s finances, oversee justice, and generally keep things from falling apart—all while the actual monarch might be off hunting, drinking, or making catastrophic decisions. Over the course of the show, we saw several different people take on this impossible role, and each brought their own style, strengths, and failures to the job. Let’s rank them by how well they actually did the work, setting aside how much we liked them as characters and judging them purely on competence.

The Rankings

1. Tyrion Lannister: The Political Genius

Here’s the thing about Tyrion as Hand—he actually accomplished things. During the War of the Five Kings, with the realm falling apart, the crown on the verge of bankruptcy, and internal enemies at every level, Tyrion managed to keep King’s Landing running, prevent multiple coups, fund the war effort, and come up with strategies that saved the city from invasion. He didn’t have a huge standing army at his back. He didn’t have unlimited resources. What he had was intelligence, the ability to think several moves ahead, and a willingness to make hard, pragmatic decisions.

Tyrion’s achievements as Hand are genuinely staggering when you really think about them. He sourced wildfire and used it effectively in defense of the city. He outwitted and outmaneuvered Littlefinger and Cersei, managing to consolidate power despite both of them actively working against him. He negotiated with the Tyrells to secure their alliance, which probably saved the Lannister position. He managed the Small Council with a mixture of authority and careful manipulation. Most impressively, he did all of this while dealing with a Small Council deliberately trying to undermine him, a queen who wanted him dead, and a crown that often didn’t understand or appreciate his strategies.

The fact that Tyrion eventually left the position wasn’t really a failure on his part—it was because he was betrayed, because the system he was fighting to preserve actually destroyed him anyway. His tenure ended in tragedy, but it didn’t end in failure. The city remained standing. The crown remained solvent, more or less. Tyrion proved that genuine intelligence and competence matter in governance, even in a fundamentally broken system. He’s the high watermark for competence in this particular role.

2. Ned Stark: Honorable But Overwhelmed

Ned Stark was an honorable man in a position that required more than honor. As Hand to Robert Baratheon, Ned inherited a kingdom in debt, with enemies at every border, and a king increasingly uninterested in the actual work of ruling. Ned didn’t have Tyrion’s political instincts or his willingness to play the game with ruthless pragmatism, but he was intelligent, experienced, and genuinely tried to do right by the kingdom.

The problem with Ned’s tenure was that he was dealing with a fundamentally corrupt system and didn’t quite understand how corrupt or how deep the rot went. He discovered the truth about Joffrey’s legitimacy and tried to handle it with honor, which was a catastrophic mistake. He believed that telling people the truth and appealing to their sense of duty would work, even when dealing with people like Cersei and Littlefinger who had neither honor nor duty. Ned’s failure was essentially one of reading the room—he didn’t understand that the game he was trying to play by different rules than everyone else, and his rivals were exploiting that.

Still, Ned wasn’t a bad Hand by any practical measure. He was trying to clean up Robert’s mess, he was investigating real corruption, and he was attempting to prevent war. His mistake was being honest in a den of vipers, not being incompetent at the actual job. If he’d been a bit more Machiavellian, if he’d been willing to compromise his principles, he might have been quite effective. Instead, he was honest, and honesty got him killed and destroyed the realm.

3. Davos Seaworth: The Honest Pragmatist

Davos served as an advisor and Hand of sorts to Stannis Baratheon, and while his tenure was relatively brief, he demonstrated real competence in the role. Davos was intelligent, practical, and genuinely believed in doing right by the people he governed. He had experience with logistics, trade, and the actual mechanics of keeping a kingdom functioning. He wasn’t dealing with as complex a political landscape as Tyrion or Ned, partly because Stannis’s court was smaller and more loyal, but Davos made the best of his position.

The main issue with Davos was that he was serving Stannis, a man whose legitimacy was questionable and whose reliance on magic and prophecy made him increasingly unstable. Davos tried to counsel pragmatism and actual governance, but he was constantly fighting against Stannis’s obsession with prophecy and his willingness to sacrifice anything in the name of destiny. Davos wasn’t a failure; rather, he was competent and realistic in a situation that was inherently doomed by his king’s character. If Davos had served a stable, reasonable monarch, he probably would have been an excellent Hand.

4. Jon Snow: Reluctant and Unprepared

Jon Snow never served as Hand in the traditional sense, but as Lord Commander and later as King in the North, he held positions of authority requiring similar governance skills. Jon’s record as a leader was mixed at best. He made some good decisions and some catastrophic ones. His insistence on taking the fight to the White Walkers was probably correct in hindsight, but his inability to manage his own people, his tendency to see issues in black and white terms, and his occasional bouts of indecision made him a middling leader at best.

Jon’s main problem was that he didn’t have the political sophistication or the ruthlessness that the job actually requires. He tried to lead with honor, which is admirable, but he also got himself killed for it, which rather proves the point that honor alone isn’t enough. When he was resurrected and took charge of the North again, he showed some improvement, but he was still fundamentally someone who trusted people more readily than circumstances warranted and who sometimes made decisions based on what he felt was right rather than what was strategically sound.

5. Qyburn: Competent But Morally Bankrupt

Qyburn is an interesting case because he was technically competent in many ways. He showed innovation, problem-solving skills, and a willingness to think outside conventional boundaries. As Master of Whispers and later as Hand to Cersei, he demonstrated an understanding of how to gather intelligence and consolidate power. His creation of the Mountain zombie was grotesque, certainly, but it was also effective.

The issue with Qyburn is that his competence was entirely in service of a genuinely terrible woman’s genuinely terrible goals. He helped Cersei blow up the Sept, he raised the dead, he built weapons of mass destruction. He had the skills and intelligence to be an excellent Hand under the right circumstances, but under Cersei’s rule, he was essentially an enabler of tyranny and destruction. You can be technically competent at governance while being morally catastrophic, and Qyburn is the perfect example of that contradiction.

6. Kevan Lannister: The Competent Placeholder

Kevan Lannister served briefly as Hand to Tommen after the chaos of Cersei’s rule and before Cersei seized power again. He demonstrated genuine competence—he was organized, pragmatic, and focused on actually rebuilding the kingdom rather than pursuing personal vendettas. His brief tenure showed that stability and competence could be restored relatively quickly if someone just tried to govern responsibly.

The reason Kevan ranks below the others isn’t because he was incompetent; it’s because his tenure was so brief and so interrupted. He didn’t have time to accomplish much or to be tested by genuine crisis. But everything he did do suggested he would have been a solid, workmanlike Hand—not brilliant like Tyrion, not as honorable as Ned, but competent and focused on the kingdom’s actual needs.

7. Cersei Lannister: Smart But Destructive

Cersei was intelligent and politically savvy, but as Hand she was a disaster. She was so focused on consolidating personal power, punishing perceived enemies, and protecting her children that she completely lost sight of what was actually good for the kingdom. She made decisions based on pride rather than pragmatism, she alienated allies unnecessarily, and she consistently chose the option that would hurt her enemies at the expense of the realm’s stability.

Cersei could have been an effective political operator if she’d been willing to separate personal grievances from governmental policy. Instead, she used the position almost entirely for personal vendetta. Her handling of the Faith, her relationship with the Tyrells, her approach to the Dornish conflict—all of these were driven more by her personal emotions than by any actual strategy. She’s an example of someone with political intelligence but lacking the discipline and perspective required to actually govern effectively.

8. Robert Baratheon: Not Actually a Hand, But Worth Mentioning

Robert wasn’t technically a Hand, but it’s worth noting that he delegated the actual running of the kingdom to other people while he pursued pleasure, which is perhaps the most honest acknowledgment that he had no business being king. As far as the position of king goes, he was catastrophically incompetent, which is why we get Hands trying to clean up his messes.

Lessons From the Hands

Looking across all these different people in the position, a few patterns emerge. The most effective Hands were the ones who understood that the job required pragmatism and political intelligence, not just honor or ambition. Tyrion succeeded because he was willing to make hard choices and manipulate people if necessary. Ned failed partly because he wasn’t willing to do those things. Jon Snow struggled because he wanted to lead by example and principle rather than by necessity and strategy.

It’s also worth noting that being Hand of the King is nearly impossible when your king is incompetent or unstable. Tyrion was dealing with a child king and a queen who actively undermined him, and he still found ways to be effective. But the structural problems with monarchy itself meant that even the most competent Hand was always limited by the whims of a single person. Davos knew this. Ned didn’t. Cersei certainly didn’t care.

The position revealed something fundamental about the show’s central themes—that individual competence and virtue matter, but they’re also constrained by systems that don’t value those things. The best Hands in Westeros couldn’t overcome the fundamental instability of absolute monarchy, the corruption of the realm’s institutions, or the simple fact that they had to answer to kings who were often their moral and intellectual inferiors. They did what they could with an impossible job, and history will judge them accordingly.

Game of Thrones has one of the most complicated legacies when it comes to female representation in television. On one hand, the show featured some genuinely complex, compelling, and powerful female characters who felt three-dimensional and fully realized. On the other hand, the show also fell into problematic patterns, sometimes using female characters as props for male character development, sometimes trafficking in unnecessary sexual violence, and sometimes fumbling the ball when it came to actually letting women have agency in their own stories. It’s not a simple conversation, which is probably fitting for a show that dealt with most things in shades of gray rather than clear moral absolutes.

The truth is that Game of Thrones’ treatment of female characters was never consistently good or consistently bad—it was a constant negotiation between the show’s ambitions and its limitations, between progressive storytelling and regressive impulses, between developing women as full characters and reducing them to archetypal functions in other people’s narratives. Understanding this complexity is important if you want to have an honest conversation about the show’s actual legacy when it comes to gender.

The Strongest Female Characters

Let’s start with what the show did well, because it’s important to acknowledge that Game of Thrones did create some genuinely excellent female characters. Cersei Lannister is a masterclass in character writing. She’s ambitious, intelligent, ruthless, and deeply flawed. She makes terrible decisions, but they’re her decisions, made based on her character and her worldview. Lena Headey’s performance brought incredible depth to the character, making Cersei simultaneously sympathetic and repellent, a woman you could understand even when you were horrified by her choices.

Daenerys Targaryen evolved throughout the show from a victim forced into marriage to a powerful leader commanding armies and dragons. Emilia Clarke played her with a nuance that sometimes the writing didn’t deserve—there’s real vulnerability under the dragon queen exterior, real struggle between her desire to be just and her capacity for cruelty. By the final season, the show’s decision to make her villainous might have felt rushed, but the potential for that darkness was there all along if you were paying attention.

Then there’s Arya Stark, arguably the show’s most beloved female character. Arya got to have an actual character arc that wasn’t defined by her relationships to men—she had her own agency, her own goals, her own story. She trained, she survived, she became a killer and an assassin on her own terms. She wasn’t fighting for a man or a kingdom; she was fighting for herself. The show generally allowed Arya to be the protagonist of her own story, which is more than it did for many of its female characters.

Brienne of Tarth deserves mention as well, a woman who fought her way into a traditionally male role and did it on her own terms, without needing to compromise her principles or her identity. Gwendoline Christie brought a quiet strength to Brienne that made her compelling even in seasons where the writing did less with the character. Brienne wanted to be a knight, and eventually she became one—that arc feels earned and real.

Margaery Tyrell was a character who understood how to play the game of thrones better than almost anyone. She presented a softer facade than she deserved, she leveraged every advantage she had, and she never revealed her full hand. That Margaery was younger and more ambitious than the show let on, operating several moves ahead of everyone else, is one of the more regrettable cuts from the books that the show made.

The Problematic Uses of Female Characters

But alongside these strong female characters, the show had some real problems in how it handled women. The most glaring issue is the treatment of sexual violence. Game of Thrones used rape and sexual assault as narrative devices more times than it should have, and often to less effect than the show seemed to think. Sansa’s rape in season five—a scene that didn’t happen in the books and that the show seemed to justify as character development for a male character—remains one of the show’s most controversial choices. The impulse to subject female characters to sexual violence as a shorthand for showing how harsh the world is, or as a catalyst for male character development, is something the show indulged in repeatedly, and it’s genuinely problematic.

The show also sometimes fell into the trap of using female characters as objects of desire or conquest rather than as full agents in their own right. Daenerys and Jon Snow’s relationship is the prime example here—by the end of the series, Daenerys’s entire story arc seems to depend on her romantic involvement with a man, and when that romance fails to resolve the way she wants, she burns down a city. That’s… not a great message about female agency and ambition. It suggests that a woman’s downfall is ultimately rooted in her romantic disappointment, which is a pretty old and pretty tired narrative.

There’s also the issue of how the show used female characters as plot devices for male character development. Sansa’s trauma was sometimes used less to explore her own journey and more to show how broken the world was for Littlefinger and others to exploit. Daenerys’s decisions were sometimes framed in terms of how they affected the men around her rather than her own motivations. Even strong female characters sometimes got subsumed into narratives that were ultimately about men.

The Problem of Female Victimhood

One recurring issue is that the show sometimes seemed to believe that making female characters suffer was the same as making them complex. There’s a difference between showing that the world is harsh for women and actually exploring how women navigate and survive that world with agency intact. Game of Thrones sometimes conflated the two, suggesting that victimization equals depth. That’s not true. Victimization can be a part of a character’s journey, but it shouldn’t be the entire journey.

Theon’s story is instructive here because it actually used trauma and violation as a way to fundamentally change a character, and it did so with psychological depth. The show showed us how the trauma changed him, what that change meant for his arc, how he had to reckon with what had happened to him. But with female characters, the show sometimes showed trauma without that same level of psychological follow-through, as if the trauma itself was sufficient to prove the character was complex.

Sansa’s character arc, in retrospect, is the most interesting case study in this. Her early seasons could read as the show using her naivety and vulnerability as objects of mockery—the stupid girl learning harsh lessons the hard way. But by the end, Sansa had become genuinely political, genuinely savvy, and genuinely powerful. The question is whether the show earned that transformation or whether it just assumed that enough suffering would automatically result in growth.

The Strong Female Character Trap

It’s also worth noting that Game of Thrones sometimes fell into the trap of confusing “strong” with “masculine.” Characters like Arya and Brienne were powerful partly because they rejected traditionally feminine roles and took on traditionally masculine ones. That’s fine—those are valid character choices—but the show sometimes implied that this rejection of femininity was necessary for power, that to be strong you had to be like a man. That’s a subtle but persistent bias. The show was better with female characters who found power in different ways, who used traditionally feminine tools and strategies, who didn’t have to become men to be taken seriously.

Cersei actually represents the show at its best here, because Cersei is powerful in part because she understands how to manipulate her femininity, how to use her sexuality, how to work within constraints to find power. She’s not powerful despite being a woman; she’s powerful as a woman, using the tools available to her. That’s more interesting and more honest about how power actually works.

The Final Seasons’ Treatment

The final seasons of the show saw some backsliding in female character development, partly because the show was moving at a breakneck pace and partly because the writers seemed to lose interest in the complexity that had defined earlier seasons. Daenerys’s descent into villainy happened too fast and felt reactive rather than inevitable. Sansa ended up in a position of power, which is good, but the path to get there was muddled. Arya got one of the most important moments in the series, killing the Night King, which was great, but then had to mostly step aside for the male characters to finish their stories.

Brienne’s character arc seemed to reverse—she got elevated to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard but also seemed to lose some of the depth and complexity she’d had earlier. The show’s final seasons were so focused on spectacle and male-driven narratives that the female characters often felt like they were orbiting around the main action rather than being the main action.

What Game of Thrones Got Right

Despite these criticisms, it’s important to acknowledge what the show did accomplish with female characters. For years, having this many complex, powerful female characters on a prestige drama was genuinely rare. The show gave these women real power, real agency, real consequences. When Cersei blew up the Sept, that was her choice and her responsibility. When Daenerys made decisions, they had massive consequences. When Arya chose her own path, she had to live with that choice.

The show also featured women in positions of genuine authority—as queens, as leaders, as military commanders. That might seem basic, but it wasn’t always the norm in fantasy television. The fact that Game of Thrones featured women wielding real power, making real decisions, and facing real consequences for those decisions was actually progressive for its time.

The Honest Assessment

Game of Thrones’ relationship with its female characters is ultimately complicated because the show itself was complicated. It had creators with different sensibilities, different seasons with different priorities, and characters who evolved as the show went on. The show didn’t fail across the board with female characters, but it also didn’t succeed perfectly. It created some of the best female characters in television while also engaging in some genuinely problematic storytelling choices.

For fans looking back on the show, the honest assessment is that you can appreciate the strength of Cersei, Arya, and Daenerys while also acknowledging that the show sometimes used female characters poorly. You can celebrate how the show expanded possibilities for complex female characters in genre television while also wishing it had done better, been more consistent, and been more thoughtful about how it deployed trauma and sexual violence. The show was flawed in how it treated women, but it was also better than a lot of what came before it, and worse than what it could have been.

For eight seasons, the White Walkers represented the ultimate threat in Game of Thrones. They were the existential danger that made the political scheming of humanity feel small and petty. They were the darkness beyond the Wall, the cold that would consume everything if given the chance. Entire character arcs were defined by the question of whether people would set aside their conflicts to fight this greater threat. The whole premise of the series seemed to hinge on the idea that at some point, all the fighting and backstabbing would have to stop because something worse was coming. And then, in the third episode of the final season, the White Walkers were defeated in a single night, killed by a girl with a knife, and that was essentially it. The story that had been building for eight seasons ended not with a bang or a whimper, but with a kind of narrative indifference that left many viewers feeling frustrated and short-changed.

The White Walker arc doesn’t just represent bad storytelling—it represents a fundamental failure of nerve on the show’s part. It was a story the writers didn’t know how to finish, so they finished it quickly and moved on to the supposedly more important matter of which man would end up on the Iron Throne. But in doing so, they squandered years of setup, eliminated what should have been the central conflict of the series, and basically admitted that the existential threat was less interesting to them than political intrigue. That’s a failure of narrative priority, and it’s worth examining honestly.

The Setup That Promised Everything

The White Walkers were introduced to us in the very first scene of the series. Before we even got to the Stark family, before we met any of the major characters, we saw these inhuman creatures moving through the snow, and we understood immediately that this was serious. The White Walkers represented the unknown, the uncaring force of nature, the thing that made humanity’s conflicts look petty. They were death itself, moving south.

Throughout the early seasons, the White Walkers were mostly absent, but their threat was ever-present. We got glimpses of them, warnings about them, and various characters took the threat seriously even when most of the political players treated it as a joke. The Night’s Watch existed to fight them. The Wildlings were terrified of them. Even characters like Daenerys, who had dragons and ambitions, eventually had to acknowledge that the White Walkers were the real threat.

The show took its time with the White Walkers, building them up as a slow-moving, patient threat. They weren’t trying to conquer the Seven Kingdoms in the traditional sense; they were trying to extinguish all human life. They had their own mythology, their own history. They were created by the Children of the Forest as a weapon against the First Men, which meant there was a whole backstory to explore. The show was laying groundwork for what should have been the culminating conflict of the entire series.

And then, in Season Five, we got a major revelation: the concept of the Night King, a leader figure for the White Walkers. He was the one who was raising the army of the dead, who was driving the invasion south. The Night King became the personal face of the threat, the one person you could point to as responsible for the existential danger facing all of humanity.

The Middle Seasons: Building the Tension

Seasons Six and Seven kept the White Walker threat alive. The Battle of the Bastards happened because of the threat of the White Walkers. Daenerys flying north and losing a dragon to the Night King was a major plot point that demonstrated the danger was real and escalating. The show spent an entire season basically saying, “Hey, everyone’s got to work together now, or we’re all going to die.” Characters that had been enemies agreed to temporary truces. The Night King became something like a proper villain with motivations and goals.

But here’s where the narrative started to fray a little. The show spent a lot of time building up the threat of the White Walkers without really exploring what they were, what they wanted, or what kind of story their ultimate defeat would tell. Were they mindless automatons, or were they intelligent and capable of strategy? Were they unstoppable, or was there a way to beat them? What would happen when they reached the Wall? What would happen if they reached King’s Landing?

These are the kinds of questions that would normally be answered as a story unfolds. Instead, the show seemed to treat the White Walkers as a force to be reckoned with until it was time to stop reckoning with them. And that time came in Season Eight, Episode Three, in a way that felt almost arbitrary.

The Battle of Winterfell: The Problem Revealed

The Battle of Winterfell was supposed to be the moment of truth. This was the battle against the White Walkers that would determine the fate of humanity. It should have been the climax of everything the show had been building toward. Instead, it was a confusing, visually murky episode where it was hard to tell what was happening, characters made inexplicable decisions, and ultimately the threat was resolved by a single person making a surprise knife move.

The problem with the Battle of Winterfell isn’t just that it was hard to see or that it had some tactical inconsistencies, though those things are true. The problem is that the battle didn’t tell us anything new about the White Walkers, didn’t explore their motivations or their capabilities, and didn’t climax with a satisfying confrontation. The Night King just kind of got stabbed, and suddenly all the White Walkers fell down dead. The entire army that had been marching south for eight seasons was defeated in a single night.

This isn’t how epic stories work. When you’ve been building toward a confrontation for years, when you’ve given characters entire arc about preparing for this moment, when you’ve made the stakes feel cosmic and world-ending, you don’t resolve it with a quick kill in the dark. The audience needed to understand why the Night King could be killed this way. We needed to understand what motivated him. We needed a confrontation that actually meant something.

The Wasted Mythology

One of the most frustrating things about the White Walker arc is how much of the mythology was just… left on the table. The books (and earlier seasons of the show) hinted at a huge history with these creatures. They were created as weapons by the Children of the Forest. They had their own intelligence and their own goals. There were hints that they might communicate in ways humans don’t understand, that they might have their own civilization and language beyond just killing.

The show had a chance to make the White Walkers something truly alien, truly threatening in ways that went beyond just being strong fighters with swords. They could have been a meditation on what humanity is, what separates us from nature, what the cost of civilization is. They could have been a force so fundamentally different from humanity that defeating them would require something more than just understanding them—it would require a fundamental change in how humans think about war and conflict.

Instead, the show essentially said, “They’re bad, they’re coming, and oh, there’s a specific way to kill them if you know the magic word.” The Night King had no meaningful dialogue with any human character. He never explained his goals or his motivations. The White Walkers never communicated anything beyond aggression. They were threats, pure and simple, and then they were dead.

The Thematic Failure

What’s perhaps most frustrating about the White Walker arc is that it represents a thematic failure. Game of Thrones was supposed to be a show about how the petty conflicts of human beings, the fighting for power and thrones, mattered very little in the face of larger natural forces. The White Walkers represented that larger force. The whole point was that all of this scheming and backstabbing was meaningless if nobody survived to enjoy it.

But by having the White Walkers be defeated so quickly and so easily, the show basically said, “Actually, the scheming and backstabbing was the important part. The existential threat was just a distraction.” The rest of the final season was people fighting over the throne, and that became the real story. The White Walkers became the MacGuffin, the problem that needed solving so the real drama could continue.

This is a fundamental misunderstanding of what the show’s own thematic structure demanded. If the White Walkers were as dangerous as we were told they were, if they really did represent an existential threat to all of humanity, then their defeat should have mattered more than it did. The characters who won that battle should have been transformed by it. The victory should have changed things in a way that echoed through the rest of the story.

Instead, people were like, “Okay, the White Walkers are dead, now let’s get back to fighting each other.” Which is… not a great message, and also not a particularly interesting one.

What Could Have Been

There are any number of ways the White Walker arc could have been more satisfying. The Night King could have actually been a character with complexity and motivation. Perhaps he had a reason for wanting to kill all of humanity beyond just “because I was created as a weapon.” Perhaps there was a way to negotiate or find peace, and that’s what the series was really about—not defeating the threat but understanding it.

Or the war against the White Walkers could have been the climax of the entire series, not a plot point to be resolved before the real finale. Maybe the show should have committed fully to the idea that the political conflict was the petty sideshow and the existential threat was the real drama. If you’re going to spend eight seasons building up an existential threat, have the courage to make that threat the actual climax of your story.

Or the White Walkers could have been genuinely unstoppable, or nearly so. Maybe the best humanity could do was contain them, hold them back, and the cost of that victory would be enormous. The ultimate lesson of the series could have been about sacrifice and the price of survival, rather than about who got to sit on the throne.

The Lasting Disappointment

Looking back on the series, the White Walker arc stands out as one of the most disappointing narrative failures. Not because the execution of the Battle of Winterfell was flawed (though it was), and not because the Night King didn’t get a big climactic duel (though fans wanted that). It’s disappointing because it represents a failure to commit to the story’s own internal logic. The show spent eight seasons telling us that the White Walkers were important, and then it revealed that they weren’t, really. They were just a plot device to get us to a story about politics and thrones that the writers cared about more.

That’s not to say the political story isn’t interesting—it is, in parts. But the White Walkers deserved better. The Night King deserved better. The fans who invested eight seasons in this supposedly existential threat deserved better. The show set up a premise and then decided the premise was less important than it thought. That’s the real failure at the heart of the White Walker arc.

There’s something uniquely satisfying about the opening of a Game of Thrones episode. Before we get into the credits, before we remember where we are in the story and what all the various plot threads are, we usually get a cold open—a scene or sequence that immediately pulls us into the world and often delivers something memorable before the title sequence even rolls. These cold opens were one of the show’s most consistent strengths, and they deserve to be appreciated for what they accomplished: grabbing your attention immediately, setting the tone for the entire episode, and often delivering some of the most compelling dramatic moments the show had to offer.

The cold open as a storytelling device is deceptively simple, but it’s incredibly difficult to execute well. You have maybe five to ten minutes to make an impression before the credits roll. You have to establish location, introduce stakes, and usually tell a complete micro-story, all while introducing the episode’s thematic concerns and emotional baseline. When Game of Thrones got this right, it was magical. When it got it wrong, the entire episode could feel off-balance. Over eight seasons, the show became increasingly sophisticated at using the cold open to shape the viewer’s experience, and understanding why these openings work is key to understanding what made Game of Thrones compelling.

The Original Formula: Setting the Scene

In the earliest seasons, the cold open often served primarily as a world-building tool. The show would open on a location we hadn’t seen before, or on a scene that didn’t involve the main characters, just to establish the physical geography of Westeros and show us the daily texture of life in this world. We’d see what King’s Landing looked like in the morning before the main plot began. We’d see people in the North going about their business. We’d see the small, human moments that gave the world weight and reality.

These early openings were effective because they trusted the audience to stay engaged with pure storytelling and world-building, without the comfort of familiar characters or obvious stakes. The very first scene of the entire series—the prologue with the White Walkers—works this way. We don’t know these characters. We don’t understand what we’re looking at. But the scene’s atmosphere, the design, the performance, and the music make us lean forward in our seats, paying attention. Something bad is coming. We don’t know what, but we know it matters.

This formula wasn’t unique to Game of Thrones, of course. But the show demonstrated a real mastery of pacing in these early openings. The scenes gave us time to settle in, to appreciate details, to let tension build gradually rather than being thrown immediately into the loudest, most obvious dramatic moment. That restraint was actually remarkably effective.

Escalation: The Big Spectacle Opens

As the show progressed, the cold opens started to escalate. By the middle seasons, cold opens weren’t just about setting the scene anymore—they were about delivering shocking moments or major plot developments right at the top of the episode. The opening of Season Three had Robb Stark getting married, which seemed like a normal scene until suddenly it wasn’t, and we realized we were watching the setup for the Red Wedding. The cold open didn’t show us the wedding itself; it showed us the moment before, building tension and dread without explaining why we should feel that way.

This escalation worked because the show had earned our investment in these moments. By the time we got to Season Three, we understood that a seemingly normal scene could become devastating. The show had demonstrated that trust the audience wouldn’t betray us arbitrarily—if we were seeing something that felt ominous, it was probably for a reason.

Some of the most spectacular cold opens came later in the series. The opening of the season premiere after Daenerys had arrived in Westeros—showing her massive army and her approach to Dragonstone—was a cold open that said, “Everything is about to change.” The opening with the Loot Train battle, showing Daenerys and her dragons actually engaging in warfare, was a cold open that demonstrated the stakes of the show had escalated. These weren’t stories; they were moments of spectacle designed to make you sit up and pay attention.

The Master Class: Character-Driven Opens

Some of the most effective cold opens, though, weren’t spectacle. They were character moments that revealed something essential about who people were and what they wanted. The episode that opens with Arya Stark preparing for what she thinks will be her death, steeling herself with a Stark motto and then learning she’s free—that’s a cold open that’s entirely character work, and it’s devastating precisely because it’s so intimate.

The opening with Theon getting his head cut off—not Theon himself, but his betrayal becoming real in a way that seems to take his own story away from him—is a cold open that uses a shocking moment not for its own sake but to tell us something about how this world works and what cruelty looks like. The shock isn’t the point; the character revelation is.

Cersei’s trial and her walk of atonement opening an episode is a cold open that’s entirely focused on one character’s internal experience. We watch her pride break, we watch her humiliation, and we understand that something fundamental has shifted in her. That’s not spectacle; that’s acting, cinematography, and emotional storytelling combining to create something that stays with you.

The Problem Openings: When It Didn’t Work

Of course, not every cold open landed. Some of the later season openings felt more like they were just hurrying to get through setup material so the show could get to the scenes the writers actually cared about. When cold opens stopped being organic moments in the story and started feeling like obligation, they lost their power.

The show also occasionally made the mistake of thinking that shock value alone was enough to make a cold open work. There are a few openings that rely on a sudden revelation or a gruesome image without that revelation or image having earned its emotional weight. Those moments tend to feel exploitative rather than narratively necessary.

There’s also the danger of cold opens that try too hard to be clever or mysterious, that spend the first ten minutes showing us something we don’t understand and then never quite connect it to the rest of the episode in a way that satisfies. The best cold opens are usually the ones where you understand immediately why you’re watching what you’re watching and what it means for the episode to come.

The Architecture of Tension

What unites the best Game of Thrones cold opens is that they understand how to architect tension over the course of a few minutes. They don’t just start at maximum intensity and stay there—they build. They give you moments of calm that make the tense moments work harder. They use music and cinematography to shift your emotional state. They trust silence and stillness to be just as powerful as action.

The opening that cuts between Theon’s torture and the Stark children’s daily life, showing the contrast between his suffering and their ordinary existence, is a master class in this kind of montage work. It’s not spectacular in the traditional sense, but it’s remarkably effective because it’s rhythmic. It builds understanding through repetition and contrast.

The opening that shows various characters reacting to a major event—a death, a betrayal, a revelation—is a cold open structure that the show used effectively several times. By showing multiple perspectives, by giving each character a moment to respond, the show escalated the emotional impact. You see the news hitting one person, and your emotional response amplifies when you see how it hits someone else.

The Final Seasons: Losing the Thread

In the final season, the cold opens felt like they lost some of their purpose. They became more functional—we need to establish where everyone is and what they’re doing—rather than artful. There were still moments, certainly, but the opening of the final season premiere, with its focus on establishing the lineup of characters and showing the military preparations, felt more like exposition than story. It did its job, but it didn’t do more than its job.

This is emblematic of what happened to the show’s pacing in general. As the writers hurried toward the ending, they lost some of the patience that had made the show distinctive in the first place. The cold opens, which had been such an effective tool for making viewers lean in and trust the show, started to feel like boxes being checked.

Why Cold Opens Matter

The cold open might seem like a small thing, a minor element of how an episode is structured. But when you think about what it actually does—immediately establishing the show’s tone, introducing stakes, demonstrating craft and control—you realize it’s actually a barometer for how well the show is functioning overall. The shows with the best cold opens are usually the shows with the best overall control of pacing and audience engagement.

Game of Thrones in its best form understood that television is pacing and tone and rhythm just as much as it is plot and character. The cold open was where the show could demonstrate that it understood those things. A perfectly constructed cold open says, “We know what we’re doing. We know how to tell a story. Sit back and trust us.”

The cold opens that work best are often the ones that seem simple in retrospect. They’re not trying to be clever for the sake of cleverness. They’re not piling on effects or twists. They’re just doing the work of storytelling—establishing a place, introducing a conflict, making you care about what happens next. When Game of Thrones did that work well, everything that followed felt earned and necessary. When it stopped doing that work, the whole episode felt like it was playing catch-up.

The Legacy of the Cold Open

Looking back on Game of Thrones now, the cold opens are some of the most rewatchable moments from the series. They’re the sequences you’d show someone to explain why the show was effective, why people stayed invested, why the craft mattered. They’re moments where the show demonstrated that it understood television as a medium and knew how to use that medium to tell stories effectively.

The best cold opens from Game of Thrones will probably become textbook examples in writing and directing classes—not because they’re the most spectacular moments, but because they’re expertly constructed pieces of storytelling. They open a door, bring you through, and leave you ready for what comes next. They make you feel like you’ve just settled in for a story told by people who know what they’re doing.

That might sound like a small thing to celebrate, but it’s not. In a show as sprawling and complex as Game of Thrones, the ability to grab attention quickly and focus it sharply was one of the show’s greatest assets. The cold opens delivered on that promise, and when the show was working, these five or ten minutes of perfect storytelling set up everything that came after. They’re one of the reasons the first few seasons feel so tight, so controlled, and so utterly rewatchable.