Category: Game of Thrones

When Aegon II sits on the Iron Throne, it’s immediately clear that he’s not cut out for the job. He’s weak, he’s indecisive, he’s torn between competing advisors who all want different things, and he seems to constantly retreat into substance abuse and self-medication rather than actually dealing with the monumental responsibilities that come with ruling the Seven Kingdoms during wartime. In almost any other story, this would make him a boring character—a bumbling antagonist with no real agency or compelling motivation. But House of the Dragon takes Aegon II’s fundamental inadequacy as a ruler and makes him into one of the most compelling characters on the show precisely because of his failures. He’s the anti-king, the monarch who represents everything that goes wrong when someone unfit for power gets the crown anyway.

The Weakling King Nobody Wanted

The tragedy of Aegon II’s kingship is that it’s built on something he didn’t even really want. His mother, Alicent, made the decision for him. Otto Hightower pushed it forward for dynastic reasons. His brother Aemond goes along with it because he’s a loyal supporter of the Targaryen line, or perhaps because he hopes he can guide Aegon from behind the throne. But Aegon himself? There’s never a sense that he desperately wanted to be king, that he had some burning ambition that drove him to pursue the crown. He got the crown because he was born male, because his grandfather changed his mind at the last minute, because of a bunch of decisions made by other people that Aegon had no control over.

This is actually what makes him so relatable as a character. A lot of us know what it’s like to be pushed into a role we didn’t ask for, to be told we’re supposed to be something we’re not sure we can be, to feel the weight of expectations that far exceed our actual capabilities. Aegon II is that on a cosmic scale. He’s supposed to be king of the Seven Kingdoms, and he’s fundamentally unsuited for it. He knows it, the people around him know it, and the viewer knows it from the moment he sits on the throne.

What’s brilliant about House of the Dragon’s portrayal is that it doesn’t try to make Aegon II into something he’s not. He doesn’t rise to the occasion. He doesn’t find some hidden reserve of strength and wisdom that allows him to excel despite his apparent weaknesses. Instead, he’s just… a failing king. He makes bad decisions. He listens to the wrong advisors. He relies on substances to get through the day. He does things that seem cruel not because he’s inherently cruel, but because he’s panicking and lashing out at threats he doesn’t fully understand.

The Weight of Expectation vs. The Reality of Capability

One of the central tensions of Aegon II’s character is the gap between what he’s supposed to be and what he actually is. He’s supposed to be a king, a leader, a symbol of Targaryen power and Targaryen rule. He has the blood, he has the crown, he has the throne. But he doesn’t have the temperament, the intelligence, the moral clarity, or the strength of will that a king actually needs to lead a kingdom through a civil war.

We see this most clearly in his decision-making. When faced with difficult choices, Aegon frequently chooses poorly, and not always for reasons that are inherently morally wrong—he just lacks the wisdom or foresight to understand the consequences of his actions. He’s swayed by people around him who have their own agendas. He makes impulsive decisions and then has to live with the fallout. He’s reactive rather than proactive, responding to crises rather than anticipating them.

The most striking thing about Aegon II’s kingship is that it’s probably worse for the realm than Rhaenyra’s would have been, even though Rhaenyra is presented as somewhat incompetent herself. At least Rhaenyra has advisors who are relatively competent and who generally have the kingdom’s interests at heart. Aegon II’s small council is a disaster—Otto Hightower is serving his family’s interests above the realm’s, Alicent is emotionally driven and prone to poor decision-making, and various other members are all pulling in different directions.

The Sympathetic Despot: A Tyrant Who Doesn’t Want to Tyrannize

What makes Aegon II’s character work is that he’s not a scheming despot who actively wants to cause harm. He’s not Joffrey, who was cruel and capricious for the sheer joy of it. Aegon II’s cruelty, such as it is, emerges from weakness and desperation rather than genuine malice. He doesn’t want to be a tyrant, but he also doesn’t have the competence to be a good king, so he ends up trapped somewhere in the middle—making increasingly desperate and harmful decisions as he tries to maintain control of a situation he never wanted and doesn’t understand.

There are moments where you can see Aegon II wanting to do the right thing, wanting to be a good ruler, wanting to live up to the role he’s been placed in. But he keeps failing, keeps falling short, keeps making mistakes. And as the failures accumulate, he becomes more paranoid, more reliant on his inner circle for reassurance, more willing to make harsh decisions just to prove that he’s in control even when he clearly isn’t.

This is actually more interesting, from a character perspective, than if Aegon II were simply a villain. A villain is predictable. A villain wants things. Aegon II wants to not be failing, which is a much more complicated and human motivation. His desperation to not fail becomes almost as destructive as actual malice would be, because it drives him to overreach, to make statements of power that he doesn’t actually possess, to commit acts of violence that he might later regret if he had time for self-reflection.

The Dragon Rider, The King, and The Difference Between Them

Interestingly, Aegon II appears to be a reasonably competent dragon rider, which makes his failure as a king even more pointed. When he’s on his dragon Sunfyre, he has power and agency and a clear role to play in the world. He’s good at that. But when he’s on the throne trying to make decisions about troop movements and diplomacy and governance, he’s lost. The skills that make someone a good dragon rider—physical courage, decisiveness in the moment, the ability to command a powerful creature—don’t translate to being a good king. A king needs to think about consequences beyond the immediate moment, needs to understand politics and economics and human nature, needs to be able to listen to advisors and synthesize their input into coherent policy.

Aegon II can do none of those things particularly well. He can ride a dragon, and that’s what he’s good at. Everything else is a struggle. This creates a tragic dynamic where Aegon II would probably be much happier if he could just be a prince without responsibilities, a dragon rider without the throne. His unhappiness as king is palpable, and part of what makes his character work is that you can see him struggling against a role that doesn’t fit him.

Addiction, Self-Medication, and the Escape from Reality

As Aegon II’s kingship becomes increasingly difficult, he turns more and more to alcohol and other substances to escape the weight of his position. This isn’t presented as a character flaw so much as it is as a symptom of his fundamental unsuitability for the role he’s been forced into. He’s self-medicating because reality is too painful to face without some kind of chemical buffer.

The show handles this with surprising nuance. It doesn’t judge Aegon for his substance use so much as it presents it as a logical consequence of being a weak person placed in an impossible position. If you put someone who isn’t equipped to handle extreme stress into a situation with extreme stress, they’re going to find ways to cope, and not all of those coping mechanisms are healthy. Aegon II’s turn to the bottle isn’t presented as a character choice that he could simply choose to stop; it’s presented as the understandable result of being pushed past his breaking point.

This also serves a narrative function: as Aegon II becomes more impaired, his decision-making becomes more erratic, which drives the plot forward and creates more conflict. But it’s done in a way that makes sense for the character and doesn’t require you to believe that Aegon is somehow secretly cunning or strategic. He’s just a guy who’s in over his head and drowning.

The Problem of Legitimacy and the Weakness of the Crown

Aegon II’s failure as king also raises interesting questions about legitimacy and power in the world of Game of Thrones. He has the crown because a council voted to give it to him, because his grandfather changed his will in a way that’s ambiguous and contestable, because his mother and her allies were willing to seize power. But legitimacy in Westeros isn’t just about who has the strongest claim—it’s also about whether people accept that you have a right to rule.

Aegon II’s weakness as a king undermines his legitimacy in a way that Rhaenyra’s weakness doesn’t undermine hers, or at least not in the same way. Rhaenyra has centuries of precedent behind her claim—she was named heir by the king, she’s the firstborn child of a much more respected king. Aegon II has a council vote and an ambiguous change to a will. And as he proves himself to be a weak and ineffectual king, more and more people start to question whether he really should have the crown at all. His weakness becomes a threat to his own rule.

This is actually historically accurate to how medieval monarchies worked. A king who couldn’t project strength, who couldn’t make decisions, who seemed out of control, would quickly lose support. Lords would start to question his right to rule, would start to look for alternatives, would start to actively work against him. Aegon II’s weakness as a king is directly linked to the erosion of support that allows the war against him to continue so long.

Conclusion: The Interest of Inadequacy

The reason Aegon II is such a fascinating character is precisely because he’s a terrible king. If he were competent, if he were wise, if he could rally the lords and make decisive decisions and keep his small council working together, he’d be a boring protagonist—the rightful king defending his throne against a usurper. But instead he’s a terrified, inadequate man thrust into a role he never wanted, and watching him fail in real time, watching the toll it takes on him, watching the consequences of his failure ripple out across the realm, is endlessly compelling.

Aegon II represents something important about power and privilege: sometimes the people born to lead are the ones least equipped to do it. Sometimes the accident of birth gives you everything except the thing you actually need to succeed. And sometimes the most human response to that situation is not to rise up and prove yourself worthy, but to slowly fall apart under the weight of impossible expectations. That’s what Aegon II does, and that’s what makes him interesting. He’s not a good king, but he’s an honest king, and in his honesty—his inability to fake the competence he doesn’t possess—he becomes one of the most compelling characters in House of the Dragon.

Robert Baratheon is presented in Game of Thrones as a failure. The man won a rebellion that toppled the Mad King, put himself on the Iron Throne, and then basically checked out for fifteen years. By the time the show starts, Robert is overweight, alcoholic, and clearly more interested in hunting, drinking, and philandering than in actually governing the realm. His death in Season 1 comes as a relief to everyone—nobody really expects his death to shake the kingdom, because it’s obvious that Robert has been failing as a king for his entire reign. But what if things had been different? What if Robert Baratheon had actually been competent at his job and cared about doing it well? How different would Westeros look?

The Beginning: A King with Potential

Let’s start with the fact that Robert wasn’t actually destined to be a failure. He was a legitimate war hero who had just defeated one of the most oppressive regimes in Westerosi history. The Mad King had driven the realm into chaos, burned people alive, and created a climate of fear and paranoia. Robert’s rebellion was framed as liberation. He had every opportunity to be seen as a reformer and a hero king.

The early period of Robert’s reign actually had potential. He had Ned Stark as his Hand—a man he clearly trusted and respected. He had capable people around him, or at least, he had people he could have relied on if he’d chosen to. He had a kingdom that was, by post-rebellion standards, relatively stable. Nobody was actively trying to overthrow him at the beginning. The realm was exhausted by war and would have been willing to accept his rule if he’d given them reason to.

But Robert checked out. Instead of using his position as king to build something, he basically used his position as an excuse to avoid responsibility. He went hunting, he drank, he slept with anyone willing. And he married for political reasons—marrying Cersei Lannister to secure the Lannister’s loyalty and their wealth. That marriage was specifically designed to be a political alliance that would strengthen his reign. What if it had worked? What if Robert and Cersei had actually tried to make it a real partnership?

The Lannister Question

If Robert had been a good king, one of the most significant changes would have been in his relationship with Cersei. Instead of checking out of his marriage and going off to hunt and drink, imagine if Robert had actually invested in his role as king and husband. Cersei is ambitious and manipulative, yes, but she’s also desperately unhappy in the show partly because Robert openly despises her and ignores her in favor of his various mistresses and hunting trips.

If Robert had treated Cersei with respect, taken his marriage seriously, and invested in building a partnership with her, things would have been very different. Cersei doesn’t hate Robert primarily for personal reasons—she hates him because he humiliated her by openly taking lovers, by showing no interest in her, by making it clear that his marriage to her was purely political. She hates him for being a bad husband, not for being intrinsically evil. If Robert had been a present, respectful partner, even if he didn’t love her, Cersei would have had no reason to betray him.

This means no affair with Jaime. No bastard children pretending to be legitimate Baratheon heirs. No justification for Cersei to conspire against Robert. The entire political crisis of Season 1 starts because Robert has bastard children with other women that he acknowledges, making it obvious that his legitimate children aren’t actually his. If Robert had kept his affairs discreet or, better yet, refrained from them out of respect for his marriage, then the succession would have looked legitimate to the realm, even if we in the audience might have wondered about the kids’ parentage.

The Stability Effect

Here’s what a competent Robert could have achieved: actual stability. Not total peace—there would still be conflicts, still be power struggles, still be people ambitious for the throne. But Robert could have prevented the specific cascading disasters that plague the realm throughout the series. He could have prevented the War of the Five Kings by not dying at a convenient moment when there was no clear, stable succession. He could have prevented his own descent into debt and desperation.

More importantly, a good king in Westeros would have been able to use his throne to make the realm actually function better. Robert had the opportunity to reform the system. He could have weakened the absolute power of the nobility while strengthening the crown. He could have invested in infrastructure, in agriculture, in building a more stable economy. He could have worked to reduce corruption and bribery. He could have strengthened the Night’s Watch and paid attention to threats beyond the Wall. He had the institutional power to do basically anything he wanted.

The realm was devastated by the Mad King’s reign and the rebellion that followed. There was literally a need for rebuilding and reform. Robert could have positioned himself as the king who fixed what the Mad King broke. Instead, he left the system in place, allowed it to fester with corruption, and basically hoped nobody would try to kill him or take his throne. This is not a governance strategy.

The North and the Starks

One of the interesting dynamics in the show is the relationship between Robert and Ned Stark. They’re friends, they won the rebellion together, but by the time the show starts, they’re living very different lives. Robert is throwing himself into excess while Ned is staying in the North, governing responsibly, and maintaining the old values of the land.

If Robert had actually been a good king, his relationship with Ned would have been a genuine partnership in governing the realm. Ned would have had a Hand’s role that actually mattered, where his counsel was genuinely valued. Robert could have trusted Ned not just as a friend but as a political partner. Instead, Robert treats his role as Hand as this thing that Ned has to do while Robert does the fun part of being king (which, in Robert’s mind, means not having to deal with the boring governance part).

A better Robert might have even listened to Ned’s warnings about threats in the North. He might have actually invested resources into strengthening the Wall and the Night’s Watch. He might have treated the ancient institutions that Ned cares about as actually important, rather than as relics of the past. The relationship could have been deeper and more genuinely equal.

The Tyrion Problem

Here’s something interesting: in a realm where Robert is actually governing and maintaining his marriage to Cersei, Tyrion’s position would be very different. Tyrion is in King’s Landing partly because Cersei feels insecure and threatened in her marriage, and partly because Tywin is trying to position the Lannisters for maximum power and influence. But if Cersei wasn’t driven by desperation and betrayal, and if the king was actually competent and commanding respect, the Lannisters might not have felt the need to make their power play.

This doesn’t mean Tyrion wouldn’t still end up in King’s Landing—his father would likely still position him there for influence. But the political situation would be very different. A competent Robert would have been much harder for Tywin to manipulate. Robert might not have allowed himself to be maneuvered into trusting Littlefinger implicitly. Robert might not have been desperate for money, so Littlefinger’s schemes to put him in debt wouldn’t have worked the same way.

The Broader Implications

When you actually think through how different things would be if Robert had been a good, engaged king, it becomes clear that basically everything that happens in the show flows from his refusal to govern. The War of the Five Kings happens because the realm is unstable and nobody is confident in the succession. Tyrion ends up being central to events partly because nobody else is governing effectively. The Lannisters make their power move partly because they can see that the crown is weak and vulnerable.

A competent Robert creates a very different political landscape. The realm would be more stable, more organized, more capable of resisting external threats. More importantly, Robert would be the king actually making decisions, rather than making way for other people to make decisions in his absence. This doesn’t mean there wouldn’t be conflicts—noble houses would still be ambitious, people would still want power. But the framework would be different.

The Missed Opportunity

What’s tragic about Robert Baratheon as a character is that he had everything he needed to be a great king, and he actively chose not to be. He had the position, the power, the respect of the people, allies in important places. He had just won a war and could have rebuilt the realm in whatever image he wanted. Instead, he abdicated his responsibility and spent his time hunting and drinking.

The show presents Robert as someone who’s good at winning wars but bad at peace. That’s certainly part of it—Robert is a warrior king, and he’s probably not naturally inclined toward the administrative work of governance. But he also never really tries. He delegates everything to Ned and then gets upset when Ned does things in a way that Robert doesn’t like. He surrounds himself with incompetent and corrupt people rather than seeking out the best people for the job.

If Robert had invested just a fraction of the effort into being king that he invested into avoiding the job, he would have been a genuinely great king. He had the personality to command respect, the resources to enforce his will, and the legitimacy to rule. He could have been a reformer. He could have been someone who actually fixed the systemic problems that were destroying the realm. Instead, he ran away from the job and hoped nobody would notice while he hunted and drank.

The Butterfly Effect

The fascinating thing about imagining a competent Robert is understanding how much of the entire plot of Game of Thrones is contingent on him being incompetent. The death of Jon Arryn happens partly because Jon is trying to actually do the Hand’s job and discovers secrets that Cersei doesn’t want discovered. The death of Robert himself happens partly because he’s out hunting, drunk, and not paying attention. The crisis of succession happens because he dies without a clear, stable line of succession that everyone believes in. Almost every major event of the series is somehow connected to Robert’s failure to actually be a king.

In a Westeros where Robert had been competent, engaged, and actually interested in governing, the story would be almost unrecognizably different. The Starks might not have come south. Daenerys might have faced a much stronger, more organized opposition when she eventually tried to claim the throne. The entire political landscape would have been reordered around a functioning central government rather than a power vacuum.

Robert Baratheon is one of the most important characters in Game of Thrones not because he does anything memorable—he doesn’t—but because his failure to govern creates all of the conditions that make the conflict happen. He’s the king that the realm didn’t deserve, not because he was evil or malicious, but because he was absent. He was given an opportunity to be great, and he threw it away in favor of hunting and drinking. That’s the real tragedy of Robert Baratheon: not that he was a bad man, but that he was a man who had everything and chose nothing.

One of the great achievements of House of the Dragon is that it makes both sides of the civil war feel justified in their own eyes and in the eyes of the viewer. You can watch the show and come away thinking Rhaenyra was robbed and deserved the throne, or you can watch it and think the Greens had legitimate reasons to support Aegon’s claim. Both positions are defensible based on what actually happens in the story. Yet in popular discourse about the show, Team Green often gets painted as simply villainous, as if they were obviously wrong and morally bankrupt from the start. This is a disservice to the character work the show does and to the actual complexity of the legal and political arguments that drive the Dance of the Dragons. Let’s steelman the Greens’ case, because honestly, they’re not nearly as wrong as people think.

The Precedent Problem: Why Rhaenyra’s Claim Isn’t as Ironclad as It Seems

The fundamental issue that gives the Greens their opening is this: there is no clear precedent in the history of the Seven Kingdoms for a woman ruling in her own right. Daenerys doesn’t come along for hundreds of years, and by the time she does, she’s claiming thrones that were technically never hers and ruling in a place that isn’t the Seven Kingdoms. So when Viserys names Rhaenyra as his heir, he’s doing something without precedent, something that no king of the Seven Kingdoms has done before. This matters, because medieval and quasi-medieval monarchies rely heavily on precedent.

The Greens’ argument is essentially this: the realm has inherited laws and customs about succession, and those laws and customs strongly favor male heirs. Yes, Viserys named Rhaenyra as his heir, but a king can change his mind. More importantly, many would argue that a king doesn’t have the absolute right to overturn centuries of precedent for personal reasons. If Viserys wanted to break with tradition, he would need a compelling reason that the entire realm could accept, and “I have a daughter I like better than my son” isn’t quite that reason.

When Alicent claims that Viserys changed his mind on his deathbed and wanted Aegon to be king, is she definitely lying? Well, she might be. But there’s also a genuine possibility that Viserys was trying to find a way to break the succession deadlock he’d created. The show leaves this genuinely ambiguous, which is exactly what makes it so interesting. The Greens’ claim isn’t that Viserys definitely wanted Aegon to be king. It’s that the written succession law of the realm says that Aegon, as the male heir, has a legitimate claim, and that if there’s any doubt about what Viserys wanted, the realm’s established laws should take precedence over a deathbed deathbed that may or may not have happened.

This is actually a reasonable legal argument. If you’re a lord of the Seven Kingdoms and you believe that the succession law of the realm says that Aegon should be king, then supporting Aegon doesn’t make you a villain. It makes you someone who believes in the rule of law over the rule of personal preference.

The Stability Argument: Why the Realm Might Actually Be Better Off With Aegon

Here’s something that doesn’t get discussed enough in the Team Rhaenyra vs. Team Green discourse: the Greens have a legitimate argument that their version of the succession would have been more stable for the realm, at least in theory. A male king, even a weak one, is less likely to face challenges to his legitimacy than a female king would be, especially a female king who’s already controversial for other reasons (like being passed over for the throne once, then suddenly claiming it again).

The Greens could argue: yes, Rhaenyra was named heir. But she married Laenor Velaryon, a man with his own claim to House Targaryen through his mother. Her children are his children. Even though we know Laenor is probably not the father of her children, the lords of the realm wouldn’t know that, and it would create questions about the legitimacy of the line. Whereas Aegon, as a full Targaryen trueborn male, doesn’t have any of those complications. His children will be unquestionably legitimate. His line will be unquestionably Targaryen.

From a purely strategic standpoint, if you believe that the stability of the realm matters more than any individual person’s desires, the Greens’ position is defensible. They’re arguing for a king who will face fewer challenges, face fewer questions about legitimacy, face fewer opportunities for lords to rebel. And they’re right that in a medieval-style monarchy, legitimacy matters enormously. A king who’s questioned is a king who’s at risk.

The Personal Betrayal: Why Alicent Isn’t Just Being Crazy

A lot of people interpret Alicent’s decision to support Aegon’s claim as a betrayal based on a misunderstanding of Viserys’s last words. And maybe that’s true. But even if Alicent is completely sincere in her belief that Viserys changed his mind, there’s another layer to her motivation that’s worth examining. Alicent has been promised something her entire life: her son would be king. She married Viserys and had his children with the explicit understanding that her son would inherit the throne. And then Viserys decided to change the rules, to leave her son with nothing, to give everything to his daughter from a previous marriage.

From Alicent’s perspective, this is a betrayal of staggering proportions. She’s spent her entire life as a support system for Viserys. She’s had children with him. She’s bore a son who was supposed to be the future of the realm. And in the end, that all gets taken away because Viserys developed a preference for his daughter. You can argue that Alicent should have just accepted this, should have been gracious about being set aside, should have understood that Viserys has the right to change the succession as he sees fit. But you can also understand why she didn’t. She lost everything, and she wanted to save something for her children.

This isn’t an argument for Alicent’s actions being good or right. It’s an argument for them being understandable. She’s a woman who played by all the rules, who did everything right, and who got punished for it anyway when those rules changed. Is it any wonder that she decided to fight back?

The Problem of a Female King in a Patriarchal World

Let’s be blunt: the Seven Kingdoms is a patriarchal society. It’s not equal. Men hold more power, more prestige, more authority. The great houses are traditionally ruled by men. The history of the realm is the history of men making decisions and women supporting them. This doesn’t make it good, but it’s the world that both Team Green and Team Black are operating in.

The Greens could legitimately argue that putting a woman on the throne isn’t going to work in a world that’s fundamentally hostile to female authority. They could argue that Rhaenyra will face constant challenges to her authority, constant questions about whether she’s capable, constant resistance from lords who believe she shouldn’t be ruling at all. They could argue that Aegon, as a man, will be more readily accepted, will have an easier time commanding authority, will face fewer obstacles.

Is this sexist? Yes, absolutely. But it’s also a realistic assessment of how their patriarchal society functions. And if your goal is the stability and welfare of the realm, then choosing a king who will face fewer obstacles, even if those obstacles are rooted in sexism, could be seen as the pragmatic choice.

This is why the show’s treatment of Rhaenyra and female kingship is so interesting. It shows that yes, the Greens’ warnings about the difficulties of a female ruler do have some basis in reality. Rhaenyra does face constant challenges. She does have to work harder to command authority. She does have some lords who refuse to support her because of her gender. The Greens’ pessimism about her chances isn’t baseless; it’s rooted in how their world actually works.

The Disrespect Issue: Why the Greens Feel Legitimately Insulted

Part of the Greens’ case is also emotional and personal, and it’s worth acknowledging even if you don’t think it’s the most important factor. Rhaenyra, after being passed over for the throne, goes off to Dragonstone, has children with Laenor, builds her own power base, and essentially acts like a pretender to the throne. From the Greens’ perspective, she’s being disrespectful to Aegon, who is the legally crowned king. She’s not content to be a princess. She wants the crown.

The Greens feel like Rhaenyra is being ungrateful and disrespectful by not accepting the result of the council vote. They feel like she’s putting her personal desires above the good of the realm. They feel like she’s willing to tear the kingdom apart just because she didn’t get what she wanted. And these are fair feelings to have, even if we might disagree with how the Greens act on them.

This ties back to the precedent argument. The Greens could say: even if we’re sympathetic to Rhaenyra’s claim, she accepted Aegon as king. The council voted, and she accepted the result. Now she’s changing her mind and starting a war. From the Greens’ perspective, this is disrespectful to the rule of law and to the council’s decision. If they accept that the realm’s laws matter, then they have to support Aegon, even if they might have sympathy for Rhaenyra’s original claim.

The Military Reality: The Greens Had the Stronger Position Initially

Here’s something else that gets overlooked: at the start of the war, Team Green had the stronger military position. They had the throne. They had the capital. They had more of the major houses pledged to them. From a purely strategic standpoint, supporting Aegon was supporting the side that was more likely to win. The Greens weren’t crazy idealists fighting for a hopeless cause; they were supporting what seemed like the obviously stronger position.

This matters because it changes the nature of the Greens’ choice. They’re not fighting for an underdog who they believe in despite the odds. They’re supporting the side that’s already in power and has the advantage. This is actually the more pragmatic choice if you’re a lord trying to figure out which side to join. You join the side that’s more likely to win because that’s the side you want to be on when the war is over. The Greens can legitimately say that they’re supporting the king who’s already on the throne, the king who controls the capital, the king who has the most military support.

Conclusion: The Validity of the Greens’ Position

The point of this exercise isn’t to say that the Greens are actually right, or that they’re good people, or that their actions are justified. The point is that their position in the succession debate is far more defensible than popular discourse often acknowledges. They have legal arguments, they have precedent arguments, they have pragmatic arguments about stability and female rule in a patriarchal society. They’re not simply villains who are obviously wrong; they’re people operating with a different set of priorities and different interpretations of the law.

This is what makes House of the Dragon work so well. Both sides feel like they could be right, depending on which principles you prioritize. If you believe the rule of law matters more than individual preference, Team Green has a point. If you believe that Viserys’s explicit choice to name Rhaenyra as his heir should be respected, then Team Red has a point. If you believe that stability is more important than justice, Team Green’s position is defensible. If you believe that justice is more important than stability, then Team Red’s position is defensible.

The Greens aren’t heroes, but they’re not simply villains either. They’re people with legitimate grievances and defensible positions who make increasingly bad choices in pursuit of those positions. That complexity is what makes them interesting, and it’s also what makes the entire story of House of the Dragon richer and more compelling than it would be if one side was obviously right and the other was obviously wrong.

There’s something deeply romantic about the idea of a tournament, isn’t there? The pageantry, the clash of lances, the roar of the crowd, the chance for a nobody to become a somebody in a single afternoon of glory. George R.R. Martin knows this, which is exactly why he chose the Ashford Tourney as the setting for his Dunk and Egg novellas. This tournament isn’t just the backdrop for A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms — it’s the entire reason the story exists, the catalyst that throws our unlikely protagonist into a world he’s barely equipped to handle. So let’s break down what makes the Ashford Tourney such a crucial and compelling event in the Game of Thrones universe.

A Tournament Like No Other

The Ashford Tourney is held to celebrate the marriage of Lord Ashford’s daughter, Alysanne, to one Ser Elyas Swann. It’s the kind of social event where the entire nobility of the Reach gathers to show off their finest knights, their best armor, their most impressive horses, and generally demonstrate their place in the feudal hierarchy. These tournaments serve a practical purpose beyond mere entertainment — they’re where young knights make their names, where established lords flex their military muscles, and where political alliances are forged or broken depending on who wins and who loses.

What makes the Ashford Tourney special, though, is that it’s structured as a traditional competition with the champion of each day facing a fresh challenger from a pool of increasingly impressive knights. This isn’t just a standard joust where everyone pairs off. This is a grinding, day-after-day battle of attrition where the same knight might face four or five opponents before getting a chance to rest. It’s exhausting, it’s brutal, and it’s perfect for testing the mettle of the competitors. For Dunk, an essentially unknown knight with a squire young enough to be his son, it’s an absolutely daunting challenge. He’s not competing against one or two skilled opponents. He’s going to face the cream of chivalry, the most respected knights in all of Westeros.

The Lineup: Who Shows Up and Why

What makes the tournament so compelling from a narrative standpoint is the incredible lineup of knights who show up to compete. This isn’t some regional tournament where a few decent lords bring their household knights. This is a major event that attracts genuine legends of the realm. We’re talking about Ser Barristan Selmy, who would go on to become one of the greatest knights who ever lived. We’re talking about the Kingsguard, including Ser Oswell Whent. We’ve got Prince Baelor Targaryen himself, the heir to the throne, showing up to prove his chivalry. There’s Ser Steffon Seaworth, the father of the famous Davos Seaworth from the main Game of Thrones timeline.

The roster is so loaded with talent that it seems almost impossible for someone like Duncan the Tall, a hedge knight with more muscle than experience, to have any chance whatsoever. And that’s exactly the point. The tournament isn’t really about Dunk’s realistic chances of winning. It’s about his audacity in entering at all, his determination to prove that birth and lineage don’t determine worth, and his willingness to take on genuinely legendary opponents in the pursuit of becoming a true knight.

Each knight who enters brings their own story, their own agenda, their own connection to the broader politics of Westeros. Some are there to support the crown. Some are there to demonstrate their power in the Reach. Some are there for glory, some for honor, and some just because their lords ordered them to show up. The tournament becomes a microcosm of the political tensions that would eventually tear Westeros apart.

The Reality of Medieval Combat

One of the things that makes Martin’s portrayal of the Ashford Tourney so effective is how grounded he keeps the combat. These aren’t fantasy battles with magic and dragons. These are men in heavy armor, mounted on horses, trying to either knock each other off those horses or smash their way through plate steel with lances and swords. By modern standards, it sounds clunky and almost comical, but the actual danger and difficulty of tournament combat becomes abundantly clear through Dunk’s eyes.

The physical toll is real. A full day of jousting, where a knight might face three or four different opponents, leaves a person absolutely battered. Even winning a joust can leave you nursing broken ribs or a separated shoulder. Lose, and you might suffer a concussion, a shattered collarbone, or in the worst cases, a lance through the throat. Martin doesn’t shy away from showing the consequences of this violence. Knights retire from competition because they’re simply too injured to continue. Some die. The tournament’s glory has a price paid in pain and sometimes in blood.

For Dunk, the physical challenge is compounded by the fact that he’s facing knights with far more experience, better equipment, and horses that are probably worth more than everything Dunk owns combined. Yet there’s something beautiful about watching him compete anyway. He’s not going to win through superior skill or knowledge. He’s going to win, if he wins at all, through sheer determination, strength, and heart. It’s the underdog narrative that Martin does so well, and the Ashford Tourney is where he establishes that Dunk’s heart is genuinely genuine.

The Political Stage

Beyond the fighting itself, the Ashford Tourney serves as an essential political event. The king is present. The heir to the throne is competing. Great lords from across the realm are watching and assessing. Marriages are being discussed, alliances are being formed or strained, and the balance of power in Westeros is being subtly adjusted through conversations at feasts and in private pavilions.

For viewers of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, the tournament provides essential context for understanding the state of the realm during this era. We can see how the Targaryen monarchy functions, who the great powers are, what the tensions are between different regions and houses. We can understand the prestige of knighthood because we’re watching genuinely worthy men compete for honor and renown. The tournament isn’t just action and excitement. It’s a chance to understand the politics, culture, and values of Westeros through the lens of one of its most important social institutions.

The Human Element

What ultimately makes the Ashford Tourney so memorable isn’t just the combat or the politics, though. It’s the human element. We get to know the squires, the servants, the lesser knights who are hoping for their big chance. We get to see how Egg, Dunk’s young squire, interacts with the world and grows throughout the tournament. We get to understand what it means to Dunk personally to compete at this level, to prove himself, to carve out a place for himself in a world that didn’t necessarily invite him in.

The tournament is also where Dunk meets the woman he’s fascinated by, where he makes enemies, where he gains respect from unexpected quarters. The tournament changes him, not because he wins — though his accomplishments are impressive — but because he experiences something greater than himself. He’s part of something historic, something that matters, and that transforms his understanding of who he is and what he’s capable of.

A Timeless Template

The Ashford Tourney endures as a centerpiece of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms because it combines everything that makes the Dunk and Egg stories so appealing. It’s got combat and physical challenge. It’s got political intrigue and grand themes. It’s got character development and emotional resonance. It’s got the clash between idealism and harsh reality. Most importantly, it’s got a genuine sense of stakes. Bad things happen. Good people die. The consequences matter.

For fans of Game of Thrones, the Ashford Tourney also provides a fascinating window into a different era of Westeros. This is the realm before the Targaryen decline, before the Rebellion that toppled the dynasty, before most of the events of the main series. Watching how the kingdom functions during this relatively stable period makes the eventual collapse feel even more tragic.

The Ashford Tourney isn’t just an event in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. It’s the beating heart of the entire novella series, and understanding what makes it work is essential to understanding why these stories have captivated readers and audiences for years. It’s a tournament like any other, and it’s a tournament unlike anything else in Westeros. It’s where legends are made and where a hedge knight named Duncan finds his place in history.

Criston Cole is one of House of the Dragon’s most compelling characters precisely because he’s so easy to hate. He’s the man who started out as an honorable knight and gradually transformed himself into something far darker—not through one dramatic moment of betrayal, but through a series of small compromises and self-deceptions that added up until the decent man was completely unrecognizable. He’s the guy you can’t take your eyes off of even though you desperately want to look away, because watching him spiral is genuinely fascinating in its tragedy.

What makes Criston Cole work as a character is that his transformation feels inevitable but not predetermined. We understand every step of his decline. We can see the logic behind his choices even when we’re horrified by them. He’s not born evil; he becomes evil through the accumulation of hurt, betrayal, and his own terrible decision-making. And somehow, against all odds, the show manages to make us sympathize with him while also making it clear that he doesn’t deserve our sympathy.

The Honorable Knight in the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

Criston Cole starts out as a genuinely decent person. He’s the son of a steward, not a lord, which means he has no claim to any power or prestige. He earned his position through talent and hard work. He becomes a knight through merit, through being good at what he does. He’s honorable, principled, and he takes his vows seriously. When he takes an oath as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, he means it. When he swears to protect the king, he’s not swearing to something he plans to betray the moment something better comes along.

The problem is that Criston Cole is too principled, too rigid in his honor code, too unwilling to bend for practical considerations. When Rhaenyra seduces him—and let’s be clear, that’s what happens, she actively seduces him in a moment of weakness—he’s not just dealing with the shame of having broken his oath. He’s dealing with the impossibility of his situation. He loves Rhaenyra, she’s a princess and the heir to the throne, and there’s no possible outcome where their relationship can be anything but destructive to both of them.

Rhaenyra wants him to run away with her, to abandon everything, to become her secret lover. But Criston knows that’s not actually an option. If he runs, he’s a oath-breaker and a coward. If he stays and hides the relationship, he’s living a lie. If he stays and comes clean, he’s dishonoring the king and the Kingsguard. There’s literally no choice available to him that doesn’t involve some form of profound shame.

What makes this moment so crucial to understanding Criston’s character is that he chooses suicide over exile or hiding. He decides that the most honorable thing he can do is refuse to live as an oath-breaker. He’s going to kill himself rather than continue existing in a state of dishonor. And it’s Rhaenyra who talks him out of it, not by offering him a real solution, but by offering him the chance for vengeance. She says, essentially: if you can’t have me, help my family win the throne and then maybe, eventually, you’ll get your due.

This moment is pivotal. Criston Cole doesn’t become evil because of Rhaenyra rejecting him, though that’s certainly part of it. He becomes someone willing to compromise his principles because he’s been given permission to do so by the person he loves. If Rhaenyra had simply rejected him and left him to figure it out on his own, maybe he would have gone through with his suicide plan or found some other honorable way to deal with his shame. But instead, she gives him a path forward that’s built on revenge and the promise of future reward. And Criston, desperate for some way to make meaning out of his shame, takes it.

The Kingmaker: When a Sworn Sword Becomes a Political Player

After his betrayal of Rhaenyra—because that’s what it is, even though he framed it as self-preservation—Criston Cole finds a new role in the world. He becomes essential to Alicent’s plans. He’s the man who can command the Kingsguard, who can advise the king, who can use his military experience to shape strategy. Suddenly, a man who started out as nobody has genuine power and influence.

This is where Criston really becomes dangerous. He’s no longer just a knight serving the crown; he’s a political player, a kingmaker, a man whose opinion shapes policy. And here’s the thing about Criston Cole: he’s not actually that good at politics. He’s good at violence, he’s good at loyalty, but he’s not strategic in the way that someone like Otto Hightower is. His advice tends to be driven by his personal grievances rather than by what’s actually best for the realm.

The cruelty emerges not all at once but gradually, as Criston realizes that he has power and as he uses that power to hurt the people he feels have wronged him. He becomes increasingly cruel to Rhaenyra’s supporters. He commits war crimes in the name of defending the crown. He revels in violence in a way that feels personal rather than professional. And the show does a brilliant job of showing how his justified anger at Rhaenyra’s rejection transforms into this much broader, much more destructive rage that extends to everyone associated with her.

What’s particularly chilling about Criston’s arc is how he rationalizes his cruelty. He tells himself that he’s doing what’s necessary for the realm, that he’s being firm, that he’s protecting the king. But you can see underneath it all that he’s being driven by his wounded pride and his desire for revenge. He’s using his position of power to punish people for wrongs that, in many cases, they didn’t actually commit.

The Duality: Duty and Desire Pulling in Different Directions

One of the most interesting things about Criston Cole’s character is that he never fully commits to the idea that he’s become a bad person. He’s always trying to reconcile his actions with his self-image as an honorable knight. He tells himself that he’s serving the crown, protecting the realm, doing what’s necessary. But there’s a duality there that the show captures beautifully: Criston knows, on some level, that he’s become exactly the thing he always despised. He’s a man driven by personal desire rather than duty, except his personal desire is now wrapped up in the language of duty so thoroughly that even he can’t separate them anymore.

This is what makes Criston Cole so compelling. He’s neither a villain who owns his villainy nor a hero in denial. He’s something more complicated: a man who was capable of being good, who chose not to be, and who has spent every moment since trying to convince himself that he made the right choice. He’s trapped in a loop of self-justification and rationalization that only deepens his spiral into darkness.

The tragedy is that if anyone had told Criston Cole, early on, that this is who he would become, he would have been horrified. He would have insisted that he’d never do these things, never become this cruel, never abandon his principles. But he did, step by step, compromise by compromise, until the man he became was unrecognizable.

The Outsider Complex: Why Criston Always Needs Someone to Blame

A lot of Criston Cole’s behavior can be traced back to his original position as an outsider. He’s not a lord, not a nobleman, not someone born into power or prestige. He had to earn everything he achieved, which gives him a kind of bitterness toward people like Rhaenyra who were born with power and seem to take it for granted. There’s class resentment embedded in his character, a sense that the system is rigged against people like him, that the nobility will always win no matter what.

When Rhaenyra rejects him, it feels like confirmation of his worst fears: that no matter how much he achieves, he’ll never be enough for someone like her. He’s a knight, but not a noble knight. He’s accomplished, but his accomplishments don’t matter because he doesn’t have the right birth. This feeds into his willingness to support the Greens, because the Greens are, in many ways, more like him than Rhaenyra is. They’re people who have to fight for power and respect rather than people who are handed everything.

But here’s the thing: Criston’s class resentment, while real and understandable, is also something he uses to justify increasingly bad behavior. He tells himself that he’s fighting back against a corrupt system, but he’s really just using the system to take power from the people who hurt him. He becomes exactly what he resented when he was at the bottom: an abuser of power, someone who uses his position to hurt people, someone who treats people as less-than because of where they come from.

The Body Count: When Honor Becomes Brutality

As the show progresses and the war heats up, Criston Cole’s body count grows. And it’s notable that many of his victims are people who don’t strictly need to die for military or strategic reasons. They die because Criston wants them to die, because he wants to punish them, because he wants to prove something about his power and his will.

The scene where Criston kills a captured knight in what amounts to a street fight, violating the sacred traditions of chivalry, is a perfect encapsulation of how far he’s fallen. There was a time when Criston Cole would have died before violating those traditions. Now he’s smashing a man’s head repeatedly, not out of military necessity, but out of rage. And the other knights don’t stop him. They watch, and by watching, they implicitly accept his behavior as normal.

This is how institutional corruption happens. One person commits an atrocity, and if nobody stops them immediately, it becomes normalized. Criston commits increasingly brutal acts, and each time he gets away with it, the next act becomes easier. He’s not being constrained by his oath or his honor because those things have become flexible enough to accommodate whatever he wants to do.

The Inevitability of His Fall

By the end of Criston Cole’s arc, there’s a sense of inevitability about his trajectory. He was always heading toward this moment, from the instant he allowed himself to love Rhaenyra and allowed that love to be weaponized against her. He made choices that seemed reasonable at the time but that added up to a complete transformation of his character.

What’s fascinating is that Criston himself seems to know, on some level, how this ends. There’s a fatalism to his character in the later seasons, a sense that he’s chosen his path and is now committed to walking it to its conclusion. He’s not trying to be good anymore. He’s not trying to balance his duties with his desires. He’s just trying to win, to punish his enemies, to consolidate power, to prove that his choice to support the Greens was the right one.

The tragedy is that he’s probably right—the Greens almost certainly need him more than the Blacks do. Without Criston Cole’s military skill and his willingness to commit atrocities, the Green forces would probably have fallen much faster. He’s essential to keeping their side of the war going. But that essential quality comes at the cost of his soul, and the show doesn’t shy away from showing that cost.

Conclusion: The Compelling Villain We Love to Hate

Criston Cole is the most hated man in Westeros because he represents something deeply uncomfortable: the ordinariness of evil. He’s not a man who was born evil or who was shaped by obviously traumatic circumstances into becoming evil. He’s a decent person who made bad choices and then spent the rest of his life compounding those bad choices with worse ones. He’s someone we can understand, someone whose logic we can follow, someone whose pain we can sympathize with, even as we’re horrified by what he does with that pain.

The show’s genius is in never letting us completely hate Criston or completely sympathize with him. We’re always holding both feelings at the same time: the understanding that he’s become a monster, and the knowledge that he didn’t have to be. He had choices, and he chose wrong, and now he’s trapped in the consequences of those choices, using violence and power to try to make the pain go away.

That’s what makes him compelling television. He’s not a villain in the comic book sense, someone who wants to hurt people and enjoys it. He’s a villain in the Shakespearean sense, someone whose flaws lead him progressively toward his doom, someone whose every attempt to fix things makes them worse, someone whose tragedy is that he can see the cliff he’s falling off of but can’t quite manage to stop himself from falling. And that’s far more interesting, far more compelling, far more haunting than any simple villain could ever be.

Let’s be honest: Game of Thrones is not known for its healthy relationships. The show features some of the most dysfunctional, tragic, and outright dangerous couples ever committed to television. But that’s kind of the point, right? This is a show where betrayal, violence, and heartbreak are as common as feasts and swords. Still, scattered throughout eight seasons of medieval political intrigue and magical chaos, there are relationships that actually manage to be touching, compelling, or at the very least more functional than the disaster marriages that dominate the series. So let’s rank the major couples of Game of Thrones, from the ones that actually make you believe in love to the ones that make you want to lock your doors and check for poison.

Tier S: The Good Ones (Relatively Speaking)

Sam and Gilly take the top spot, and yes, I’m fully aware that they’re objectively the healthiest couple on the entire show. Their relationship is built on genuine affection, respect, and kindness—three things that are vanishingly rare in Westeros. Sam loves Gilly not because of politics or duty or lust, but because he sees her, really sees her, and cares about her wellbeing. Gilly loves Sam because he saved her from literal slavery and treats her like a person rather than an object. They have actual conversations. They support each other. They don’t scheme or betray or manipulate. In the context of Game of Thrones, this is basically a fairy tale. The fact that their relationship is so refreshingly normal in a sea of dysfunction actually says something important about how broken the world of Westeros is. These two could never survive on the political stage, which is partly why they’re so likeable. They’re good people in a world that punishes goodness.

Tormund and Brienne, or more accurately Tormund’s unrequited crush on Brienne, is surprisingly endearing. Tormund falls for her completely, honestly, and with genuine admiration for her as a warrior and a person. Brienne obviously doesn’t return his feelings, but the show treats his love with respect rather than mockery. It’s one-sided, sure, but it’s also kind of beautiful in its sincerity. And honestly, if Brienne were the type of person to fall for Tormund, it would actually be a pretty great match. They’re both warriors, both straightforward, both capable of genuine loyalty. The fact that it doesn’t work out is sad, but at least there’s no toxicity there, no games, just honest feelings that don’t align.

Davos and Shireen, while strictly paternal rather than romantic, deserves a mention here because their relationship is one of the most genuinely loving and uncomplicated on the show. Davos cares for Shireen with a pure, protective love that asks nothing of her except to be happy and safe. There’s no agenda, no manipulation, just a gruff old man and a smart young girl who adore each other. It’s heartbreaking because Shireen’s fate is tragic, but it’s also beautiful because what they had, however brief, was real and good.

Tier A: Pretty Good, Actually

Ned and Catelyn Stark make this tier because, despite everything, their marriage is actually based on respect and affection. Ned doesn’t love Catelyn the way he loved Lyanna—he’s honest about that (or he would be, if he ever actually talked about his feelings, which he doesn’t)—but he respects her, treats her as an equal in governing, and never cheats on her. Catelyn is fiercely loyal to her family and would do anything for her children. Yes, they have conflicts, and yes, their marriage is complicated by Ned’s secrets, but fundamentally they’re on the same team. They’re partners trying to raise their children right in a world that makes that increasingly impossible. By Game of Thrones standards, that’s actually quite lovely.

Margaery and her various suitors, while obviously opportunistic on Margaery’s part, are notable for being free of genuine animosity. Margaery married Renly knowing he didn’t love her romantically, married Joffrey while clearly unimpressed by him, and married Tommen while maintaining her political edge. She never seems to expect romance from these men; she seems to approach marriage as a transaction, which is honest in its own way. She’s not pining for love; she’s securing her position. And the men involved, despite their flaws, aren’t violent or cruel to her in the way many Westerosi husbands are to their wives. She got as good as she could possibly get in medieval Westeros.

Tier B: Complicated But Compelling

Jaime and Brienne occupy this weird space where they have genuine chemistry and affection for each other, but also enormous external obstacles and complicated personal histories. Jaime spends most of his arc being a narcissistic, privileged asshole who happens to be stunningly attractive and charming. Brienne is a woman trying to find honor and meaning in a world that constantly tells her she doesn’t belong. They develop respect for each other despite (or because of) their differences. There’s attraction there, definitely, but more importantly there’s genuine connection. The tragedy is that by the time Jaime seems to be genuinely changing, the show tears them apart in a way that feels unsatisfying to many viewers. But whatever their relationship was, it wasn’t boring, and it wasn’t entirely dysfunctional.

Jon and Daenerys are interesting because they’re so symmetrical—two people carrying impossible weights, trying to do right by their followers, both fundamentally decent despite the power they wield. Their romance happens quickly because the show is rushing through material, but there’s actual chemistry there. The problem is that they don’t really know each other, and when a crucial truth comes out, they can’t handle it maturely. But in those moments when they’re together, you can see why they appeal to each other. They understand the burden of leadership in a way few people do.

Tier C: Messy But Memorable

Robb and Jeyne (or Robb and Talisa in the show) are almost too heartbreaking to rank. Robb loves Jeyne, she loves him, and their romance is genuinely touching. The tragedy is that this love destroys everything. Robb’s military campaign, his position as King in the North, his family’s future—all of it sacrificed for love. It’s noble in a way, genuinely romantic, but it’s also catastrophically stupid. Their relationship shows how love and politics cannot coexist in Westeros without one destroying the other. It’s tragic because they’re right to love each other; the world is just wrong.

Theon and Yara, while never romantic, have one of the most complicated and genuinely moving sibling relationships on the show. They start as rivals, move through periods of distance and misunderstanding, and ultimately develop a fierce protectiveness for each other. Yara fights for Theon’s life and honor even after he’s been tortured and broken. That’s loyalty, and it’s one of the few relationships that feels truly unshakeable.

Tier D: Toxic But Fascinating

Cersei and Jaime are siblings, which is already a problem, but they’re also two people so damaged that their relationship becomes mutually destructive. Jaime loves Cersei, or he loves the idea of her, or he loves what she represents—it’s hard to say. Cersei loves Jaime as much as she loves anyone, which is to say she loves him in the way a wounded animal loves its mate. They’re codependent, incestuous, and ultimately unable to help each other. But they’re also weirdly compelling to watch because there’s genuine affection mixed with genuine harm. This is not a healthy relationship, and the show never pretends it is.

Stannis and Selyse are a couple that highlights how love can be twisted by ambition and faith. Selyse is devoted to Stannis, probably loves him in her own way, but she’s also willing to support his increasingly dark choices in the name of their cause. Stannis cares for Selyse but is ultimately willing to sacrifice her children for victory. It’s a relationship built on shared belief rather than mutual respect, and it’s deeply unsettling.

Tier E: Absolutely Cursed

Robert and Cersei are the template for toxic royal marriages. Robert drinks constantly because he’s miserable, Cersei despises him because he’s miserable and treats her as a brood mare, and neither of them has any affection or respect for the other. Robert doesn’t even bother to be faithful, and Cersei doesn’t bother to pretend to care. They’re stuck with each other out of duty and political necessity, and it makes them both worse. This is a marriage where both people would be better off if they just admitted they hate each other.

Joffrey and Cersei (in a twisted, borderline-incestuous way) represent psychological damage at its most visible. Cersei is desperate to control her son because she’s terrified of powerlessness, and Joffrey is a spoiled, violent sociopath who reflects his mother’s worst qualities back at her. Their relationship has echoes of something unhealthier than standard mother-son dynamics, and the show never quite explores it, but it’s definitely there.

Joffrey and Sansa are almost too toxic to watch. Joffrey is cruel, sadistic, and violent, and Sansa is his complete victim. There’s no relationship here, only abuse. Joffrey doesn’t love Sansa; he’s obsessed with controlling her and punishing her. Sansa doesn’t love Joffrey; she’s terrified of him. This is domination and cruelty, not romance, and it’s important that the show presents it that way.

Ramsay and Sansa continue that pattern of abuse in a horrifying way. Ramsay is a violent sociopath who gets off on power over others, and Sansa is trapped with him after surviving Joffrey. Unlike Joffrey, Ramsay doesn’t pretend there’s love here. He’s just a sadist who has a sadist’s obsession with his victim. This relationship is presented without any romanticization, and that’s the right call.

Khal Drogo and Daenerys start with rape and gradually become something more complex, which is one of the most interesting—and most controversial—narrative choices the show makes. Drogo doesn’t begin by respecting Daenerys; he begins by ownership. But over time, he develops genuine affection for her, and she develops affection for him. It’s a complicated dynamic that the show handles imperfectly, and it’s definitely not healthy in any real-world context. But within the show’s logic, it represents a kind of healing and mutual respect that develops despite traumatic origins. Still, the fact that their relationship needed rape to begin makes it tier E material.

The Final Word

Game of Thrones isn’t a show about romance, which is partly why the good relationships stand out so sharply. Sam and Gilly’s genuine affection is so refreshing precisely because the world around them is so full of betrayal and cruelty. The show uses romance as a tool to explore power, loyalty, ambition, and the fundamental incompatibility between love and the game of thrones. Some couples burn bright and burn out. Some are built on mutual ambition. Some are just two people making the best of an awful situation. But almost none of them are actually, straightforwardly good. And maybe that’s the real message: in a world as broken as Westeros, a couple that actually loves each other and treats each other with respect is a fantasy more fantastical than dragons.

Prince Baelor Targaryen, known as Baelor Breakspear because of an incident in his youth when he broke his lance against a knight and had a splinter drive up into his face, represents one of the greatest what-if scenarios in the entire Game of Thrones universe. He’s a character who embodies everything that a Targaryen king should be — noble, honorable, skilled in combat, beloved by his people, and genuinely concerned with the welfare of the realm beyond his own dynasty’s interests. Yet for all his potential, for all his strength and character, he died in a tourney accident, never became king, and in his absence, the Iron Throne fell to a far less suitable heir. Understanding Baelor’s story is understanding why the Targaryen dynasty was ultimately doomed, even though they had everything they needed to survive.

The Perfect Prince

From the moment we meet Baelor in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, it’s clear that this is no ordinary royal. He’s not the type of prince who sits in castles being served by servants, waiting for his father to die so he can assume power. Instead, Baelor is actively involved in the governance of the realm. He’s competed in tournaments not for glory or vanity, but because he genuinely believes that a prince should be able to prove his worth in physical competition. He’s beloved by the common people, who see in him an ideal of chivalry and justice. The lords respect him because he’s strong enough to command respect, but wise enough not to demand it unnecessarily.

What’s particularly impressive about Baelor is his combination of martial skill and political acumen. He’s one of the greatest knights of his generation, capable of defeating other legendary warriors. At the same time, he understands the complexities of ruling. He grasps that power comes not just from force of arms but from the respect and loyalty of those you govern. He’s not arrogant or vain. He doesn’t believe that his royal blood makes him inherently superior to everyone else. Instead, he believes that it imposes a greater responsibility on him to be worthy of his station.

The fact that Baelor was Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne meant that he was being groomed his entire life to be king. He had every advantage available to him — the best teachers, the best weapons, the best opportunities to learn statecraft and military strategy. Most importantly, he seems to have taken this training seriously and genuinely internalized the responsibility that comes with it. He wasn’t the type of heir who resented his position or felt entitled to the throne. He felt obligated to earn it, to prove himself worthy of it, and to serve the realm rather than rule it for his own benefit.

A Moment That Changed Everything

The tragedy of Baelor Breakspear is that his greatest flaw — or perhaps his greatest virtue, depending on how you look at it — is the same thing that killed him. During his match at the Ashford Tourney, Baelor faces Ser Maekar Targaryen, his own uncle, in a brutal and well-fought joust. The two men are skilled competitors, and their match is genuinely exciting because both competitors are fighting at the absolute peak of their abilities. Baelor wins, but in winning, he does something that shows the kind of man he is. After the joust, as Maekar is mounting his horse again, Baelor helps him. It’s a gesture of respect and courtesy between two skilled fighters.

But here’s where tragedy strikes. During a later match, Baelor faces Ser Duncan the Tall. The two joust, and Duncan’s lance shatters. A splinter from that broken lance strikes Baelor, penetrating his armor at a vulnerable point. It’s not the fault of either man — it’s a tragic accident of the kind that occasionally happened in medieval tournaments. Baelor survives the immediate injury, but an infection sets in. Eventually, it kills him. The Prince of Dragonstone, the greatest knight of his generation, the man who should have been king, dies not in glorious battle but from an infected wound suffered in a tournament accident.

What makes this tragedy even deeper is the timing. Baelor dies, and the line of succession passes to his younger brother, Aerys. Aerys becomes king — the same Aerys II who would later become known as the Mad King, the ruler whose cruelty and insanity would eventually lead to the downfall of the entire Targaryen dynasty. If Baelor had lived, if he had become king, if he had had children and established his line as the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, the entire history of Westeros would have been different.

The King He Never Became

It’s almost painful to imagine what Baelor might have accomplished as king. He had the strength to command respect from the great lords. He had the wisdom to make good decisions. He had the integrity to do what was right rather than what was merely advantageous. He had the love of the common people, which provides a king with an enormous amount of legitimacy and support. Most importantly, he seemed to have an actual understanding of what it meant to be a good ruler rather than just a powerful one.

Consider what happened in the generation after Baelor’s death. The realm fell into the hands of increasingly unstable rulers. The Targaryen dynasty, which had seemed so secure, began its slow collapse. Wars were fought. Dragons died. The dynasty that had conquered Westeros and ruled it for centuries was overthrown. Had Baelor lived and become king, would any of this have happened? It’s impossible to say for certain, but it’s not unreasonable to think that his presence, his wisdom, his strength, and his integrity might have prevented some of the crises that eventually destroyed the dynasty.

Baelor represents the road not taken, the path Westeros didn’t get to follow. He’s the Targaryen king who would have understood that ruling means serving. He’s the heir who would have ensured that the dynasty’s fall wasn’t inevitable. He’s the man who could have been great, but was denied the chance to prove it.

A Character Study in Nobility

From a narrative standpoint, Baelor is fascinating because he’s a character who is genuinely good but not boring. George R.R. Martin has a reputation for subverting fantasy tropes, for showing us that good intentions don’t always lead to good outcomes, and that noble characters often have serious flaws. But with Baelor, Martin seems to suggest that genuine nobility and genuine goodness are possible, even in a world as cynical and dark as Westeros.

What makes Baelor work as a character is that he’s noble without being sanctimonious, skilled without being arrogant, kind without being weak. He’s not the type of good character who makes you roll your eyes. He’s the type of good character who makes you wish he had lived longer. When we read about or watch Baelor, we’re seeing someone who actually deserves to lead, who actually has the qualities that would make him a good king, and who has clearly put thought and effort into becoming the kind of person who can shoulder that responsibility.

The HBO adaptation of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms will have the opportunity to really bring Baelor to life on screen in a way that books sometimes can’t. Casting the right actor to play this character will be crucial, because you need someone who can convey that combination of martial prowess and political intelligence, of strength and humility, of confidence without arrogance. You need an actor who can make you believe that this is someone who genuinely deserves to be king, and that his loss is a true tragedy.

The Lesson of Baelor

In the end, Baelor Breakspear serves as a meditation on the randomness and cruelty of fate. He did everything right. He prepared himself for the responsibility of kingship. He proved his worth as a warrior and a leader. He earned the respect and love of his people. And then a splinter of wood got stuck in his armor, an infection set in, and he died. All his potential, all his promise, all the good he might have done — gone in an instant.

It’s a reminder that history is shaped not just by the decisions of great men but also by chance, by luck, by the random accidents that change the course of events. Baelor was better than the king who came after him. He would have been a better ruler than his successors. But he never got the chance, and the realm suffered for it. That’s what makes Baelor Breakspear not just a tragic character but one of the most important figures in the entire Game of Thrones universe. He represents the Targaryen dynasty at its best, and his death represents the beginning of the end for that dynasty. In dying, he inadvertently set in motion the events that would eventually destroy everything his family had built.

There’s a moment in Season 1, Episode 7 where Ned Stark decides to tell King Robert the truth about Joffrey’s parentage. And I want to be clear: this is the decision that sets off a chain reaction that leads directly to the War of the Five Kings, the deaths of nearly every major character, and the destabilization of the entire Seven Kingdoms. One honest man. One conversation. One refusal to play the game. And from that single moment of integrity, an entire world of suffering unfolds.

Now, here’s the thing about Ned Stark: he’s genuinely, unambiguously the moral center of the show. He’s honorable, he keeps his word, and he tries to do the right thing even when it’s difficult or dangerous. Those are admirable qualities. They’re also, in the context of Game of Thrones, suicidally stupid. If Ned had just kept his mouth shut, if he’d been willing to look the other way just a little bit longer, things would have been radically different. Maybe not better, but definitely different. Let’s explore some of the alternate timelines that Ned’s fatal honesty prevented.

The Timeline Where Ned Stays Silent

In this timeline, Ned Stark never tells King Robert about Joffrey’s parentage. Maybe he tries once, but Robert is drunk and dismissive, so Ned lets it go. Maybe he never tells anyone. Maybe he discovers the truth but decides that keeping the secret is the price of peace. Whatever the mechanism, Ned chooses to prioritize his loyalty to Robert and his concerns about destabilizing the kingdom over his moral outrage at the injustice of Joffrey’s ascension.

What happens? Well, Robert dies anyway. That was always going to happen; he’s on his way out the moment he gets kicked by a boar, and his drinking and general unhealthiness make that outcome almost inevitable. But here’s the crucial difference: when Robert dies in this timeline, there’s no massive reveal about Joffrey’s parentage. Joffrey becomes king, and while many people suspect something is fishy about his genealogy, nothing is proven. Ned is still alive. Catelyn still has her husband and her sanity. The Lannisters don’t know that their secret is out, so they’re not frantically trying to silence Ned before he can expose them.

Without Ned’s honor, without his refusal to be complicit in a lie, the immediate crisis that leads to his arrest and death simply doesn’t happen. Cersei doesn’t know that Ned knows. She doesn’t feel threatened by him. The Lannisters still have their plan, still want power, still probably arrange Robert’s death or at least accelerate it, but they don’t have to rush to shut Ned up. This gives Ned time to realize what’s happening before it’s too late.

What Ned Could Have Done

Here’s the interesting part: if Ned had kept quiet, he would have had options that the timeline we actually got never gave him. He could have gradually gathered evidence of the Lannisters’ crimes without immediately putting his neck on the line. He could have carefully built a coalition of allies who would support him if he decided to make his move. He could have, crucially, gotten back to the North with his family before declaring his knowledge. The man had options, and they’re all foreclosed the moment he decides to be honorable.

In this alternate timeline, Ned goes home. He goes back to Winterfell with his wife and children, and he does it as a man with knowledge and leverage, not as a man who’s just announced his intention to destroy the queen. He can gather evidence of the truth about Joffrey’s parentage, maybe recruit Lord Stark supporters, and if he needs to make his move, he’s doing it from a position of actual strength rather than from a cell in King’s Landing. He’s got northern armies. He’s got the loyalty of his houses. He’s got the advantage of distance and preparation.

Maybe Ned still has to fight a war to enforce his views about the succession. But it’s a war where he’s not fighting from the dungeons of the Red Keep, and his family is not scattered and vulnerable. It’s a war where he has actual leverage. When you compare that to what actually happens—Ned gets killed, his head is cut off, his entire family is either killed or broken—the difference is pretty stark.

The Lannister Problem Never Escalates

Here’s another key difference in this timeline: the Lannisters don’t need to escalate to the extreme measures they eventually adopt. In the actual timeline, after Ned announces the truth about Joffrey, the Lannisters are in existential crisis mode. They’ve been exposed. They’re going to lose power. They’re possibly going to face execution. So they do increasingly desperate things. They arrange for Bran to be killed. They kill Robert if he’s still alive. They blow up the Sept of Baelor. They essentially destroy the faith and the nobility of the Reach in one act of desperation.

But in the timeline where Ned never makes his knowledge public, the Lannisters are just going about their business of slowly consolidating power, like any other politically ambitious family. They still have to deal with Stark opposition, but it’s opposition they can manage through normal political channels. They don’t have to light their entire world on fire to protect themselves because they don’t feel existentially threatened. The escalation that leads to the destruction of the Reach, the destruction of the Faith, and the alienation of basically every house in the realm simply doesn’t happen.

This is crucial because the Lannisters’ desperation is what fractures the realm. Once they blow up the Sept of Baelor, every house turns against them. Every lord knows that Cersei is willing to slaughter innocents to maintain power. And that knowledge spreads. That shame spreads. And the Lannisters go from being politically dominant to being universally hated.

What About the Succession?

But wait—doesn’t Joffrey still become an increasingly unstable tyrant in this timeline? Yes, probably. Joffrey is a spoiled, cruel, psychologically damaged child, and putting him in charge of a kingdom is never going to go well. But here’s the thing: without the Lannister escalation, without the feeling that the Lannisters are hiding something catastrophic, there’s more political room to maneuver him out of power peacefully.

Tywin Lannister is a pragmatist. If he realizes his grandson is a disaster, he might be willing to work toward removing him from the throne without burning down the entire kingdom. Maybe Joffrey has an accident. Maybe he’s deposed on some technicality. Maybe there’s a peaceful succession to Tommen. The point is that without Ned’s honesty creating a crisis, the problem of Joffrey can potentially be solved through conventional political means instead of through wholesale destruction.

The Stark Family Lives

And here’s the most important part: the Stark family survives. Ned lives. Catelyn lives. They don’t scatter across the world, broken and traumatized. They don’t have to grieve murdered children. They don’t have to spend years rebuilding from nothing. They win a war in this timeline, or they don’t fight a war at all, but either way they do it as a united family rather than as individuals dealing with catastrophic loss.

That’s not nothing. For all his honor, for all his integrity, Ned’s refusal to play the game costs his family everything. The show makes this clear repeatedly. Everyone tells him that honor is a death sentence in King’s Landing. Everyone warns him that he’s going to get himself killed. And he does. Because he can’t compromise, can’t lie, can’t keep quiet.

Would This Timeline Actually Be Better?

This is where it gets complicated. In the timeline where Ned keeps quiet, the realm doesn’t descend into civil war immediately. But the underlying problems don’t go away. The Lannisters are still corrupt. Joffrey is still a monster. The Stark family is still alienated from the Lannisters. Eventually, conflict is probably inevitable. It’s just a question of on what timeline and under what circumstances.

Maybe Tywin successfully removes Joffrey and consolidates Lannister power. Maybe Ned eventually decides he has to act and moves against the Lannisters when he’s better positioned to do so. Maybe the Lannisters press their advantage and militarily destroy the North before the Starks can fully prepare. The outcomes in this timeline are not guaranteed to be positive just because Ned doesn’t immediately declare his hand.

But—and this is important—the realm doesn’t get destroyed. The Sept of Baelor doesn’t blow up with thousands of innocents inside. The Reach doesn’t get devastated by Lannister revenge. The Faith doesn’t get completely destabilized. King’s Landing doesn’t turn into a horrific dystopia under an increasingly unhinged Cersei. Just the Lannisters desperately trying to hold onto power would be significantly less destructive than the actual timeline, where their desperation drives them to atrocities.

The Cost of Integrity

What Game of Thrones is really asking, through Ned Stark’s story, is whether integrity is worth the cost. Is doing the right thing valuable if it destroys everything you love? Is honor a virtue if it leads to the deaths of thousands of people and the destabilization of civilization? These are the questions that haunt Ned’s arc, and they’re questions the show asks us repeatedly: is it better to be right or to survive?

The uncomfortable answer that Game of Thrones keeps providing is: it’s better to survive. The show punishes moral clarity and rewards moral compromise. Every character who tries to do the right thing without considering the practical consequences ends up dead. Every character who’s willing to lie, cheat, and manipulate for the sake of survival makes it further.

But Ned can’t accept that answer. He’s too honorable. He believes in a moral universe where integrity matters and goodness is rewarded. In the actual world of Game of Thrones, that belief is a liability. It gets him killed. It gets his family destroyed. It sets off a chain of events that leads to the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people across the Seven Kingdoms.

The Final Alternate Timeline

The most tragic timeline is the one we actually got: the one where Ned does the right thing, tells the truth, and pays the ultimate price. This is the timeline where his honor costs him his head, where his integrity is rewarded with death, where his moral clarity leads directly to chaos and suffering. And the show makes you sit with that tragedy. It makes you understand that sometimes doing the right thing is just doing the right thing, and the world punishes you for it anyway.

If Ned had kept his mouth shut, he would probably still die eventually—that’s the nature of Game of Thrones. But his family would survive. The realm would be marginally more stable. Fewer innocent people would be slaughtered in the name of political expediency. All of that would be the result of one man choosing to prioritize practical concerns over moral purity.

Game of Thrones never lets us have the satisfaction of Ned being proved right. It never shows us an alternate timeline where his honesty leads to justice and a better world. Instead, it shows us the cost of his integrity in real time. And that’s what makes his character so essential to the show’s theme: he’s the embodiment of the question that drives the entire series. In a world without justice, without certainty that goodness is rewarded, is it still right to be good? Ned Stark believes the answer is yes. And he pays for that belief with everything he has.

The title of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms contains a deliberate ambiguity that sits at the very heart of the entire novella series. What does it mean to be a knight? Is it something conferred upon you by a lord with a sword tap on your shoulder? Is it defined by noble birth and lineage? Is it about owning lands and a castle and commanding soldiers? Or is it something deeper, something more fundamental about character and conduct? George R.R. Martin wrestles with these questions throughout the Dunk and Egg stories, and in doing so, he challenges everything that we might think we understand about knighthood in the Game of Thrones universe.

The Traditional Definition

When we talk about knighthood in the medieval world that Westeros imitates, we’re talking about a formal institution. You don’t just decide to be a knight. You’re knighted by someone with the authority to dub you — typically a lord or a king. You swear an oath to uphold the tenets of chivalry. You become part of a specific social class with specific rights and responsibilities. In many ways, being a knight is a legal and social status, not just a description of who you are or what you do.

This is how most of Westeros understands knighthood. You’re either a knight or you’re not, and whether you are depends largely on whether someone important has formally recognized you as one. The Kingsguard, for instance, are the ultimate expression of this institutional knighthood. They’ve been chosen by the king, sworn oaths directly to the monarchy, and given the highest honor and prestige that the system can offer. They wear white cloaks and serve at the King’s Landing. They’re institutionally perfect knights, representatives of everything that formal knighthood should be.

Duncan the Tall, Dunk to his friends, is not a knight in this institutional sense. He was knighted, sort of, but only because an old knight who died gave him a dubious knighthood on his deathbed, and Dunk isn’t entirely sure the old man had the authority to do it. Dunk has no lands, no titles, no official recognition from any lord. He’s essentially a hedge knight, a man who claims the title of knight but who has no formal legitimacy behind it. In the eyes of the institutional nobility of Westeros, Dunk’s claim to knighthood is questionable at best and fraudulent at worst.

What Dunk Believes

But here’s where Martin’s exploration gets interesting. Dunk doesn’t care much about the institutional aspects of knighthood. What he cares about are the values. When Dunk thinks about being a knight, he thinks about serving, protecting the weak, defending the innocent, upholding honor, and doing what’s right even when it’s difficult or dangerous. He thinks about the ideals that he believes knighthood should represent, even if the reality often falls short of those ideals.

Dunk is earnest in a way that the world around him often isn’t. He genuinely believes in the code of chivalry. He genuinely believes that a knight should conduct himself with honor. He genuinely believes that prowess in combat means something, that strength should be used to protect rather than oppress. He’s not cynical about these things. He’s not playing a game or trying to manipulate the system. He actually, authentically believes that knighthood means something important.

This creates a fascinating tension throughout the Dunk and Egg stories. Here’s a man who isn’t institutionally a knight, who doesn’t have the credentials and paperwork that would make him officially acceptable to the nobility, yet who embodies what a knight should be far better than many of the men who wear the title with all the proper credentials. Dunk is more of a knight without the formal recognition than many actual knights are with all their official accoutrements.

The Clash Between Ideals and Reality

As Dunk progresses through his adventures, he repeatedly encounters the gap between what knighthood is supposed to be and what it actually is in practice. He meets knights who are brutal, self-serving, and dishonorable. He watches as men who claim the title of knight do things that seem completely at odds with the values they’re supposed to uphold. He sees how the system often rewards cynicism and punishes genuine virtue.

Yet even when confronted with evidence that knighthood as an institution is often corrupt or hollow, Dunk doesn’t give up on the ideals themselves. He doesn’t become cynical. He doesn’t decide that since many knights are dishonorable, he should be dishonorable too. Instead, he doubles down on his commitment to doing what he believes is right, to conducting himself with honor, to being the kind of knight that the world needs even if the world doesn’t always appreciate or recognize that kind of knight.

This is perhaps the most important aspect of Martin’s meditation on knighthood. He’s suggesting that true knighthood isn’t something that can be granted to you by an institution. It’s something that comes from within, something that you have to commit to and live up to every day, regardless of whether anyone officially recognizes you as a knight or whether the wider world acknowledges your virtue. True knighthood isn’t a status. It’s a practice, a way of living, a constant choice to do what’s right even when it’s hard.

The Test of Character

Throughout the Dunk and Egg stories, we see Dunk tested repeatedly. He’s put in situations where doing the honorable thing would be costly or difficult. He’s given opportunities to compromise his values or to take shortcuts. He faces enemies who are skilled and dangerous, situations that would justify him being ruthless or dishonorable. And again and again, Dunk chooses to do what’s right, what’s honorable, what aligns with his understanding of knighthood, regardless of the personal cost.

This is what separates Dunk from many of the other knights in the story. The truly great knights, like Baelor Breakspear or Barristan Selmy, also embody these values. But many other knights with higher social standing, better equipment, and more official recognition are willing to compromise. They’re willing to be brutal in pursuit of advantage. They’re willing to use their strength and authority to dominate others rather than serve them.

Dunk’s tests are often different from those faced by the high lords and great knights. He’s tested by poverty, by his own inexperience, by the fact that everyone around him assumes he’s not good enough. His tests are about whether he’ll maintain his integrity and his honor even when the world tells him he’s a fraud and has no right to call himself a knight. And he does. That’s what makes him a true knight.

The Legacy of Idealism

There’s something almost quixotic about Dunk’s commitment to knighthood as a set of ideals rather than a formal status. He’s tilting at windmills in a very real way, trying to live up to an ideal that the world around him often dismisses or ignores. He’s a dreamer in a world that tends to reward cynicism and ruthlessness. Yet there’s something admirable about it too. There’s something noble about committing yourself to being the best version of yourself, to living up to a code of conduct, even when no one is forcing you to and even when no one would know or care if you didn’t.

This is part of what makes Dunk and Egg’s stories resonate with audiences so strongly. In a universe known for its cynicism and moral ambiguity, Dunk represents something more hopeful. He’s not naive — he’s experienced enough to understand the world’s darkness. But he chooses to try to be good anyway. He chooses to try to uphold values that matter, even in a world that often doesn’t seem to value them. He’s an idealist, but he’s a practical idealist, someone who understands that ideals matter most when they’re hardest to maintain.

The Question That Matters

In the end, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms asks a fundamental question that echoes throughout the entire Game of Thrones universe: Can a man be a true knight if nobody officially recognizes him as one? Can true knighthood exist without the formal institution? Can virtue matter if the powerful don’t acknowledge it? And through Dunk’s character and his journey, George R.R. Martin suggests the answer is yes. True knighthood is something deeper than titles and institutions. It’s a commitment to values, a way of conducting yourself in the world, a choice to do what’s right even when it’s difficult and unrewarded.

Dunk may never be remembered by history in the way that official knights are remembered. His name may not be recorded in the great chronicles of the realm. But he’s a knight in the way that matters most — in the way that reflects the ideals of what knighthood should be. And in a world as dark and cynical as Westeros, that’s perhaps the most important kind of knight there can be.

In the history of Westeros, few things prove as consequential as the question of what happens to a kingdom when the line of succession becomes unclear or contested. The Wars of the Roses in medieval England sparked centuries of conflict, and Martin has always been fascinated by this historical period. In A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, we encounter a particularly dramatic chapter of Targaryen history centered around two illegitimate sons of King Aegon IV — men known as the Great Bastards. Their rivalry, their conflict, and their opposing visions for the future of the realm set in motion events that would fundamentally reshape Westeros and contribute to the eventual downfall of the Targaryen dynasty itself.

The Bastards Are Legitimized

King Aegon IV, known as the Shameful King for a variety of reasons, did something unprecedented late in his reign. On his deathbed, he legitimized his bastard children, acknowledging four of them publicly and granting them legitimacy. This act was shocking and controversial. In Westeros, bastards are generally kept separate from inheritance, forbidden from using their father’s name, and prevented from holding lands or titles. The bastard system is designed specifically to prevent the kind of succession disputes that might arise if too many people could claim the throne.

But Aegon, in what can only be described as a spectacular act of either generosity, spite, or madness, decided to change that. He legitimized his bastards, which meant they suddenly had a claim to his lands, his titles, and potentially even the throne. If the King can legitimize bastards, then he’s overturning one of the fundamental rules of the realm. He’s destabilizing the entire system of succession that holds the kingdom together.

Among these legitimized bastards were two who would become legends in their own right. Brynden Rivers, known as the Bloodraven, was one of the most dangerous men of his era — a skilled warrior with a pale, distinctive appearance and only one eye. Aegor Rivers, called Bittersteel, was another, distinguished by red hair and by his own considerable military prowess and ambition. These weren’t minor nobles or unimportant figures. These were men of consequence, men with the blood of the dragon running through their veins, men with the skill and determination to actually pose a threat to the established order.

The Bloodraven: Duty and Darkness

Brynden Rivers, the Bloodraven, is one of the most complex and mysterious figures in the Game of Thrones universe. He’s not simply an ambitious bastard trying to seize power for himself. Instead, Bloodraven seems genuinely conflicted about his position and his obligations. He’s loyal to the crown, serving the kings and defending the realm. Yet he’s also keenly aware that as a legitimized bastard, he has a claim to power, even if he doesn’t necessarily want to exercise it.

What makes Bloodraven truly compelling is the way he combines raw military power with political cunning and a kind of pragmatic ruthlessness. He’s not squeamish about doing what needs to be done. He’s not bound by sentimentality or personal loyalty when the safety of the realm is at stake. This makes him dangerous in the traditional sense — you wouldn’t want Bloodraven as an enemy — but it also makes him effective as a defender of the crown. When the king needs someone to do difficult things, when the situation calls for someone willing to make hard choices, Bloodraven is exactly the kind of person you want on your side.

Yet there’s something tragic about Bloodraven too. He’s exceptional in almost every way — intelligent, skilled, capable, and loyal to the crown and the realm. But because he’s a bastard, because he carries the stain of illegitimacy, he can never fully be accepted. He can never be named heir. He can never be king. No matter how loyal he is, no matter how much he sacrifices for the realm, he’ll always be defined by his illegitimacy. It’s a brilliant illustration of how Westeros’s rigid class structures can waste human potential and create bitterness even in people who aren’t inclined toward ambition.

Bittersteel: Ambition and Resentment

If Bloodraven is the tragic figure forced to serve despite his legitimate grievances, Bittersteel is the opposite — a man who takes his illegitimacy as a personal insult and a motivation for action. Aegor Rivers doesn’t accept his position quietly. Instead, he’s openly ambitious, openly competitive with the legitimate heirs of the throne, and openly willing to fight for what he believes he deserves. Where Bloodraven accepts the system and works within it, Bittersteel seems to fundamentally reject it.

This makes Bittersteel the kind of figure who can start wars. He has the blood of the dragon, the strength to command armies, the ambition to seize power, and the resentment that comes from being denied what he feels is rightfully his. Bittersteel represents the chaos that can be unleashed when powerful men feel they’ve been treated unjustly. He’s not interested in serving the crown. He’s interested in overthrowing it if necessary and replacing it with his own rule.

The conflict between Bloodraven and Bittersteel isn’t really about personal rivalry, though there certainly is some of that. It’s about fundamentally different approaches to dealing with their position as bastards in a system that doesn’t allow for them. Bloodravel chooses loyalty and service. Bittersteel chooses ambition and rebellion. One accepts his role. The other refuses to.

The Succession Crisis and its Consequences

The central question that defines the Great Bastards’ era is: What happens when a legitimized bastard has a potentially stronger claim to the throne than the official heirs? What if a bastard is more capable, more popular, more skilled at leadership? What if the realm would be better off under their rule? These are the questions that simmer beneath the surface of Westeros during this period, and they eventually boil over into open conflict.

The legitimization of Aegon’s bastards creates a fundamental instability in the realm. Previously, bastards were excluded by definition. Now, they’re included, and you have to find new ways of deciding between competing heirs. Does the bastard who was legitimized late in a king’s reign have as strong a claim as the king’s trueborn son? What if the bastard is more capable? What if the nobles prefer the bastard? These questions have no clear answers in the law, and the ambiguity creates an opportunity for conflict.

The period following Aegon IV’s death is characterized by tension between the legitimate Targaryen heirs and these legitimized bastards. The king is weak, and strong men see an opportunity. Bittersteel, in particular, becomes a focal point for those who might want to challenge the current order. Meanwhile, Bloodraven serves the crown loyally, but his very existence as a capable alternative threatens the stability of the succession. Even loyal servants can become threats if the circumstances are right.

The Wildfire Connection

What makes the Great Bastards’ story particularly relevant to A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is that it helps us understand the broader political context of the realm during this era. The events involving Bloodraven and Bittersteel, the succession crises, the tensions between different factions — all of this is happening in the background while Dunk is trying to make his way as a knight. The realm is more fragile than it might appear. There are serious tensions just below the surface about succession, legitimacy, and the distribution of power.

This also sets up some of the longer-term consequences for the Targaryen dynasty. The conflicts engendered by Aegon IV’s decision to legitimize his bastards contribute to the eventual destabilization of the realm. These are the seeds that will eventually grow into the Blackfyre Rebellion and other conflicts that weaken the dynasty. One careless decision by a dying king creates repercussions that echo through generations. The Great Bastards represent the chaos that comes when traditional structures are upended, when the rules suddenly change, when powerful people feel betrayed by the system.

Legacy and Interpretation

For fans of the Game of Thrones universe, the story of the Great Bastards offers a fascinating meditation on legitimacy, merit, and power. It raises questions about whether birth should determine destiny, whether a bastard might actually be better equipped to rule than a trueborn heir, and what happens when the rules of succession become ambiguous. It also shows us how one person’s decisions — in this case, Aegon IV’s decision to legitimize his bastards — can have far-reaching consequences that nobody could have fully predicted.

The Great Bastards also serve as an early example of how Martin explores the theme of illegitimacy throughout the Game of Thrones universe. Bastards recur constantly in these stories — sometimes as antagonists, sometimes as heroes, sometimes as tragic figures. The consistent message is that birth alone doesn’t determine worth, but the structures of Westeros insist on treating it as if it does. That contradiction creates tension, conflict, and tragedy.

In A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms specifically, the Great Bastards represent a level of political complexity that exists above Dunk’s immediate concerns but that affects the world he’s navigating. The realm is unsettled by these legitimate bastards, by the tensions they create, by the questions they raise about succession and legitimacy. Understanding who the Great Bastards are and why they matter helps us understand the political context in which our humble hedge knight is trying to make his way.

Bloodraven and Bittersteel are figures who loom large in the history of Westeros, not just because of their own actions but because they represent a fundamental problem with the way the Seven Kingdoms handles power and succession. They’re the Great Bastards because they were legitimate and powerful enough to actually matter, and their story is a cautionary tale about what happens when you change the rules of the game late in the match.