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17.05.2014 admin
Don't forget to stop by tomorrow for my review of Karen's pageturning historical mystery, The Missing Heiress!
Last night’s thrilling, satisfying “Game of Thrones” season finale was preceded by a long string of ads for upcoming HBO shows, with the gentle, imploring slogan “Start Something New.” It stopped just short of saying, Look, we all love “Game of Thrones,” but there are only so many moments left under the weirwood tree.
Nobody really believes that they will stumble across a forgotten "family pile" or an unclaimed inheritance, but the prospect of a bit of mystery or salacious gossip, and the odd skeleton in the cupboard does add spice to the search.
And maybe, just maybe, somewhere amongst those generations of lost ancestors they may stumble across a story which is worth turning into a novel for a wider audience to enjoy.My late husband and I shared a mutual interest in genealogy, and I was an aspiring historical novelist. I know it is a daunting prospect to start a novel but once you begin to write a few things down then it gets much easier - and will probably end up taking over your life!
One of the many great pleasures of this episode is that justice, grisly justice, is delivered to the High Sparrow and his ilk by a true force of the common people: poor children, the “little birds,” the whisperers who make things happen.
My only predictions for this season finale—sophisticated “Game of Thrones” theories, book-inspired or not, aren’t among my skills or interests—involved wildfire, and boy, was I right on that front. King Tommen the Depressed—something tells me things between him and Margaery still aren’t what he’d hoped, or maybe he’s regretting condemning his mother to death—grudgingly prepares to go down to the trial. Children with knives appear, hilarious and terrifying, to the sound of creepy soprano singing. The milieu is like “Young Sherlock Holmes” meets “Tales of the Crypt” meets “Dragonheart.” Lancel is crawling.
I’m glad that we just saw him being rude to a sex worker, because blood spurts out of his mouth, and blood gets all over his ancient white beard. At the trial, Margaery, one of the only people in any given room with common sense, knows there’s something wrong. Down below, there’s bright-green viscous-antifreeze-type jazz all over the floor: wildfire! All those frames we slowed down on Bran’s big vision quest earlier this season are coming back for an encore. Lancel is crawling on his belly, trying to blow out the little votives strewn romantically around the cave in lizard-green pools of accelerant.
The wildfire is ignited, sending a terrible, thrilling green ball of flames roaring down the hallway, igniting other barrels of wildfire lining the walls, reminding me of Indiana Jones outrunning that massive boulder in the cave and then, as we see the courtroom become a fiery emerald-green temple of doom, the High Sparrow lights up like the Nazi whose face melts off. The Sept explodes, the whole city seems to go, and the bell that had been ringing clatters to the ground. Tommen sits at his window, learning of Margaery’s death, presumably—“I’m very sorry, your grace”—and watching the thick gray smoke plume slowly away. Then he returns, stands on his window ledge, framed like an innocent version of the vampire in “Nosferatu,” and gracefully tips forward to his death. Walder Frey is in a mead hall, making lusty toasts about what great buddies the Freys and the Lannisters are.
Serving girls are giving him the eye—this becomes freaky when you think about it later—and he doesn’t give a hoot. He introduces them to Bronn, borrowing a line from Barney Stinson, and then has to listen to Frey gloat more.


His only real pleasure besides Cersei is the occasional good short speech—Lord Edmure, baby, catapult—or the stinging rejoinder he gives here. If we have to ride north and take them back for you every time you lose them, why do we need you?” Eat it, Frey. How refreshing, after all the wildfire, mead halls, and whispered threats, to be back with the Samwell Tarlys and their hilariously cumbersome heirloom-sword case. Sam waits in a giant room that looks like a cross between the Library of Congress and the Death Star. A white bird flaps over Winterfell, where Jon Snow is reminiscing to Melisandre in the dining hall. She crossly tells him he’s lucky to have had a family and feasts; because he’s Jon Snow, he chuckles good-naturedly. I was confused when he discovered it last week in her ash pyre—how hasn’t news of Shireen’s stake-burning got around to the whole gang? But Melisandre makes the point that all this freaky stuff she does is because the gods want her to, and a spooky undead army is coming, and look, hey, I’d just love to die, but you’re going to need me, and nobody can really argue with that. You get the feeling that the writers who had to resolve all this ordered a bunch of pizza and said, Look, we will just figure this out. One way that “Game of Thrones” plants seeds of plot is to have people die offscreen or row away in a rowboat. Like Jon Snow, I’ve made a grudging peace with Melisandre, entirely for Jon Snow-being-alive reasons, but I don’t want her hanging around. I’m certainly open to having her reappear and save the day at some point, preferably without leeches or child murder. Miraculously—perhaps improbably, but I don’t care—they seem to resolve the awkwardness of last week, when they won a battle, defeated a cruel villain, and reclaimed their castle when rescued by an army that she’d called for and didn’t tell him about. Because they can talk to each other openly again, so they don’t mind that the whole world is about to freeze over, and they’re going to be murdered by an army of the undead? Dorne, where Lady Olenna is dressed in an elaborate black mourning version of her usual gown-and-wimple, a la widowed Scarlett O’Hara. She is explaining to the Sand Snakes, while razzing them as only a cranky old matriarch can, that she does not care about her legacy because her grandchildren are dead. We’re about to miss Daario, who, we learn in a moderately feminist breakup scene, is not coming with Dany to Westeros, even though he’s not too proud to be her consort.
My hope is that his being set free to keep peace in Meereen—poor sap!—gives him room to reappear hunkily in the future. Her heroine’s journey to Westeros will be a nice yellow brick road to travel down; Daario will look a lot more appealing after she realizes that the most eligible surviving bachelor in Westeros is the kid with the moon door, unless you count Bran, who lives in a tree, or Jon Snow, who’s complicated.
In a tender scene of Tyrion-Dany bonding—remember when it seemed like they were on two different shows, of two different genres? She starts to pin something on him, like the Wizard of Oz giving the Cowardly Lion his medal. She points to the thing he’s eating, which looks like a mincemeat pie made by Ruth’s Chris Steak House.


He takes the crust off, for some reason—is my son under here?—and the pie gets even more disgusting. I thought that your big prize from this season was managing to escape the House of a Zillion Faces, not continuing to use it as a library. There’s a fair amount of youth murdering the elderly on this episode, but these particular elders had it coming. She had to murder Uday and Qusay, chop them up, bake them into a pie, get the crust just right, feed it to their dad, then murder him, with pizzazz. He tells her that he often closes his eyes and imagines a picture: himself on the Iron Throne—what?!—with her by his side. I’ve always been weirdly pro-Littlefinger, and I’m happy to have the two of them have some kind of charged platonic understanding. He reminds her that she’s “true-born” and that Jon is a “motherless bastard born in the south.” Big turn-off, Carcetti!
Bran and Meera say goodbye to Uncle Benjen by the Wall, near a weirwood tree with weeping red eyes, and Bran goes off on a warg.
The scene is very much as we have all probably imagined—R + L = J—except that L whispers some plot details to him that we and Bran can’t hear. Squabbling knights and members of various houses want to go home and wait out the big bad winter.
Tiny Lyanna Mormont, tween leader of House Mormont, stands up and takes them to task, with details and fiery fortitude, wrapping her remarks up with the kind of bracing honesty that we like politicians to try once in a while.
There’s something you never quite hear in Westeros: someone brave enough to say that Jon Snow is a Stark. Soon, hoary oldsters are standing up, waving their swords in the air, and proclaiming their love and loyalty.
Jaime Lannister has not yet been baked into a pie: he arrives at King’s Landing and sees a lot of smoke.
If you’re wondering, like I was, why she’s queen and he’s not king, it’s because as a Kingsguard he isn’t eligible. They both look rather grim—I guess they have to, since their city just burned and their son just died—but well done, Cersei. In the final scene, no fire, stabbing, or treason: just a couple thousand ships, sailing from Meereen, three dragons flapping above them, a cloudy sunset, and a chorus of voices singing. Boats, clouds, sun, dragons, and two female ship captains, pointing their armada toward a Westeros ruled by a queen.



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