Game of Thrones is a serious show, and we are serious people. In this series, we recap each new episode with the deep, dark, grim-faced seriousness it deserves. Seriously.
This week: “Stormborn,” the second episode of season 7. No fooling. Violators will be frowned at.
We open at Dragonstone, where Daenerys Targaryen is in a foul mood because it’s far too wet and windy for her her much-anticipated beach party. “This weather is the worst,” she says to Tyrion. “My bucket and spade are growing dust. I want to go to King’s Landing.”
“Maybe if you’d sailed to Westeros years ago, you might have seen some sun, but it’s winter now. I packed you all that thermal underwear and you weren’t even grateful.”
Outraged, Daenerys turns to Lord Varys. “You betrayed the man who overthrew my father to secretly support my family. How can I ever trust you?”
“This is really a conversation we should have had before we left Meereen,” puts in Tyrion. “It’s almost as if you’re having it now because it’s convenient for the audience.”
Daenerys ignores that, her focus on Varys. “Who are you truly loyal to, Spider?”
“Welcome to my hood,” raps Varys, dropping sick beats. “Look at these old school Chevys, twenty fours so you know we roll heavy uh.”
Impressed by Varys’s loyalty to the streets, Daenerys decides to pardon him for his history of bed-hopping between alliances. “But you know,” she reminds him, “Next time you think your chosen representative is doing a bad job, it might be a good idea to tell them what they’re doing wrong before immediately hatching a plot to overthrow them.”
“Oh yeah, you’re right,” giggles Varys. “Sorry. I’m so extra.”
Their conversation is interrupted by Melisandre, who somehow managed to get to the island in the middle of a terrible storm with not a single wet hair in sight. That’s fire magic for you. She and Dany meet in the throne room.
“I like to burn things,” she tells Dany.
“Excellent,” Dany replies. “I shall trust you implicitly.”
Melisandre informs Daenerys of a prophecy regarding the Prince That Was Promised, which conveniently turns out to be a gender-fluid title for the purposes of getting Dany on board with this whole thing.
“So you’re here because you think I’m the Prince That Was Promised?” says Dany.
“No, sweetie,” says Melisandre. “But you believe whatever you like.”
Mel then advises Dany to invite Jon Snow to Dragonstone because she’s not allowed to go back to Winterfell, but she’s thirsty to see him. Also, because the end of humanity as they know it marches ever onwards. Tyrion is cool with this idea because Jon Snow is his Jon Bro, and so Daenerys agrees to receive him at the castle.
“Also,” says Melisandre, gazing shiftily around the room, “as you’ve been settling into the castle, did you happen to come across a room full of… hermetically sealed foetuses?”
“No,” says Daenerys. “Why, is there a—“
“Oh, it’s nothing,” says Mel. “I think I’ll just pop to the toilet.”
At Winterfell, Jon Snow receives a summons to Dragonstone from Tyrion. Bran still isn’t home because Meera is rolling him back to the castle like a cannoli, or perhaps because it’s convenient for Jon to go south without having any idea of his true parentage. What do I know? I’m just Kermit the Frog drinking tea.
Jon shows the letter to Davos because he’s his right-hand man. He also shows it to Sansa, because he’s afraid of what she’ll say it if doesn’t. He’s tired of redheaded women telling him that he knows nothing.
“How do we know this is Tyrion’s letter?” says Sansa.
“Weren’t you married to him?” says Jon.
“Yeah, but he was drunk for the entire duration of our union. He was never able to write anything legibly.”
“Take a look at the bottom of the letter,” Jon instructs.
“You’re my Jon Bro,” Sansa reads. “And you believe this?”
“I am his Jon Bro,” says Jon stubbornly, his baby browns filling with emotion. “Can I go to Dragonstone?”
“No,” says Papa Davos. “It’s too dangerous, but her dragons might come in useful. You may write to her and ask if we can borrow one.”
“I’m with your father on this,” says Sansa, and reaches out a hand. “Come along, now, it’s time for your nap.”
In King’s Landing, Cersei has gathered the lords of the Reach to discuss Daenerys Targaryen.
“Daenerys is a terrorist,” Cersei tells Lord Randyll Tarly and the other Tyrell bannermen, casually leaving out the part where Dany ended slavery. “And this town ain’t big enough for two of those.”
“What about her dragons?” asks Lord Tarly. “How are we supposed to fight three dragons?”
“We’re taking care of that,” says Qyburn, who has watched How to Train your Dragon like, five times now. He’s got it covered.
After the meeting, Jaime follows Lord Tarly out of the throne room and meets his youngest son and heir, Dickon the Second.
“What happened to Dickon the First?” says Jaime.
“I’m Dickon the First,” says Dickon the Second.
“Oops, sorry,” Jaime cringes. “I’m terrible with faces. I’ve mistaken the Mountain for somebody else at least twice, it’s so awkward.”
Jaime then asks Lord Tarly to be his ranking general in the impending war between Cersei and Daenerys, but ol’ Randyll isn’t sure because he’s a man of honour, except when it comes to casual child abuse, which is perfectly acceptable. He’s also unwilling to go against Olenna Tyrell, who used to be that babysitter you had a crush on when Randyll was a child.
“I have a gift for you, if you’re willing to help us,” says Jaime.
“Is it your sword? I need a new sword,” says Randyll.
“No,” says Jaime. “It’s the title of Warden of the South which, as you know, will give you complete military control over the kingdoms of Dorne and the Reach.”
Hot damn, thinks Randyll, unable to keep from salivating. How did he know I love kingdoms?
At the Citadel, Samwell Tarly and Professor Slughorn are examining Ser Jorah Mormon. We see that his greyscale has worsened considerably, spreading up his arm and across his chest and back. It hasn’t spread to his face, though, because it’s convenient for Jorah to stay smokin’ hot, even with a gruesome skin disease.
“You’re beyond saving, and it’s all your own fault. You should have chopped your own arm off,” Slughorn scolds, displaying the kind of bedside manner we’ve come to expect from many modern doctors.
“Can’t you whip up a potion to cure him?” says Sam. “You’d think with all the maesters around here, somebody ought to have invented the antibiotic by now.”
“There is one cure,” says Slughorn, with a kindly glance in Jorah’s direction. “Kill yourself.”
Then he leaves, in search once again of that sweet, sweet crystallized pineapple.
“Should I tell your family that you’ve contracted a deadly skin condition and will shortly be ending your life?” says Sam, trying to make small talk.
“God, no,” says Jorah. “If Lyanna Mormont hears that I’ve succumbed to illness, I’ll be a laughing stock. Not even greyscale would be dumb enough to pick a fight with her.”
Back in King’s Landing, Cersei and Qyburn take a walk among the crypts, and Cersei reminisces about the first fire-bellied beast she had killed.
Qyburn shows her his latest invention, a gigantic crossbow, which Cersei shoots directly at the skull of Balerion the Black Dread, the largest Targaryen dragon in all recorded history. Balerion’s skull is cracked like a walnut. Anticlimactic, sure, but whatever gets the job done.
“I don’t recall this from How to Train your Dragon,” says Cersei, her pulse quickening as she touches an item intended to cause death and bloodshed.
“Pardon me, it was How to Brain your Dragon,” Qyburn corrects.
We return to Dragonstone, where Daenerys has gathered her merry band of supporters to discuss their hostile takeover of King’s Landing.
“We should take King’s Landing now,” Yara Greyjoy insists.
“I agree with Yara,” says Ellaria Sand, checking out Yara’s ass.
“Nobody cares what you think,” says Tyrion. “At least Yara is a fully-rounded character with a strong emotional focus in her relationship with Theon. You’re a crazy bitch who murders children.”
“All Lannisters bad!” says Ellaria, who, let’s face it, can’t be blamed for this viewpoint. She comes from a land where every single character with the surname Sand is utterly woeful. She thinks that rule applies everywhere.
“You’re not Margaery,” says Olenna Tyrell to Daenerys. “And more’s the pity.”
Dany’s eyes fill with sadness. She was hoping to adopt Olenna as her sassy new grandmother.
Tyrion and Daenerys announce that they’ve decided against attacking King’s Landing in the interest in protecting the lives of the many innocent people who live there. Instead, they’re going to lay siege to the city. That way, the innocent people who live there will simply starve to death instead.
“We’re also not going to use our own troops because Westeros is a hotbed of racism,” says Tyrion. “We’re going to use your armies and your fleets instead.”
“But babe,” says Yara, gazing at Daenerys. “I thought you wanted me for more than my fleet?”
“You’re not Margaery,” says Olenna Tyrell, to nobody in particular.
It is decided that Yara, Ellaria and Olenna will take care of the siege on King’s Landing while the Unsullied take Casterly Rock from whoever is living there now that all the other Lannisters are dead. Who is living there now? Do they have a house-sitter or did Kevan make like Stannis and forget to leave one? Any takers? Answers in the comments, please.
After the meeting, Daenerys has a private chat with Olenna.
“I hear you’re in the market for a new granddaughter,” she begins, but Olenna cuts her off.
“Listen, Not-Margaery, I came here to make witty comments and have my revenge, and I’m fresh out of witty comments.”
“That was witty,” says Daenerys.
“I know, I lied. I don’t care about your cause or what you hope to do for the common people, which makes me a terrible person to take advice from, so do as I say and burn everyone. Specifically Cersei.”
Hot damn, Dany thinks. How did she know I liked burning people?
Later, Missandei goes to see Grey Worm in his chambers to say goodbye, as he is due to leave for Casterly Rock the very next day.
“What are you doing?” she asks. “Whatever it was, it seems to be more important than saying goodbye to me.”
“I’m polishing my weapon,” says Grey Worm.
“I’d like to polish your weapon.”
“How many times have we been through this?” asks Grey Worm, albeit with fewer conjunctions and transitional words. “I’m a eunuch, and frankly, it’s insensitive of you to make such remarks.”
Back at the Citadel, Professor Slughorn is talking about the book he’s planning to write and self-publish on Amazon, but Sam isn’t interested because he’s been looking up cures for greyscale and thinks he knows how to cure Ser Jorah Mormont, which seems like a bloody convenient turn of events, if you ask me.
“For the love of Pete, Samwell,” says Slughorn. “Did you come here under the impression that we’re actually here to help people? Why aren’t you in Starbucks, working on a screenplay like the rest of the trainee maesters?”
Later on, in his cell, Jorah is reading his suicide note to Daenerys when Sam rolls in with a trolley full of scalpels and a bottle of rum. “Drink up,” he instructs the exiled knight. “You’re about to get cured.”
“Not to bite the hand that feeds me, or anything,” says Jorah, eyeing Sam’s scalpel with trepidation. “But are you a qualified surgeon?”
“Nope,” Sam replies. “I’m a first-year med student.”
“And you think this qualifies you to perform a little-known procedure to cure an untreatable disease?”
“What?” says Sam, with a roll of his eyes. “Like it’s hard?”
In the Riverlands, Arya stops at the Inn at the Crossroads to catch up on the gossip and steal food from the other punters. She runs into Hot Pie, who is delighted to see her and gives her some tips on the perfect crust.
“By the way,” he adds as an afterthought. “The Starks have retaken Winterfell, no big deal.”
“What in the hell, Hot Pie?” says Arya, in between wiping her mouth several hundred times. “You didn’t think to lead with that? Now I have to go home all covered in crumbs, and you know how my sister feels about looking scruffy.”
“I’ve literally never met another member of your family. Also, where’s Gen-”
“We’re not mentioning him,” says Arya sharply. “How much do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house,” says Hot Pie smoothly. “Also, er, I think you’re really cute, so maybe you’d like to go on a date sometime?”
Arya pats Hot Pie gently on the shoulder. Seen 14:58.
Back at Winterfell, Jon receives yet another letter, this time from Samwell Tarly, advising him of the stash of obsidian on Dragonstone. Jon gathers the other lords of the North and announces that he has decided to answer Daenerys’ summons. He will travel south to mine dragonglass, and perhaps borrow one of the dragons while he’s at it. He can probably do it, too. It’s not like she’ll notice if he takes NotDrogon #1 or NotDrogon #2.
Everyone is incensed by this decision, particularly Sansa, who advises him to stay in Winterfell. “What have I told you about making announcements without telling me beforehand?” she cries. “And why are you so determined to die?”
“I’ve got a gift for you,” says Jon.
“If you think you can distract me with another American Girl doll-”
“No dolls,” Jon interrupts. “But a kingdom. The entire kingdom of the North.”
Sansa is immediately cowed into silence, while the other lords take copious notes on Jon’s smooth diversion tactics. Hot damn, she thinks, almost foaming at the mouth. ‘How did he know I loved kingdoms?
It is settled that Jon is going to Dragonstone. “What will we do if the Night King attacks while you’re not here?” says nobody, which seems like an egregious oversight, if you ask me.
Before he leaves, Jon goes to the crypts and visits his father’s grave, to pay his respects and enjoy a moment of quiet reflection. Naturally, Petyr Baelish slithers over to interrupt him.
“I think Sansa’s turned on ghost mode, because I can’t find her anywhere,” says Petyr, showing Jon his Snapchat map. “I’m sure it was just a mistake.”
“I don’t want to discuss Snapchat by my father’s grave,” says Jon. “Also, this area is for Starks only.”
“Who died and made you a Stark?” asks Petyr in a subtle nod to an unused Robb Stark plotline from the books. “Also, I fully intend on impregnating your sister while you’re away. Your nephew’s going to be born with a half-assed chin beard.”
Jon slams Petyr into the wall while Ned Stark’s statue watches proudly. “Atta boy, son,” Jon imagines him saying. “You’ve done your old man proud.”
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Meanwhile, Arya’s camping out in the snow for the benefit of all the idiots at the back who didn’t realize she was heading north after she left the inn.
Suddenly, she’s surrounded by a pack of snarling wolves and frantically recounts everything she learned in the Girl Scouts about surviving wolf attacks, only to remember that she was kicked out of the Girl Scouts for beating the crap out of people who refused to buy her cookies, Luckily, Nymeria shows up and recognizes her.
“I’m going back to Winterfell,” Arya tells Nymeria, for the benefit of that one person who still insisted until this moment that she was on her way south. “Come home with me.”
Nymeria places a conciliatory paw on Arya’s shoulder. Seen 18:23.
Somewhere between Dragonstone and Dorne, Ellaria Sand and her terrible, terrible children are being transported back to Sunspear by Yara and Theon Greyjoy. Ellaria wastes no time in putting the moves on Yara, now that Daenerys isn’t around and she’s more likely to settle for second best. Just as they start to make out, their ship is rocked by an explosion.
“Did the earth move for you too, baby?” Ellaria purrs.
“Er, yes,” says Yara. “Because we’re being attacked.”
Yara and Theon race to the deck. “I want to be the one who kills Conor McGregor,” says Yara, unaware of the disappointment in store.
Euron Greyjoy crash lands on board. He’s had 15 Red Bulls and three scoops of protein power, and he’s pumped, bro. It seems pretty convenient that Euron just happened to find his niece and nephew out at sea in the dead of night, but at this stage it’s just another one to toss on the pile.
While he and his men lay waste to most of Yara’s crew, Yara sends the only useful Sand Snake and her bad pussy below deck to guard her mother, but both women are soon captured. The other two Sand Snakes are killed by Captain Fan Service, who went to the Arya Stark school of being impervious to stabbings.
Meanwhile, Yara is kicking ass and quite frankly carrying the whole team, but even her steel-tipped badassery isn’t enough to defeat Lord Protein Shake, who subdues her after a short fight. Holding his axe to her neck, he taunts Theon, bidding him to come forth and attempt to rescue his big sister, but Theon nopes off the ship faster than Cersei leaving an AA meeting.
“Hello darkness, my old friend,” sings Theon, as the Silence sails away into the mist. “I’ve come to talk with you again.”
Taking the Iron Throne
This week, I award the Iron Throne to …
Samwell Tarly
Massive props go to Sam this week for being the Renaissance Man Westeros needs right now. Is there anything he can’t do? Need a White Walker killed? Sam’s your man. Are you being harassed by a troublesome Thenn? Sam can handle it. Come down with an incurable disease? Sam will fix you. Have you been injured in an accident at work that wasn’t your fault? Sam could probably represent you in claims court.
Honorable mentions: Hot Pie, Varys and Daenerys and their excellent battle of wits, Yara Greyjoy, Nymeria (the wolf, not the Sand Snake), Grey Worm
Chilling in Fleabottom
This week’s bottom-dwelling, bowl o’ brown guzzling loser is …
The Sand Snakes
It’d be so easy to give this award to Littlefinger every week, as his character spirals ever downwards into deeper levels of cartoon villainy, but let’s not repeat ourselves. I’m giving failure of the week to the Sand Snakes because they have accumulated a wealth of material since season 5 that came to a pathetic end this week with yet more terrible dialogue. Also, a bullwhip? What was that supposed to accomplish in close quarters with an axe-wielding maniac? Who fights with a weapon that could literally give your opponent a means to pull you close and strangle you?
Honorable mentions: Creeptyr Baelish, Ellaria Sand for her casual defense of child murder, Theon Greyjoy for jumping ship, and yes, that was a pun.
Apologies for the delay this week. Next time, we take a look at The Queen’s Justice, and will treat it with the respect to which it is entitled.
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