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: “The Queen’s Justice,” the third episode of season 7. No fooling. Violators will be frowned at.
We begin our journey this week at Dragonstone, where Jon Snow and Davos Seaworth have stopped on the first phase of their ‘places Stark men shouldn’t go’ luxury cruise. Once ashore, they are greeted cordially by Tyrion Lannister and coldly by everybody else.
“We heard there was a beach party happening,” Jon says as he tries not to gasp in awe at the sight of a land that won’t give him frostbite.
“Where are our Hawaiian leis?” asks Davos as he shakes hands with Tyrion. “Also, didn’t you blow my son to smithereens?” Tyrion, understandably uncomfortable, looks to Missandei for help.
“Welcome, honored prisoners,” she begins. “Please remove your shoes before you come inside. Also, your swords. And your smartphones. Pay no attention to the men who are carrying your boat away and tossing it onto that bonfire.”
“Ah. Yes. This is Missandei,” says Tyrion. “She can make a situation even more awkward in nineteen languages.”
“Is one of them the language of love?” asks Davos.
Tyrion leads Jon and Davos towards the castle. En route, he assures Jon that Sansa’s brief tenure as his child bride was not marred by the pleasures of the untamed flesh. Jon is desperately uncomfortable with this topic because, as it turns out, he and Sansa don’t really gossip about boys over brunch and cocktails. “I know we’re on HBO, but this isn’t Sex and the City,” he tells Tyrion. “Although if it was, I’d be such a Charlotte.”
Suddenly, bad CGI comes swooping down on Jon and Davos, knocking them both to the ground.
Elsewhere on the island, Melisandre is balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff, looking down upon her beloved King in the North.
“One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do,” she sings to herself as Varys creeps up behind her, intent on giving her a little push in the wrong direction. “I’ve been waiting for you, Rey.”
“The Force isn’t real, Melisandre,” says Varys. “And who even is Rey?”
“I find your lack of faith in the Lord of Light disturbing.”
“Mind tricks don’t work on me.”
“In time, the suffering of your people will persuade you to see our point of view.”
“I’ll never turn to the dark side. You’ve failed, my lady. I am an atheist, like my father before me.”
Melisandre turns to Varys, an enigmatic smile on her face. “Soon, young Skywalker, you will die.”
“Just once,” says Varys to him, as Melisandre glides mysteriously away. “Can one of these bitches give me the goddamn lottery numbers instead of scaring the bejesus out of me?”
Meanwhile, Daenerys receives Jon and Davos in her throne room. She is pleasantly surprised to find that Jon is a hot piece of ass(ets to the North). Jon is also pleased — Dany is so smokin’ hot, it almost doesn’t matter that she’s not a redhead like his first love, Tormund Giantsbane.
Missandei introduces Daenerys with the usual amount of pomp. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.”
“TL;DR,” Davos replies.
“So,” says Daenerys, immediately forgetting the reason why Melisandre urged her to invite Jon in the first place. “I assume you’ve come to uphold the vows your ancestor made hundreds of years ago?”
“Nope,” says Jon. “Do you want to take responsibility for the crimes of your ancestors?”
“I’ll have you know that the Targaryen reign was a time of great peace.”
“You mean, aside from all the wars and rebellions?”
“I haven’t learned of the wars and rebellions, which means they never happened,” says Daenerys. “Your dad’s best friend advocated child murder.”
“Two of your allies have actually murdered children.”
“Who cares? I am the last Targaryen and you must bow to me immediately.”
“Ha,” says the internet. “Ha ha ha ha ha.”
Jon refuses to be swayed. “We’ll all be murdered children if the Night King gets his way.”
“MOMMY!” Daenerys wails to Tyrion. “THE MEAN MAN CALLED ME A CHILD.”
“The dead are coming to kill us all,” says Jon, before Tyrion can dig out Dany’s pacifier. “I’ve literally seen them. This is really serious. Dead serious, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Daenerys, the woman who brought dragons into the world and is impervious to fire, thinks that this is a bit of a stretch.
On the Narrow Sea, Theon Greyjoy is hauled into a ship by the last of his sister’s men.
“I can’t believe you ran away from Euron,” says one of the ironborn, looking down upon Theon’s wet, shaking body with disgust in his eyes. “What the hell wrong with you?”
“Have you heard of post-traumatic stress disorder? I have plenty of literature on the subject if you’d like to peruse it.”
“I’m from the Iron Islands. I haven’t even heard of books. You disgust me, you coward.”
“Oh, and I suppose your ship just ‘got lost’ in the middle of the battle, did it?” says Theon. To himself. He’s already been left alone on deck. He wasn’t even offered a towel. Ironborn savages.
In King’s Landing, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is underway, with Euron Greyjoy leading the procession on a float that was donated by the Westerosi Misogynists’ Society. The crowd cheers wildly and blows him kisses, though nobody actually knows who he is.
“What is the Westerosi Misogynists’ Society?” says one Fleabottom dwelling resident to another.
“Some sort of hipster band, from the looks of it,” his friend replies. “Why is guyliner suddenly A Thing in the realm?”
In the Red Keep throne room, Euron walks down Cersei’s aptly chosen black carpet, dragging Yara Greyjoy, Ellaria and Tyene with him. As he approaches the Iron Throne, he wonders what personality he’ll pull out of the bag today, even though the answer is always the same: dickhead. He presents Ellaira and Tyene to Cersei.
“That throne would look better with me sitting on it,” he tells Cersei, with a charming smile. “How about we get hitched, so I can murder you on our wedding night?”
“Not if I murder you first, you odious little creep,” says Cersei sweetly.
Oh no, thinks Jaime. They’re doing foreplay!
Later, Cersei gags Ellaria and Tyene Sand and shows them around their new subterranean lodgings. “Have I told you about my latest venture?” she asks “I call it Killer Queen cosmetics.” Then she plants a smacker right on Tyene’s lips. “You’re going to die very soon, but at least you’ll look presentable.”
Ellaira Sand is furious. That was her intellectual property!
That night, Jaime is eating his dinner and minding his own business when Cersei bursts into the room, deeply aroused by the prospect of Tyene Sand’s putrid, rotting flesh. Also because it’s Black Friday in the morning. Cersei loves Black Friday. Everything she owns is black now.
She throws herself on Jaime and initiates a ferocious make-out session.
“Do you have protection?” she asks her brother.
“What? Like a condom?”
“No,” she replies, fishing a little bottle out from between her bosoms. “Antidote. Drink up, lover.”
The next morning, after having her way with her twin brother — a sentence that will never not sound weird — Cersei meets with Mycroft Holmes, who has come from the Iron Bank of Braavos to collect the Crown’s ever surmounting debts.
“Your late husband spent most of the royal coffers on cheeseburgers and prostitutes,” says Mycroft, consulting his notes. “You appear to have spent the rest of it having everything in the castle redone in black. Was it really necessary to give makeovers to all the handmaidens?”
“Enforcing a dress code is a standard business practice.”
“And the monogrammed black towels?”
“It’s important to have a strong personal brand.”
“May I ask, are you Batman?”
“No.”
“Do you have Batman’s vast personal fortune?”
Cersei takes a sip of wine to avoid the question.
Back at Dragonstone, Tyrion goes for a stroll and runs into Jon, who is balanced precariously on top of a cliff. Why are so many people standing on the edges of cliffs on an island where there are three fully grown dragons swooping around? It’s only a matter of time before Drogon knocks somebody to their death, and then it’ll only be a matter of time before Rhaegal and Viserion are punished for it.
“Where’s Davos?” asks Tyrion.
“Recovering from his burns.”
“Oh, did one of the dragons attack him?”
“No, but Missandei’s rejection hit him pretty hard.”
Jon makes it clear to Tyrion that he is very unhappy that his totally grounded story about a group of magic-wielding ice monsters and their army of zombies has not been taken at face value. Because Jon is his Jon Bro, Tyrion takes pity on him. He goes to see Daenerys, and asks her to do a favor for the King in the North.
“Does he want my number?” says Dany hopefully. “Not that I care, or even want him to have my number. I don’t even like him. I wouldn’t give him my number. He’s gross. No, you’re stupid!”
“He wants dragonglass, but well done on playing it cool.”
“I’m a monarch, a conquerer and a single mom,” says Dany. “I don’t have time to play it cool.”
Later that day, Jon visits Daenerys to butter her up in hopes of getting some dragonglass. “Nice kids,” he says, indicating the dragons. “What grade are they in?”
“That’s Rhaegal,” says Dany, pointing at Not Drogon #1. “I named him after my brother, the one who kidnapped your aunt and inadvertently started a rebellion. Over there is Viserion, named for my other brother, who abused me frequently. There’s also Drogon, who I named for the rapist I married.”
“Um,” says Jon. “You need to meet better people.”
At Winterfell, Sansa Stark has assumed control of the North and is hard at work subverting the expectations of her haters, which is a 24/7 gig, let me tell you. Petyr Baelish, meanwhile, has abandoned Snapchat stalking and is simply following her wherever she goes. Once Sansa has finished with her chores for the day, Petyr tries to impress her by passing off some Jaden Smith tweets as his own work, but is interrupted by the timely arrival of Bran Stark.
Sansa is so delighted to see her little brother that she bursts into tears and leaps onto the cart he rode in on to embrace him. He does not hug her back.
“You lazy little asshole,” scolds Meera Reed, who has had about enough of Bran’s sloth-like behavior. “The fall didn’t break your goddamn arms, Brandon!”
Later, the reunited siblings have a private chat in the godswood.
“I’m really sorry I missed your wedding,” says Bran. “But I was there in spirit.”
“That’s nice,” says Sansa dispassionately.
“No, I mean it. I was literally there in spirit. I saw everything that happened. Your life is a hot mess.”
Sansa stares at him.
“Lol,” says Bran.
“That little shit,” Sansa mutters as she walks away. “I’ll break his bloody arms for him.”
At the Citadel, Samwell Tarly and Professor Slughorn are in Jorah Mormont’s cell, examining what used to be deadly clumps of greyscale and now appears to be a bad case of sunburn.
“Your terminal illness is gone,” says Slughorn. “How did that happen?”
“Oh, you know the old tale,” says Jorah. “An apple a day keeps the greyscale away!”
“That is the worst lie I’ve ever heard in my life,” says Slughorn. “How in the hell did you hide your betrayal from Daenerys Targaryen for four seasons?”
“Have this gift as a token of my thanks,” says Jorah, and surreptitiously hands Slughorn a box of that sweet crystallized pineapple. Knowing a good bribe when he sees one, Slughorn gives Jorah a saucy wink and departs the room, leaving Jorah and Sam alone to say their farewells.
“It’s guy love,” they sing in unison, as they clasp hands. “Between two guys.”
Later, Slughorn summons Sam to his office.
“You shouldn’t have gone after that troll in the dungeons.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“When you and Mr. Weasley snuck into the Forbidden Forest at night…”
“That wasn’t me either.”
“Promise me that you won’t go looking for Sirius Bl…”
“Not my godfather.”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” sighs Slughorn. “I’m getting too old for this shit. Copy these papers.”
Back at Dragonstone, Tyrion, Daenerys, Varys and Missandei gather in the war room to discuss the Unsullied’s attack on Casterly Rock, which is already underway in the Westerlands.
“Wait a second,” says Daenerys. “Why are you only telling me your battle strategy now? I’m the monarch around here. Didn’t you think to let me know of your plans before you sent the Unsullied to take your ancestral home?”
“We have discussed this beforehand, obviously,” Tyrion replies. “It would make absolutely no sense if we hadn’t.”
“So who are we having this conversation for?”
Tyrion glances shiftily at the audience, but decides against telling Daenerys the truth. If she didn’t believe Jon about the White Walkers, she’s not going to accept that she’s a character in a TV show. Westeros doesn’t even have TV.
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Fresh from the deadliest instance of fellatio he’s ever experienced, Jaime Lannister marches on Highgarden with the bulk of the Lannister forces and several Tyrell bannermen in tow. “Don’t you ever, don’t you ever, stop being dandy, showing me you’re handsome,” he sings to himself as he rides to the castle on his white horse, which definitely wasn’t chosen to max out his sex appeal.
The Tyrell army is unprepared for the attack — so unprepared, in fact, that they drop dead of their own accord, saving HBO thousands of dollars in special effects. As the Lannister forces get to plundering the castle, Jaime pays a visit to Olenna Tyrell.
“You’re not Margaery,” says Olenna, as soon as Jaime walks through the door. “But you are such a Carrie.”
“Let me guess, you’re a Miranda,” says Jaime, fixing them both a cosmo and settling in for some dish.
“Cersei is not your Mr. Big.”
Delicately ignoring Olenna’s slight against his lover, Jaime explains that he has come to show House Tyrell just how Lannisters deal with their enemies. He then proceeds to euthanize her in the most humane and pain-free way as possible. Harsh.
“You’re a sweet boy,” says Olenna, who downs her poisoned cosmo in one mouthful. Baller. “Unlike your son, who I totally murdered, by the way.”
Jaime stares at her.
“Lol,” says Olenna.
“As I watched the old lady succumb to poison, I couldn’t help but wonder,” Jaime narrates later, as he gazes thoughtfully at his Apple Mac. “Am I the biggest mug in the Seven Kingdoms?”
Taking the Iron Throne
This week, I award the Iron Throne to …
Olenna Tyrell
It seems only fitting that this honor be given to Olenna Tyrell, and not just because it’s the last time we’re going to see her. From the moment she stepped into King’s Landing with her sassy one-liners and her complete disdain for the Not-Margaerys of the world, the Queen of Thorns has been the rightful ruler of our hearts and minds. This week, Jaime Lannister poisoned her, yet he’s the one who wound up assassinated.
Honorable mentions: Every member of House Lannister, Sansa Stark, Davos Seaworth
Chilling in Fleabottom
This week’s bottom-dwelling, bowl o’ brown guzzling loser is …
Petyr Baelish
“Why, Petyr?!” I cry, shaking my fist at the screen as Littlefinger launches into yet another monologue of total bullshit. It was hard to pick a loser from elsewhere this week because I found every other character so enjoyable, but as Petyr’s writer grows sloppier and sloppier, and as he continues to devolve into the show’s very own Adam West-era Batman villian/leprechaun/That Creep on the Bus, he’s becoming difficult to overlook. This week, he hit Sansa with some ‘I’m taking a philosophy’ class wisdom, and the Seven only know what crap he’ll come up with next.
Honorable mentions: Missandei, who was rude to Davos. How dare she?!
Next week, we’ll be examining “The Spoils of War,” and sobbing loudly over the knowledge that we’re over halfway through the season. Tissues at the ready.
Other recaps in this Very Serious series:
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