Our sixth season of HBO’s Game of Thrones continues with Max Von Sydow and Bran stoned out of their eyeballs in the root cellar opium den. Bran is dreaming an episode of Winterfell Babies.
And WYLIS! (My wife speaks for us all: “I really didn’t expect Hodor to have a backstory. And now I’m DYING to know it…”)
And Meera’s a grouch, as usual, but seriously, nothing’s worse than people telling you about this weird dream they had. OK, watching your brother get murdered by Party City Halloween decorations, then getting stuck at the frozen edge of nowhere with no one for company but Sexy Snow Elf is worse, but it’s all in the same bag.
Back at Winterfell, Ser Squarehead is here with security to escort you from the premises, and there are some papers you need to sign, just a standard non-compete and non-disclosure agreement. And we’ll need your ID and keycard. We wish you the best, but it wasn’t a good fit.
Davos isn’t signing shit, and he’s not going to surrender his MacBook, he paid for that himself. Here comes the sledgehammer.
And look, here’s Edd with a couple of union reps and a 20-foot-tall auditor from corporate HR! Now that’s timing.
Ser Squarehead has massively overestimated his mandate to command, and some poor fucker has put way too much faith in the power of his coward’s crossbow. Ser Squarehead and Oly are lucky not to wind up as smears in the snow.
Jon Snow: Still dead.
Down south in the capitol, the living comments sections are still abroad in daylight. And so is the moderator. Skulls smooshing on walls is a theme here. So is captivity and boredom, hello Cersei, and so is being lucky not to be a smear on a wall.
Tommen is looking even more like Jughead than his shit brother. That just isn’t a good crown. And turtlenecks are a bad look when you don’t have a chin. Tommen doesn’t just look weak and hapless, though, he feels it, and rightly so.
And here’s the High Sparrow, to tell us the story of the eye cookies! Never thought I’d get that either. The HS is totally the Joker, merrily provoking Jaime and leaving him stewing in his rage. Jaime’s threats have no substance; he could kill one old codger, but he couldn’t take more than a few scarheads left-handed. When the HS talks about overthrowing an empire, he’s smiling but he’s not fucking kidding.
Tommen, to his credit, humbles himself before Cersei and asks forgiveness. Cersei grants it, and sneaks a little smile of triumph, having bested Marge after all.
In the gloom of Mereen, Dany’s remaining brain trust is sifting through the wreckage of the total collapse of Project Mhysa looking for any way to save their bacon. Wrong audience for the no-cock jokes, Tyrion.
Varys is an unconvincing scold, but he’s not wrong about Tyrion laying off the sauce. His attempt to recapture his Lannister swagger ends with him down in the dragon kennel, lucky not to be the latest smoking carcass. The dragons deign to tolerate his blather until he pops their irons off, and dismiss him.
Can’t wait to see Varys throw a left hook next episode.
Across the sea in Braavos, Arya is getting her lunch money took by Ginger Bitchface again. Arya finally loses it, thrashing away at nothing, and who should appear but Capt. Jaquen. He offers her three chances to give up, and she holds fast. Welcome back to Project Mayhem, Blind Space Monkey.
In the cold blue light of Winterfell, Lord Flaymate and Barry the Bastard are butting heads over Barry’s terrible, bloodthirsty, shortsighted ideas for recapturing Sansa and killing Jon Snow, who by the way is still dead. Things are brought to a head by Maester Pyle shambling in and announcing the birth of a male Bolton heir.
And farewell to Lord Flaymate, who perhaps shouldn’t have tried to control his psychotic bastard with emotional abuse. I admit I did not see this coming, but it certainly moves the plot along.
And we get a long tense sequence that hinges on the question: Is this the season they’re gonna waste a baby onscreen? The answer is no, but damn, did they tease that out.
And in the ice zombie infested woods north of Winterfell, Brienne is catching Sansa up with the fate of her sister and managing not to mention that the man she was with was The Hound. Brienne is finally learning to fudge things a bit.
Sansa finds herself in the curious position of reassuring Theon, who doesn’t want reassurance, or forgiveness, just a horse to carry him home to the Asshole Islands.
Where his dad is joining the ranks of the usurped and smashed on rocks. Welcome to the Couldn’t Have Happened to a Nicer Guy Club, Lord Balon.
And we finally get to the bit where Mel tries to resurrect Jon Snow. Davos has to jolly her along quite a bit, since she is having a well-earned crisis of faith and self-confidence after sinking the House of Baratheon. Then it occurs to her that the priest she knows who can raise the dead is Thoros of Myr, whose only other particular talent is absorbing rum in quantity.
So she steps up and speaks the words and does the ritual, which looks like a very odd spa treatment. She gets no result, and after several attempts at laying on of hands, she calls it, much like an ER doc hanging up the paddles. Slowly, one by one, the witnesses depart, until only Ghost is left. Ghost rouses from his nap, and then we get our wide-eyed gasp.
Works for me. Hey, I snap awake out of a stone coma when my puppy needs a walk at 4am.
Next week, we get to see the look on Ser Squarehead’s face. I don’t need anything else. See you then.