Our latest episode of Game of Thrones opens in a dark, muddy shithole village, and leads us to the filthy whorehovel where Gilly does the washing up. And gets drunkenly abused for being a Wildling. Why is everyone so mean about Wildlings?
Well, the raiding and slaughtering is kind of off-putting. Luckily Ginger has a soft spot for babies. Nice shot of the blood running through the floorboards, by the by.
Back at Castle Black, news of the slaughter has reached The Only Crows We Like, who are drinking their guilt. Dolorous Edd has a moment of optimism, assuring Sam that Gilly is a proven survivor, but he settles back into dolorizing sharpish at the thought of going 102 on 100,000 with Mance’s Chancers.
(Also note that Edd believes Sam’s tale of taking on a White Walker.)
And we get a lovely bit of gratuitous with Missandei and Grey Worm, which leads us to a load of pointless speculation as to whether Grey has a Worm. I’d prefer to know why the Queen is braiding her servant’s hair.
(Let’s face it, the Unsullied are a problematic creation. They all have a lot more muscle mass and aggression than you could reasonably expect from boys who’ve had their testes removed before puberty. And if their chief selling point is that they won’t ruin your plunder by rape, it seems unlikely that the slaver would chance leaving them with dicks. Regardless of all this, castrating and brainwashing Grey wouldn’t make him asexual. This is, however, a stupid NITB subplot and I’m done discussing it.)
Speaking of castrated and brainwashed, Our Theon of Sorrows is back in armor, delivering terms to the keepers of Moat Caillin on behalf of Barry the Bastard. He starts strong but panics after the first rebuff, and is only saved in the end by the mutinous treachery of his fellow Ironborn.
Speaking of treachery, Barry the Bastard is a treacherous fucking bastard.
Meanwhile at the Eyrie, Scratchy the Pimp is on the hot seat. Sansa comes to his aid with a whole lot of truth and a very select lie, and some girlish tears to seal the deal. Lucky for Scratchy, everyone in the Vale knew Lysa was a headcase, and they are happy to see someone with a plan for her little veal calf.
So, Sansa has chosen a side, but she hasn’t necessarily sided with Scratchy. We shall see.
In sunny Meereen, someone (Varys, obvs.) has rat-fucked Jorah, clearly with the intention of separating him from Dany. That was easy.
And Barry the Bastard is a bastard no more. Bring on the celebratory choke-sex!
And the Hound has arrived at the Vale, a day late and a dollar short as usual. I laughed right along with Arya.
Up in the Eyrie, where there clearly isn’t an intercom, Scratchy is working Robyn, and Sansa is looking Maleficent. Damn, girl. Evil looks good on you.
And Tyrion is getting a load on, courtesy of Jaime. Since wine makes him philosophical, we get some linguistics and an endless story about their simple cousin who lived to kill beetles in the garden. We don’t get a punch line, either. Tyrion, if you’re reading this: Beetles are fuckers.
Which brings us to the set piece we’ve all been slavering for: Prince O and the Mountain.
I’ll spare you the Princess Bride jokes. The GIFs are certainly flooding in by now.
What we get is a lovely refutation of the Hound’s pronouncements about the effectiveness of light-footed skill versus a huge sword and armor. All the way up to Prince O getting too into his monologuing, which gives the Mountain a chance to get hold of him and pop his head like a zit.
At least Tyrion is getting a chance to add to his collection of “oh no I’m completely fucked” faces. Next week he will drop Magnum on us.