Dragonstone (S7x01)
Airdate: 16 July 2017
Written by: David Benioff & D. B. Weiss Directed by: Jeremy Podeswa
Running Time: 59 minutes
The most significant and telling conflict in the latter years of Game of Thrones was actually fought in the boardrooms and writers’ rooms of Hollywood. It centred on a single, fundamental question: when should the saga end? HBO, understandably protective of its most lucrative cultural phenomenon, desired to extend the series indefinitely, reluctant to relinquish its golden goose. The saga’s creator, George R. R. Martin, publicly advocated for at least ten full seasons, arguing that the epic, generational scope of his literary creation could only be done justice by a narrative spanning decades, not the condensed timeline the television format imposed. Caught in the middle were showrunners David Benioff and D. B. Weiss, who had begun concretely plotting the endgame as early as Season 4 and were adamant that the story should conclude with Season 7, perhaps with a slightly extended final run. The eventual compromise—a split final act comprising a shortened Season 7 and an even more truncated Season 8—feels less like a narrative necessity and more a corporate fudge. Watching Dragonstone, the premiere of this penultimate season, one can make a compelling argument that Benioff and Weiss were, in a grim sense, correct. The creative exhaustion they reportedly felt is not merely apparent; it is the episode’s defining characteristic. The plotting becomes formulaic, moving pieces with procedural efficiency rather than inspired drama, and the sense of artificial prolonging hangs over scenes that should crackle with anticipation.
Directed by Jeremy Podeswa, the episode functions primarily as an elaborate table-setting exercise, its core mission to delineate where every major faction and character stands in the wake of Season 6’s climactic upheavals. The result is a chapter that feels less like organic storytelling and more like a theatrical ‘reset’, with each storyline receiving a brief, functional update before the season’s true engine can engage. This mechanical approach is evident from the cold open, a rare device for the series. We are presented with a seemingly resurrected Walder Frey, presiding over a feast for his entire house. The deception—that this is Arya Stark wearing Walder’s face—is initially effective, a satisfying twist revealing her brutal completion of a long-sought vengeance. However, the scene collapses under minimal logistical scrutiny. The notion that Arya could single-handedly orchestrate the poisoning of an entire noble house, impersonate its lord convincingly enough to gather every significant male heir, and execute the plan without a single hitch feels less like the cunning of a Faceless Man and more like a narrative gimmick. It plays as if it exists primarily because the showrunners wished to have the superb David Bradley back on screen for a final, posthumous bow, sacrificing plausibility for a moment of visceral, yet hollow, catharsis.
The episode then engages in a whirlwind tour of Westeros. Beyond the Wall, Bran Stark’s arrival at the Night’s Watch, accompanied by Meera Reed, is handled with stark (pun intended) minimalism. His vision of the White Walker army’s southward march is chilling, but his reunion with the beleaguered Eddison Tollett is perfunctory, serving only to deposit this now-omniscient plot device at the Wall for future use. In the North, the political dynamics are more engaging, yet similarly tinged with routine. Jon Snow, consolidating his regime as King in the North, wisely chooses mercy over vengeance towards former Bolton loyalists, his focus entirely turned to the existential threat from the North. His decree that everyone must train to fight and his manning of abandoned Wall forts with Wildlings are logical, necessary steps. The more compelling tension lies between Sansa and Petyr Baelish. Sophie Turner and Aidan Gillen effectively portray the delicate dance of Sansa’s diplomacy, where she must simultaneously reject Baelish’s grotesque advances while implicitly acknowledging her brother’s continued need for the Knights of the Vale. It is a thread ripe with potential, though here it remains just that—a thread, pulled taut but not yet woven into a more complex pattern.
The Riverlands provide two contrasting character moments. Arya’s subsequent encounter with a group of Lannister soldiers around a campfire is, divorced from its real-world context, one of the episode’s stronger humanistic beats. Having just exterminated a house, she is reminded that the enemy is not always a monolithic evil. These soldiers are not monsters but conscripted boys and young men, singing songs, missing their families, and longing for peace. It is a vital recalibration of Arya’s humanity, a necessary pause before her relentless march towards Cersei. The controversy that engulfed this scene—due to the casting of global pop superstar Ed Sheeran as a singing soldier—was, for many, a catastrophic breaking of the fourth wall. For viewers unfamiliar with 2010s pop stardom, the scene works as intended; the soldier is simply a friendly lad with a nice voice. For the vast majority, however, Sheeran’s recognisable face and voice yanked them out of Westeros and into a distracting, poorly conceived celebrity cameo, reportedly arranged as a favour for Maisie Williams. The backlash was arguably overblown in its vitriol but entirely justified in its criticism of a production that had previously worn its immersion so impeccably. Nearby, Sandor Clegane’s subplot offers a quieter, more successful grace note. Taking shelter in an abandoned farmhouse—the very one he robbed years prior—he discovers the skeletons of the farmer and his daughter, a grim testament to the consequences of his past brutality. His decision to bury them is a wordless, powerful moment of redemption, beautifully underplayed by Rory McCann.
In Oldtown, the episode attempts its most direct injection of world-building, with decidedly mixed results. The Citadel segments introduce the formidable Archmaester Ebrose, played with delightful, curmudgeonly authority by the great Jim Broadbent. His presence lends gravitas and offers a rare glimpse into the scholarly and scientific underpinnings of Westerosi society, aspects largely ignored in favour of martial and political drama. Yet, this potential is squandered by the dreary, overlong depiction of Samwell Tarly’s gruelling maester training. Montages of him scrubbing bedpans, serving slop, and cleaning chamber pots are clearly intended as comic relief—the intellectual giant brought low by menial labour. Instead, they feel interminable and tonally jarring, a poorly conceived attempt at humour that pads the runtime. Furthermore, the convenient discovery of a greyscale-afflicted Jorah Mormont in the adjacent quarantine cell stretches credulity. While it efficiently reunites two key characters and provides Sam with a future heroic act, it feels like a contrivance, a narrative shortcut that highlights the writers’ increasing reliance on coincidence to manoeuvre pieces across the board.
In King’s Landing, the political calculus is stark. Cersei Lannister, now seated on the Iron Throne, possesses absolute power in a capital that is effectively a gilded prison. Lena Headey excellently conveys the paranoid isolation of a queen with no allies, surrounded by enemies on all fronts: the Tyrells, Dorne, and the looming threat of Daenerys Targaryen. Her brother Jaime’s palpable anxiety underscores the precariousness of their position; the Lannister armies are spent, their legacy reduced to one woman’s ruthless will. The timely arrival of Euron Greyjoy, played with unhinged charisma by Pilou Asbæk, injects a jolt of chaotic energy. His offer of the Iron Fleet is a classic Game of Thrones manoeuvre—an alliance of desperate convenience—and it works because both actors sell the mutual, predatory calculation beneath the pomp.
The episode culminates in its titular moment: Daenerys Targaryen’s long-awaited landing on the ancestral Targaryen stronghold of Dragonstone. Directed with a reverential, almost religious silence, the sequence is undeniably powerful. As Daenerys walks through the deserted halls, touching the stone of her birthplace, the weight of history and destiny is palpable. Emilia Clarke communicates volumes without dialogue, her awe mirroring that of the audience. Her final line, “Shall we begin?”, is a perfectly delivered promise of the war to come. Yet, this awe is undermined by a nagging logical flaw. The strategic value of Dragonstone—a formidable, impregnable fortress commanding the narrow sea and overlooking the approach to Blackwater Bay—is immense. That it has stood completely abandoned since Stannis Baratheon’s departure, ignored by a crown constantly fearful of invasion, is an absurdity the script glosses over. Jaime even reminds Cersei of its importance earlier in the episode, highlighting the oversight. Its vacant state exists for one reason only: to provide Daenerys with a pristine, dramatic stage for her entrance, a symbol overruling sense.
In the end, ‘Dragonstone’ is an episode symptomatic of Game of Thrones in its late-stage decline. It is competently made, features strong individual performances, and delivers several satisfying moments. However, it is fundamentally a product of compromise and creative fatigue. The plotting is functional rather than inspired, reliant on conveniences and gimmicks over the intricate cause-and-effect that once defined the series. It sets the board for the final conflicts, but the moves feel pre-ordained, the pieces pushed by authorial fiat rather than the complex internal logic that once made this world feel terrifyingly real.
RATING: 6/10 (++)
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