Game of thrones season 7 episode 7 finale

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Game of thrones season 7 episode 7 finale

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The set-up is very trial by combat, a big fave of Cersei's, with the central platform the perfect size for a two-man scrap. Theon and Jon speak about the Starks and The Greyjoys and how it used to be when they grew up together. Are you drinking red wine with your breakfast in celebration of some first-rate drunken diplomacy, or are you munching on bugs, training yourself to subsist on lean proteins in preparation for a hard winter?


game of thrones season 7 episode 7 finale
Retrieved July 23, 2016. Retrieved September 12, 2016. Yay go Jaime, get out of that abusive note. Good morning to you. I threw back a little ice water. Prior to Bran, he was the closest thing this tale had to a seer, a mind with all of his eyes open. He forgives Theon for as many of his trespasses as he can. U up, Jaime: you might have just come up with a new slogan for HBO.

Just kidding, Ghost was deleted from the show entirely, and none of the characters ever bring it up. At least 19 individual teams participated in this promotion.


game of thrones season 7 episode 7 finale

Game of Thrones Season 7 Spoilers : Episode 7 Season Finale - I loved Game of Thrones for its nuance and its scope—the way that it felt like it could contain everything from the intensely personal to the broadly political. To find out more or to opt-out, please read our.


game of thrones season 7 episode 7 finale

There is a series of questions that every person asks themselves when a relationship falls apart. Why did this happen? What could have been done differently? How did we end up here, after everything we shared? And then the most fundamental question, the one that holds itself up to your eye like a magnifying glass in the sun: Why did I love you in the first place? There is no single answer to this question that will resonate for every person, every situation. But the most universal answer, the one that speaks most powerfully and broadly to everyone's heart, is also the simplest: I believed in you. If the finale of the seventh season of says anything, it is that this show has failed its fans, and has been doing so slowly for a long time. It did not want to admit it, nor did they. But alas, it's happened and all that hope and emotional investment has been reduced to a series of bullet points and cartoons, an empty dragon breathing blue fire with all the CGI fury of a broken promise with too much momentum behind it to do anything else. Not because the story demands it, but because the story has found no way around itself. Martin knows one, but he may never finish writing his epic tale. Listen: It is not an easy task. Does anyone truly feel they could face the sheer weight of this story, sword in hand, and conquer it? Who thinks it would be simple? Everyone wishes they could be smarter, stronger, more eloquent when faced with their fundamental inadequacies. In the end, people are who they are, unable to be better than their limitations, especially when painted into a corner. If anything, that is when they are at their worst, the most unable to see what happens next. Perhaps the most unbelievable moment in all of this is the one with Littlefinger, the great puppeteer who orchestrated the War of the Five Kings, the man who has worked himself inside and outside of every vector of power he encountered like a living cross-stitch. Prior to Bran, he was the closest thing this tale had to a seer, a mind with all of his eyes open. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way, and nothing will surprise you. And yet when his moment comes, he is by the Scooby-Doo gang of Westeros, his mask torn off by those meddling kids—the boy with infinite recall of all events, the girl who learned subterfuge and murder from the greatest teachers alive, the woman who doubts him above all others—and was somehow taken completely by surprise, even as they orchestrated an elaborate Screw You involving multiple political factions across the nation. Why didn't this master of espionage and his vast network of spies see this coming? The only real question was what they were asking viewers to believe, what kind of faith they thought they had and exactly how blind it was. The better question for fans is the same one that you would ask of a lover who disappeared without warning, who ghosted after all of their promises of something more: Why did you tell me that this was more than it was? How could you have made me believe, when you had no idea where this was going, or whether or not you could possibly show up? The better question for fans is the same one that you would ask of a lover who disappeared without warning, who ghosted after all of their promises of something more. Why did you tell me that this was more than it was? But if you think about the religion of the series, the one that has propelled fans to obsess for hundreds of thousands of hours about its internal consistencies and inconsistencies, here is its true article of faith: People thought there was a reason. They believed this was going somewhere that was known, to a prophecy or larger truth, to an ending that made a sort of sense, to something that made all that devotion worth it in the end. But it is difficult to imagine nearly every character in Game of Thrones, as previously established, not being entirely embarrassed by themselves in this season's finale. The Hound, who once harbored his childhood traumas with a quiet fury, marching up to his zombie brother and announcing their conflict like a reality TV contestant to every lord who can hear it. Tyrion, who trusted his sister only in her ability to commit atrocities, believing her bizarre pivot into humanitarianism, and questioning no further. Theon begging for forgiveness from Jon only to be absolved and told that he is yet another heir to Ned Stark, only days after the King in the North threatened to kill him for his disloyalty. Littlefinger, who has never taken a foolish step, trying to coerce Sansa into believing that Arya wants to be the Lady of Winterfell, the one role she has rejected above all others. But it is difficult to imagine nearly every character in Game of Thrones, as previously established, not being entirely embarrassed by themselves in this season's finale. The one where fans are forced to believe that despite all of its careful, intricately built narrative palaces of politics and history and personal struggle, that all of that careful architecture has to dissolve into dust, like a wight stabbed with dragonglass. That none of it can matter, because something something, because the terrible urgency of the story tells us to look somewhere else. Look there, because no one can bear you looking in another direction, because the story cannot bear it either. There should be nothing to regret, honestly. People loved the story for reasons as good as anyone ever loved anything. I loved Game of Thrones for its nuance and its scope—the way that it felt like it could contain everything from the intensely personal to the broadly political. Imagine it as a magnifying glass, an icon with a plus and a minus. No matter how far you scaled in or out, its integrity held. There was no level of magnification where its world-building or its character-building would fail you. Just forever deeper and broader, amen and amen, like it would never end. But here at the end, where it asks that no one look beyond an individual moment of horror or glory, beyond the theatrical grandeur of a dragon breathing fire or an army marching rudderless into a great battle, its narrative scope is failing. And so viewers descend into the great nightmare of being a writer, staring down the outline of a story and having no idea how to bridge from one choice to another, when there are no answers to give. What do you do when they turn to you and ask what it all means, and why you have been doing this for so long? You stumble and gibber and with nothing else to offer, you say: absolute goddamn nonsense.