The lights dim. The air stills. The warning of impending nudity and violence flashes up on screen. And Throners – my beloved, wonderful, powerfully sexual Throners – we're home.
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Ohmigod Jon Snow's in charge and ohmigod Dany totally ballsed that whole harpie thing up and ohmigod how awesome is Brienne and ohmigod Dorne and ohmigod Bronn and ohmigod Creepy Faceless Guy is finally back!
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You know, I'd always hoped there would be cause to use the words "Jon Snow" and "head" in a sentence again, but I must admit to hoping it would be in another context. Much the same way I thought the idea of the new Lord Commander "brandishing his sword" would be more exhilarating than it turned out to be.
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Hey, Melisandre, are you looking for a scrag fight? I'm happy to give you one if you ever try a trick like that again. Don't give me that paltry attempt at an innocent expression, you KNOW what you did.
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By the Seven, I'm exhausted. How can so much happen in one episode without even catching a glimpse of Cersei, Tommen, Margaery and the Sparrows in King's Landing, Jaime, Bronn and the Sand Snakes in Dorne, Littlefinger wherever he may be skeeving about or Arya and the Faceless Men in Braavos?
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Do you hear it? Do you hear that sound? The raw, despairing cry of disbelief, pain and abject body horror?
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I never thought I'd see the day when Sam Tarly had something in common with Cersei Lannister and yet here we are, two major characters both totally screwed, and I couldn't be happier. Ahhh, blessed day.
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Why, Stannis? Why?
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This is undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveller returns. We cannot go back. We look upon ourselves of a year, two years, three years ago, and we wonder at our youth, our naivety. We shake our heads and let a grin wry amusement play upon our lips as we remember how blithe we were about those so-called shocks of yesterday. Ned Stark's decapitation? Pfft, child's play. The Red Wedding? Puppets on a string.
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