It was a beast of a battle at Tumbleton, where the shifting upper hand was eventually seized by a greedy and spiteful drunk who turned it into the most impressive of middle fingers.

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Call this whole thing drunk Thomas the Tank Engine on a three-day Cialis bender because everyone is going OFF THE F***ING RAILS.

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This episode was full of figurative examples of acting with subterfuge, and also literal examples of faces being altered by physical acts of slapping, stabbing, slicing, spewing, skewering, strangling and even snogging.

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Alicent Hightower appears to be performing in a farcical comedy called “Oops, Guv’nor, Where’s Me Abortion?” followed by its slapstick sequel “Oops, Guv’nor, Where’s Me Escape Plan?” 

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I’m sorry, kittens. I realise in this manosph-era I am giving hard-fought ground to those who would perpetuate the myth that “women love a bad boy”. 

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After two episodes positioning itself as a grand epic of battle and conquest, season three now turns that on its head, delivering a claustrophobic psychological thriller that is one of the most anxiety-inducing depictions of crisis leadership and policy wonkery put to screen.

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Believe me, I’ve been Team Black, I want Rhaenyra to sit the throne. But much like me and my deadlifts, I didn’t want her to get it with a dirty rep. 

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I guess Rhaenyra will learn her lesson next episode when she discovers offspring number one has become offed-spring number two: write your own damn zingers.

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