Still, this episode lays its chips out admirably. Martin himself, and of course, their endgame. Except, where the first episode (and season) operated with a kind of “this can go anywhere” whimsy, the showrunners are now beholden to a legion of fans, George R.R. Like that episode, this one was all about set-up, putting the chess figures in the right spots so they can attack at a moment’s notice.
And don’t forget that artistic array of body parts, courtesy of the White Walkers, exactly like GOT’s first-ever opener. Sansa pouted in a jealous huff just as marvellously as she did when Arya shot a spoonful of slop across the table at her during King Robert’s feast at Winterfell. There was Gendry, back swinging his hammer in the forge. The Game of Thrones showrunners promised us that this last season would have echoes of the first, and it did. Those two are much older, wiser, far more serious, and filled with the unhappy knowledge brought about by adulthood and experience.
Of course, this time it isn’t Bran gazing out in wonder, and it isn’t Arya scampering underfoot, in awe of the fighting men and their swords. The final season of Game of Thrones starts where this whole madcap, fire-infatuated, snow-covered, incest-propaganda-film of a series originally began: at Winterfell, with a royal procession, and a small boy climbing to take in the sights, his eyes large at the sight of thousands of Unsullied marching through the gates.
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