After the initial shock and anger has abated somewhat regarding the controversial finale of Games of Thrones, I would like to give my own take on the fall of the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.
To be honest, I was not that surprised nor offended by the way things turned out. Do I agree that things were rushed in Season 8? Absolutely. I believe the story could have been fleshed out more and there was plenty of room for Daenerys’ turn to the dark side to be more fully earned. I disagree, however, with the feminist and other ideologically-fueled arguments that her demise is a crushing blow to pop culture and to our modern, progressive sensibilities.
Perhaps I’m not as emotionally invested because I got into Games of Thrones extremely late; six seasons had already aired by the time I started watching it, so I haven’t been on this decade-long journey as some more ardent fans have. And perhaps in watching almost the entire show at once, I was more able to fish out the scenes that hinted as Daenerys’ downfall, and thus was more willing to accept it, rather than be scandalized by this decision.
Nevertheless, let us delve into some elements that I believe the show did well in foreshadowing Daenerys’ darker streak.
Daenerys was caught between two worlds, unable to call either one home. Despite her family originating from Valyria, the Targaryens had spent the last 300 years ruling Westeros, so their descendants were treated as foreigners in Essos. Likewise, when Daenerys finally landed in Westeros, she was perceived as a foreign invader, both in the long-term history of her family’s origins, and in the short-term historical context of her father’s overthrowal.
For all his flaws, Viserys could not help but feel jealous how his sister won the respect of the Dothraki, seeing that she has found a semblance of purpose beyond the abstract desire for the Iron Throne, something he himself has never had. His conversation with Jorah Mormort as he tried to steal the dragon eggs highlighted this envy.
Viserys: I’m the last hope of a dynasty, Mormont, the greatest dynasty this world has ever seen…on my shoulders since I was five years old. And no one has ever given me what they gave to her in that tent. Never. Not a piece of it. How can I carry what I need to carry without it? Who can rule without wealth or fear or love?
What I found fascinating to watch was that in Season 8 Daenerys herself entered into a similar jealous dynamic with Jon Snow, mourning the hearts she knows she cannot win in Westeros.
Daenerys: I saw them gathered around you. I saw the way they looked at you. I know that look. So many people has looked at me that way, but never here. Never on this side of the sea.
In her realization that she would never be accepted fully in Westeros, Daenerys became her brother, relying on fear as he would have done. It’s an interesting irony that despite these parallels between the two siblings, Viserys was one of the first to die in the series and Daenerys was the last. In fact, back in Season 7 before Daenerys snaps, she mused on what Viserys would have done in her position
Daenerys: If Viserys had three dragons and an army at his back, he’d have invaded King’s Landing already.
Tyrion: Conquering Westeros would be easy for you, but you’re not here to be Queen of the Ashes
And yet that is exactly what she ended up doing.
Unlike Viserys, Daenerys was given the opportunity to find purpose outside the Iron Throne. Her diversion to Slaver’s Bay indicated that she wasn’t as single-minded as her brother, but ultimately the feeling of taking back what she felt was stolen from her was too great a temptation to resist. In Season 5, Tyrion brought up the possibility of remaining in Essos.
Tyrion: There’s more to the world than Westeros. Perhaps this is where you belong, where you can do the most good.
Daenerys: I fought so that no child born into Slaver’s Bay would ever know what it meant to be bought or sold. I shall continue that fight here and beyond, but this is not my home.
Behind Daenerys’ and even Viserys’ lust for power, there was a deep emotional wound of abandonment and a desperate feeling to belong. In the absence of acceptance from external sources in their childhoods, they both idealized taking back the throne as their purpose in life.
In Season 7, Daenerys mocked her brother for falling prey to Illyrio Mopatis’ stories that the Westerosi people are yearning for the Targaryens’ return, yet again and again she proved in her words and actions that, deep down, she too longs for that very fantasy to be true. She automatically assumed that the common people will support her, presuming they would take anyone over Cersei.
She was further deluded by this fantasy in how she is adored in Slaver’s Bay, whose former slaves gave her that love. She naively thought that this adoration will come into being in Westeros as well. Certainly after she saved the North from the doom of the White Walkers, surely then she would be loved as the fiery savior that she is!
Unfortunately, the political climate of Westeros was vastly different than Essos. Then the emergence of Jon Snow as a threat to her royal claim, the loss of trusted advisors like Jorah and Missandei, and the overall lack of love she felt, Daenerys descended into madness.
Daenerys was a lost, abused girl who found strength and power despite her struggles, but in the end could not fashion a permanent life for herself in Essos. She could not move past the trauma of her family’s displacement and chose revenge for the past rather than define her own future irrespective of her beginnings.
This illustrates Daenerys Stormborn’s character arc as the classic tragedy of a fall hero who, despite the best of intentions, turns to villainy from an unhappy marriage of circumstances that drove her over the edge. This is the classic makeup of a tragedy, when a single flaw in a good person is exasperated by unforeseen events to the point that there is no turning back.
In terms of how quickly Daenerys falls from grace, I couldn’t help being reminded of Macbeth, which is Shakespeare’s shortest tragedy. I’m no the first to say this, but many parallels have also been drawn between her and Anakin Skywalker, another character arc that has roots in Shakespearean and Greek tragedy. Both are figures who turned bad because of love, or rather, the darker side of love: rejection, fear of abandonment, and betrayal.
The first book that my new book club read was Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen. Though it was first manuscript that Austin completed in 1803, it was not published until after her death fourteen years later. It follows the story of Katherine Morland, a seventeen-year-old girl who is spirited away to Bath by her wealthier neighbors. We follow her as she navigates new friendships and budding romances, eventually realizing that not everyone has the best of intentions.
I could identify a lot with Katherine, because even at 28 years old, I struggle with the naivete of trying to see the best in people. Even if I don’t trust someone to behave appropriately personal, moral reasons, I fall into the trap of thinking that they will act reasonably purely out of self-interest to not create problems for themselves and make unnecessary enemies. More often than not I am proven false, that people think they can partake in immoral behavior and believe nothing bad will come of it.
I could see a lot of myself in Katherine, how when one has lived such a sheltered childhood and adolescence, it is near-impossible to even conceive that someone is knowingly acting with premeditated ill intentions.
One of Katherine’s major weaknesses is her overindulgent imagination, which causes her to presume the worst of General Tinley, hardly a generous man, but not a murderer. This inability to differentiate between fantasy and reality was considered a serious social problem when novels began to gain popularity in Austen’s time. Novels were deemed course and common, and the romanticism that many of them advocated was a sharp disruption to the classical notions of honor and duty.
“Novels took the noble pleasure of reading and made it something quick and dirty. They told exciting stories in simple prose, not poetry. Their heroes were not kings or demigods, but maidservants and mariners, who instead of going on magical quests faced the inward challenges that readers knew from their own lives.”
I was fascinated with the theme of novel reading in the story, mailing because we seem the same debates about literature happening in our time. One can compare the disdain for novels back then to the literary snobbery we see today with the dichotomy between literary fiction and commercial fiction, or traditional vs self-publishing.
If there is anything that I didn’t like about the novel, it was its pacing. Northanger Abbey is hailed as Austen’s big parody on Gothic literature, yet only a fraction of the book takes place at the seemingly spooky manor house. It’s almost as if the book should exist as two books (or at least two equal-sized parts in one book), with one part showing Katherine’s time in Bath and the other half showing her solving the “mysteries” of Northanger Abbey. The actual abbey part felt rather rushed and I wished Austen would have fleshed that part out more.
Several years ago I saw BBC2’s television movie The Scandalous Lady W, a historical drama depicting the life of Lady Seymour Worsley. She was an 18th century English aristocrat whose dysfunctional marriage became public knowledge when her husband sued her lover for punitive damages.
The story is quite a feminist one where Seymour starts out victimized by a psychologically abusive husband until she finally leaves him for her lover. She maintains her defiance and autonomy from her husband despite living in an era where women were viewed as men’s legal property.
I’ve always been a fan of Natalie Dormer ever since I saw her in the 2005’s Casanova where she played Giacomo’s would-be fiancée Victoria Donato. Her more prominent roles as Anne Boleyn in The Tudors and Margery Tyrell in Games of Thrones have given her ample practice in dramas of a historical/political nature. Upon seeing the trailer and realizing that she was playing Lady Seymour, I knew I had to watch it and I was not disappointed.
There are a lot of themes at play in The Scandalous Lady W, not least of which is the issue of women’s rights and the historical view that women were considered very much to be literal objects over which their husbands had full legal possession. Other themes include the clash of Romanticism, represented by Seymour, with the lingering Classical sentiment, represented by her husband.
Yet out of all these themes, what struck me most about the piece was the theme of revenge, how Sir Richard reacts to his wife’s desertion and the actions he chooses to take both before and long after the trial against her lover, George Bisset.
Exacting revenge upon a spouse or ex-spouse will always remain a great temptation to mankind. Whether due to legitimate heartbreak or wounded pride, there are those who find it incredibly difficult to let a romantic partner walk away freely without inciting some form of vengeance.
Revenge is seen as a salve that will help heal the wounds of abandonment, betrayal, or loss of control. But often revenge does not always pan out in the way that the avenger intends and can actually cost the avenger more than what they could have gained through the cheap catharsis of revenge.
Sir Richard, angry, entitled, and believing himself to be in a privileged position, decides to sue his wife’s lover for 20,000 pounds. He is told by advisors that he should instead handle the situation quietly and delicately, but Sir Richard is determined to have his revenge. He thinks that through a trial he can financially ruin Bisset and punish his wife by publicly declaring her an adulteress.
At first Sir Richard seems successful, having already proven Seymour’s adultery with Bisset. However, Seymour and Bisset turn the tables on him by proving that Sir Richard was well aware of their affair and actually encouraged it, along with dozens of affairs Seymour had before Bisset at her husband’s request for his own voyeuristic pleasure.
The revelation of Sir Richard’s voyeurism and sexual coercion causes the jury to reduce the compensation Bisset must pay from 20,000 pounds to one shilling. Sir Richard is humiliated, yet stubbornly refuses to grant Seymour a divorce, again against the council of those around him. He wants to maintain some sense of power over Seymour, even at the expense of himself moving on with his life.
Sir Richard tried to obtain revenge rather than accept that his own sexual perversions had driven Seymour away. He felt he was entitled to do as he wished with Seymour without ever taking her feelings into account. He then felt a compelling desire to lash out at Seymour the moment she started to put her own emotional needs above his.
I connected so much to this movie because I could relate Seymour’s plight with her husband to my own husband’s plight with his ex-girlfriend. Like Sir Richard, his ex-girlfriend tried to use lies and half-truths to portray herself as the victim of a toxic relationship. While she may have been partially successful at first, as time wore on more of the truth came out, prompting others to question his ex’s credibility and to apologize to my husband.
Those who seek out revenge will find themselves losing out by the end of the ugly business, especially those who are guilty and have no legitimate, moral right to retaliation. They think they can conceal their own vices while staging the sins of their enemy, but such a strategy rarely works in the long term.
Revenge is not cheap. It is mentally, emotionally, and sometimes even financially draining. It can also cost the avenger a pristine reputation if they choose not to keep their hatred for their target in check.
Above all else, revenge can cause the avenger to place their victim’s punishment above their own happiness and peace of mind. That is the ultimate price, to not live life for one’s self, but rather for the misery of their target. Paraphrasing the words of Nelson Mandela and Emmet Fox, revenge is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
I find it surprising that no one has thought to compare these two movies before. Both are period dramas starring Keira Knightley retelling the lives of two aristocratic women. Both films were excellent is providing strong, multidimensional female leads, one who finds wisdom after being broken and one who falls from grace and succumbs to madness.
The Duchess is the adaption of Amanda Foreman’s biography of Georgiana Cavendish, the 6th Duchess of Devonshire. Born Lady Georgiana Spencer, she was the great-great-great-great-aunt to the late Princess Diana. She married the duke of Devonshire on her 17th birthday. The duke was an emotionally stunted man who was only concerned with having a son, something Georgiana did not provide him until many years into their marriage. She eventually has an affair with the uprising politician Charles Grey until she is forced to break it off when the duke threatens to take her children away. She is also forced to relinquish her illegitimate daughter to the Grey family and lives the rest of her life as the Duchess of Devonshire.
Anna Karenina is the adaptation of the 1873 novel of the same name by Leo Tolstoy, one of my favorite classics of all time. Anna is the dutiful wife of a high-ranking imperial official who is swept into a passionate love affair by the dashing cavalry officer Count Vronsky. Ultimately the affair is discovered and Anna attempts to live her life as Vronsky’s mistress, only to find that all of society has ostracized her. That combined with her increasing erratic jealousy plunges her into insanity until she commits suicide by stepping in front of a train.
Between the two women, Georgiana is the character that inspires the most sympathy. Her husband had already had his own string of affairs before Georgiana has hers with Charles Grey and it is clear that the duke is not genuinely hurt by her actions, only concerned with his reputation. Anna, on the other hand, has her affair with Vronsky when her husband, albeit not overtly affectionate, was still emotionally devoted to her. Georgiana is also the opposite of Anna where she was willing to sacrifice her personal happiness with Grey to remain in her children’s lives, whereas Anna was prepared to leave her son to be with Vronsky.
In the beginning I had sympathy for Anna. Though her husband was not cruel, they did marry out of convenience, thus Count Vronsky could possibly be considered Anna’s first “real” love. My sympathy for Anna came to an end, however, after she decided to return to Vronsky upon regaining her health from the difficult childbirth of her illegitimate daughter. She thought she was going to die and didn’t want to depart this world without obtaining Karenin’s forgiveness. When she didn’t end up dying, she wanted to go back to Vronsky, illustrating that her husband’s forgiveness meant little to her in actuality. She only wanted it to soothe her own conscience in the face of death.
Any sympathy I had for Anna after that was purely at a societal level. I condemned Anna personally, but could still bear witness to the unjust double standards that the Russian aristocracy had in regards to male and female adultery. Anna’s brother, Oblonsky, is depicted as a benevolent character, even though he himself is notorious for having affair after affair without remorse.
If there is a weakness in Georgiana’s character, it is her naivety and her desire for attention. Since she does not receive affection from her husband, she seeks it superficially by focusing on the public who adores her. Her dissatisfaction with her home life leaves her susceptible to various addictions, her biggest one being gambling. The stark contrast between her image as a public figure and her private life has been compared to other modern celebrities like Marilyn Monroe.
Both films hold a special place in my heart because they show two strong women who reacted very differently to the limitations placed upon their gender during the 18th and 19th centuries. Georgiana was able to gain much political influence in her own right in the Whig Party while delicately maintaining deference to her husband, while Anna Karenina brazenly defied her husband and society’s expectations of her, though that ultimately lead to her downfall when she could no longer rely on Vronsky to remain faithful to her. It was not society that directly crushed her, it was the sense that her relationship with Vronsky was not longer healthy and thus no longer “worth” the scorn she was enduring from society.
I strongly recommend anyone to go watch these two amazing historical dramas. Both films are available on Netflix. You will not be disappointed.