Review Roundup: House of the Dragon and A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

In recent times I have not had many opportunities to publish science fiction and fantasy critiques as I used to, particularly with respect to the Game of Thrones/Song of Ice and Fire cosmos drawn from George R.R. Martin’s writings. My excuse has been that other obligations occupied me, such as a tariff-related case. Yet in the interim we have accumulated two complete seasons of House of the Dragon and the launch of a third, along with the debut season of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. When you enter the arena of Game of Thrones analysis, you either win or your rapport with the audience falters. So this post marks my effort to reclaim some ground and reconnect with the readership.

Taken together, I have an affinity for both series, and if you generally enjoy the GOT universe, there’s a good chance you’ll find them rewarding as well. Nevertheless, House of the Dragon comes with multiple shortcomings that stem partly from its source material (Martin’s Fire and Blood) and partly from its own narrative choices. Both programs also present intriguing political questions that expand the lens on power dynamics within the GOT world as a whole.

Before proceeding, a note about spoilers: this piece discusses material from both series that has been available for quite some time. The discussion draws on George R.R. Martin’s books Fire and Blood and A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, published over six years ago or more. For readers who still want to complain about spoilers after continuing, I offer a single word: Dracarys!

House of the Dragon

At the outset, the Targaryen line holds firm sway over Westeros, and dragons underpin much of their authority. The Targaryens maintain an exclusive hold on dragon mastery, with the prevailing belief that only members of the royal clan can tame and ride them successfully.

A question of succession arises when King Viserys, a rather fragile ruler, lacks a male heir. He designates his daughter Rhaenyra as his heir apparent. Yet the Westerosi nobility resists female rule. Viserys then weds Alicent Hightower, a member of another formidable house, and sires sons with her. Viserys remains committed to naming Rhaenyra as heir, prompting conflict. When Viserys dies suddenly, Alicent and others claim that he switched his mind at the last moment and designated her son Aegon II as the rightful heir. A civil war soon erupts between the Greens (Aegon’s faction) and the Blacks (Rhaenyra’s supporters), a struggle that becomes known as the Dance of the Dragons.

Within the televised adaptation, the clash begins toward the end of the first season. By the halfway point of season three—our current position—the fighting has intensified dramatically, producing devastating losses on both sides and a string of brutal acts. Both factions also commit strategic missteps, and the leadership on each side proves, at times, recklessly imprudent. An example that diverges from the source material: Princess Rhaenys, one of the Black faction’s most capable leaders, fails early on to strike down a large portion of the Greens using her dragon’s power; this particular lapse does not occur in the books.

When I reviewed the inaugural episode of House of the Dragon in 2022, I argued that the core dilemma of this narrative is that the source material offers virtually no major sympathetic figures. Both Aegon and Rhaenyra emerge as rulers who are demonstrably ill-suited to govern with the people’s welfare in mind. A number of other leaders on both sides prove even more troubling. Rhaenyra’s uncle and husband—Prince Daemon—appears as a murderous, power-driven figure, while Aegon’s brother Aemond One-Eye (who also has his sights set on the throne) embodies cruelty. The list goes on.

As I proposed in that earlier examination, the TV adaptation tries to compensate by presenting somewhat more likable versions of Rhaenyra and Alicent. Rhaenyra is cast partly as a victim of misogyny, and the show—following the books in some respects—emphasizes her sorrow over the deaths of two of her sons amid the fighting. Alicent, meanwhile, is framed as someone who seeks peace more than dominion.

Yet aligning one to feel sympathy for Rhaenyra remains difficult, given the many wrongs she commits and her apparent indifference to the damage the war causes to the common folk. In a recent episode, for instance, Rhaenyra’s forces seize King’s Landing, offering the impression that she might be turning a corner. Yet she and her followers soon descend into a reign of terror, persecuting city residents who voice dissent.

Rhaenyra even confiscates food reserves amassed by affluent merchants and nobles to relieve a famine in the capital. The underlying problem, however, is that the shortage stems from a blockade imposed by her own navy, and advisors rightly warn that confiscation will do little to alleviate the scarcity and could even hamper long-term production and investment. At best, she is only marginally less appalling than the Greens. Alicent, for her part, wields limited influence and competence, and like Rhaenyra she seems to care little for the general welfare.

Ultimately, the series underscores a stark truth: both factions are morally bankrupt, and Westeros is plagued by a system in which a hereditary aristocracy wields power with scant regard for the common people and little incentive to consider their needs. This continues the thematic thread of the original Game of Thrones, which repeatedly warned about the dangers of power concentrated in a few hands.

Yet in the earlier GOT sequence, there were figures who inspired hope: Arya and Sansa Stark, Tyrion, Jon Snow, and—until the later stages—Daenerys Targaryen. The show suggested that one of these capable figures might “break the wheel” and replace the current order with something better. That thread of possibility doesn’t really appear in House of the Dragon. The absence of a hopeful protagonist, combined with the daunting tone, lends the series a rather grim mood. At times it feels like the narrative could wrap up its central point after a length of episodes that perhaps goes beyond necessity, reinforcing the sense that two sides of the same destructive coin are at war. There are moments when I find myself hoping for the demise of the main players, a fate that may yet occur if the story remains faithful to its books.

Nevertheless, House of the Dragon continues to deliver a wealth of exhilarating and dramatic sequences, anchored by strong performances and striking visual effects. Those moments frequently draw attention away from the bleakness of the characters’ world and the overarching circumstances.

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

By contrast, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms occupies a roughly opposite position to House of the Dragon. Its two central figures are clearly admirable and deeply engaging. Ser Dunk the Tall, a humble swordsman who spent many years as the squire of the wandering knight Ser Arlan of Pennytree, is elevated to knighthood on the day of Arlan’s death, thanks to the old adage that “any knight can grant another knight.” Since the ceremony is witnessed by only a few birds, Dunk must prove the validity of his title as he pursues opportunities among haughty, better-born warriors who doubt him. Season 1 follows the early phase of his quest to establish himself as a knight and to honor the chivalric ideals he upholds.

Meanwhile, Dunk encounters Aegon, nicknamed “Egg,” a bright and restless boy who longs to become his squire. It gradually becomes clear that Egg is a member of the royal Targaryen line who recoils from court life and craves adventure beyond the palace walls.

In both the books and the television adaptation, Dunk proves to be a finer person—more worthy of the knightly code of courage, fairness, and guardianship of the vulnerable—than the nobles who sneer at him. He treats the vow to “defend the weak and the innocent” with seriousness, and he earns trouble for defending a common woman against Aerion Targaryen, who seeks to assault her.

Unlike the situation in House of the Dragon, not all aristocrats presented here are selfish or morally bankrupt; some rally to Dunk’s side, and others join his cause when Aerion challenges him to a Trial of the Seven—an event in which one side must field seven knights on equal footing.

Season 1 covers only the outset of Dunk and Egg’s adventures as described in the source material, with more to come in Season 2.

Knight of the Seven Kingdoms presents a tighter, more compact arc than House of the Dragon, avoiding some of the convoluted devices and the seemingly irrational decisions that occasionally drive the latter’s plot. Yet it is not without a single, fundamental concern. If the premise implies that “any knight can make a knight,” one might expect a genuine inflation of knightly status. Why wouldn’t aspiring commoners simply pay lesser knights like Arlan for the honor, or stage fraudulent knighthoods to boost their ranks? The story does not address these potential complications, leaving a small-but-significant gap in the logic of social advancement. Perhaps norms or legal constraints on selling knighthoods exist in this world, but the works do not spell them out. Alternatively, perhaps knighthoods conferred by obscure hedge knights carry limited prestige; even so, they remain preferable to remaining a mere commoner.

As with House of the Dragon and the prequel and mainline GOT, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms emphasizes how deeply the social order shapes the destinies of individuals. Dunk, Egg, and the other conscientious knights and nobles can effect meaningful change in modest ways, and viewers naturally root for them to succeed.

Yet the deeper, more corrosive evil resides in a political and social framework that leaves commoners at the mercy of a hereditary elite. If a commoner crosses one of the noble classes or simply finds themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, the consequences can be grave—depicting a world rife with the risk of theft, forced labor, sexual assault, or even murder.

Fans familiar with the broader GOT canon know that even if Egg eventually learns lessons and ascends to the throne, he does not reshape the underlying system. By the time the GOT saga begins—about a hundred years after the Dunk and Egg adventures—the political and social structure remains as flawed as before.

At the outset of GOT, as with House of the Dragon, royal succession remains unsettled, and rival claimants to the Iron Throne spark civil strife. This, simply put, is a structural weakness inherent in monarchies.

It may seem unnecessary to keep revisiting the systemic character of political problems. We like to imagine that aristocratic feudalism and hereditary monarchy have long vanished from our world. Yet revisiting these themes is valuable, especially as contemporary thinkers on the right champion nostalgia for a pre-modern past and some on the far left argue that medieval peasants enjoyed more freedom and happiness than modern workers (they did not). The GOT universe serves as a compelling and entertaining reminder of these enduring truths about political power and its limits.

Moreover, as I have stressed in prior writings about GOT, a great many contemporary observers who have no desire to restore medieval conditions still forget that systemic checks on government power are essential for addressing political and economic problems. The GOT cosmos offers a vivid, engaging reminder of that crucial point.