From violence to victory: the writers of “Game of Thrones” have taken their depictions of women in a more empowering direction
By B.H.
This article contains plot details of the season six finale of “Game of Thrones”
WEAK men will never rule in Westeros again. Or so the finale of the sixth series of HBO’s “Game of Thrones” suggests, as it shows its female characters ascending to the highest reaches of power. It is a rather unexpected outcome given the show’s history of rape, femicide and power structures dominated by men. It may not be a coincidence that this resounding triumph came after both the existent source material had run out and public outcry over the show’s heavy use of sexual violence had reached its zenith. With just the bare bones of a narrative framework provided by George R.R. Martin, the showrunners were free to lay the groundwork for what could be a triumphant ending to the story. How far did criticism from the viewer go towards shaping the narratives of its female heroes?
The screenwriters of “Game of Thrones” have tested their viewers’ boundaries and patience on numerous occasions with gratuitous depictions of violence against women. They have been met at various turns with outrage that, at the time, felt rightly expressed; until this series, the show was not known for delivering cathartic payoffs. Women were often abused and denied the chance of retribution. Yet this series changed that dynamic; characters grappled with the effects of the physical and emotional horrors they experienced and channelled it into strength. At times it felt almost too good to be true—as if viewers were being given exactly what was wanted as a means to make amends. As the story move into uncharted narrative territory, where the arc of each character is not already laid out, it feels necessary to ask if this outrage played a role in shaping the story.
The Red Wedding massacre in the third series left a trail of gore and muddied plotlines. Deviations from the books felt more like cut corners than necessary adaptations. Entire plots were rewritten in ways that robbed them of female autonomy. A plot to crown Myrcella Lannister was changed into a plot to kill her. The female heir to House Baratheon was killed in rushed, weakly written circumstances. Powerful Wildling women were written out completely. Indeed, the fourth series was forgettable beyond a few moments of violent spectacle. The fifth was not only a disappointment, but a train wreck. The wedding night rape of Sansa Stark and the burning of Shireen Baratheon stand out as the most egregious displays of the show’s reliance on shock, be it in the form of long-lasting torture—as in the case of the former—or poorly written moments of immense cruelty in the latter. It was not surprising that many, including the women’s pop culture site The Mary Sue, decided to abandon the show at that point.
Yet this was the year of the woman in Westeros. From the very first episode, women were at the forefront of the story, claiming power for themselves and confronting deeply misogynistic cultures with strength, sense and flames. In the North, Sansa Stark not only escaped the clutches of her husband and abuser Ramsay Bolton, but proved the most pivotal player in the epic Battle for Winterfell. In the South, Cersei Lannister sits upon the Iron Throne, the once-all-powerful seat of authority she has craved since the first series. Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen unleashed fire on her foes and formed her first alliances with Houses in the Seven Kingdoms. In keeping with the show’s theme, all of those Houses are now controlled or represented by women.
But the wish fulfilment of this series was overshadowed by the fact that “Game of Thrones” was never simply about the narrative provided by Mr Martin. This is not a story that is simply told and enjoyed. The show is heavily discussed and analysed, and often that discussion shifts to outcry for explanation or pleas for redirection of the story. After the perceived rape of Cersei Lannister by her brother Jaime in the fourth series, stars and writers of the show were taken to task. They claimed that it was not assault, although it differs significantly in tone and content from the consensual scene of the book. The fifth series’ disastrous House Martell plotline in Dorne also drew significant fire from viewers, as did the troubling racial overtones of Daenerys’ rise to power in Slaver’s Bay. And that outcry seems to have paid off; while the showrunners are quick to point out that they will not “self-censor”, following the fifth series they did acknowledge that they were “listening” and “it did influence them in a way”.
The show’s mistreatment of women has been among the chief complaints many viewers have had for the past few years; to see them rise so high over the past ten episodes raises questions about the nature of the discourse between viewer and screenwriter. After five years of sexual violence and nudity so extraneous that the term “sexposition” was coined to describe it, the lack of either in this series was both striking and welcome. While the actors and showrunners have often poked fun at their heavy use of unnecessary nudity, its absence underlined how strong the show can be without it. Viewers seem to agree: the show has broken records this series, with over 7m people watching each episode live. The ninth episode, “Battle of the Bastards,” has been widely proclaimed as one of the show’s best.
As gratifying as it was seeing women taking power, can we assume that it was preordained? There is a sense of the story already existing, as if the viewer was watching it unfold much as Bran does in his time-travelling. Whether the shifting tides of the show are here to stay or simply a set up for a great fall remains to be seen as the story wraps up in the next two series. For a show that has made its name by quite literally killing its (and the viewers’) darlings, suddenly being handed so much good can feel like a trap—or a cheap ploy to ensure high ratings.
