My therapist has warned me against watching any more of House of the Dragon. This comes after episode four’s Battle of Rook’s Nest sparked such a visceral reaction that I dedicated an entire hour session to cursing George R.R. Martin, Ryan Condal, and really any fan who’s complained about season two’s sluggish pace and lack of aerial action. I have real problems, she says, childhood trauma to resolve, an inability to feel emotions on a deeper level, object permanency issues – I don’t need to be devoting so much energy to pondering why a fictional story would introduce the concept of majestic flying beasts only to murder them in the most brutal ways possible. I certainly don’t need to be using a dumb little show about dragons to philosophize about the destiny of mankind to destroy or question why we’re so quick to ruin everything good in life. (A prestige drama about silver-haired sibling fuckers riding ancient fire-breathing lizards is good, so why have we been quietly chanting, “Fight. Fight. Fight,” anytime two or more take to the skies in Martin’s TV universe?)
Like everyone else who’s been on this emotional rollercoaster since those early Game of Thrones days, I’m familiar with Martin’s morbidity fetish. If something or someone can die in his fantasy world, they will, likely in the most gruesome, nauseating way possible. We’ve seen little girls burned at the stake, looked upon pregnant women with butchered bellies, listened to the sounds of men torn apart by rabid dogs. Death isn’t just an aspect of life in Westeros, it’s a spectator sport and the prize is our collective post traumatic stress in watching it play out. And this may be too revealing an admission, but of all the shocking slaughter we’ve been privy to almost all of it pales in comparison to what we witnessed in episode four’s “A Dance of Dragons.”
In the show (as in the book), the Battle of Rook’s Rest is a turning point in the war between The Greens and The Blacks, a power grab for a strategic stronghold that’s more about the projection of victory than any real ground gained. The futility of it all – this idea that a tiny castle perched on the coast whose only real value rests in its geography – makes all of the bloodshed and loss harder to stomach, especially when it comes to the non-human casualties. When we spoke with Condal about House of the Dragon’s measured march to war this season, he previewed episodes like this by teasing that “war moves slowly, then all at once.” He was right about that – Rook’s Rest surprised everyone, even the boy-king sitting his throne, wondering why his brother and Hand held more interest for a pawn in the Crownlands than Harrenhal’s seat in the Riverlands. But Condal was wrong about something else, that dragons are like nuclear bombs. In terms of sheer destructive capabilities? Maybe, but those final scenes in episode four, moments when we watch these sentient beings used as cannon fodder for the pointless squabbles of pathetic, small-minded men made me question if this entire show is just one big mistake.
Don’t the dragons in Martin’s universe deserve better than this? The people certainly don’t, so I truly have no qualms with watching Aegon’s (Tom Glynn-Carney) skin melting from his bones or Aemond’s (Ewan Mitchell) eye detaching from its socket or that Velaryon prick’s head being sliced from his shoulders. Even the tragic accidents – the still-births and slow-decaying of kings feel … not satisfying, but expected, understandable, reflective of the injustice of life. Bad things happening to good people and all that. But dragons dying because a chosen heir was born female or two little boys got into an argument once or an abuse victim was jealous of her best friend or an old man, high as a kite in his dying moments, couldn’t get his story straight? That’s worse than unfair, it’s idiotic. And it calls into question exactly how we should view these creatures in the larger context of Martin’s universe.
One strength of House of the Dragon is its insistence on fleshing out the bond between dragon and rider. Where Game Of Thrones presented them as unruly children of an ambitious young queen, sometimes obedient, sometimes an absolute menace, the dragons of HoTD are older, wiser, more tame. Whether they’ve bonded with their riders at birth or been claimed following the death of a Targaryen descendent, they’re seen more as oversized pets that can kill rather than mythical beasts that once were extinct. The banality of living in a world with dragons is something that ultimately contributes to the war within House Targaryen. (When harnessing the catastrophic power of a leathery-winged monster is seen as a right deigned by divinity of birth, not a privilege or a responsibility worthy of respect, war can come too easily.) But, in watching the Battle of Rook’s Rest, specifically the interactions between dragon and dragon rider, how these beings are treated becomes a sticking point. Because they’re not pets – what sane person would take their dog or cat into battle, sacrifice their life for someone else’s cause? (Even seeing one off leash in the park is cause for concern these days.) They’re also not mindless weapons made of metal who can’t think or act for themselves. In Martin’s writings, they’re described as highly intelligent, perhaps more so than some humans, driven by instincts, quick-tempered but incredibly loyal and attune to their rider’s emotions. They’re imbibed with magic and broken by it too as magic is what first allowed Valyrian dragonlords to mount them. So perhaps, one could argue they’re more like horses. Yet, their lifespan, their connections with each other, and their tie to nature itself – the loss of dragons signaled the start of Westeros’ long winter – serves as proof that even that analogy is lacking.
Neither of these definitions answer how Targaryens themselves view dragons, these beings they’ve grown up with and mastered, they’ve relied on and used for their own gain, they’ve awed over and discarded in equal measure. When Rhaenys (Eve Best) rides to her death on the back of Meleys, they share a moment of doomed clarity, devastating and frustrating too, because, while Meleys is given that rare moment of recognition, she has no agency to refuse. Her rider isn’t just leading her into battle, she’s wielding her claws and fangs and flame to rip apart her brethren, beings she’s known far longer than the Targaryen on her back. But then, at least Rhaenys seems to regret that inevitability, comforting her friend and resigning them both to their fate while Aemond unleashes Vhagar’s wrath with gleeful abandon, stomping soldiers in the ground, roasting his own brother, and springing traps for smaller dragons with no hope of besting his own. Even Aegon, so sure of victory that he leaves the safety of the Red Keep to enter the fray, prioritizes his ego and public image before the health and safety of his mount, Sunfyre, risking the only symbol of power he owns for hollow glory.
In the grand scheme of things, dragons were probably always going to be props for mans’ downfall in Martin’s fantasy world, an object and advantage more than a living thing with autonomy. No amount of lore will change that so digging into the whys and hows of dragon riding may be a moot point – and, even more annoyingly, my therapist may have been right all along. But if episode four proves anything, it’s that we may have been wrong in asking to see more of them in action. If we’re just going to tear them apart for the shock of it all, what really is the point?