As Tyrion observes this episode, the idea of trial by combat reveals a great deal about the gods who supposedly demand bloodsport in exchange for justice. Game of Thrones is a sort of bloodsport too, but one with a diametrically opposed purpose: not to offer us justice, but to show us how foolish it is to expect it from a world ruled by senseless violence. The finale of the episode offers the sort of shock that is starting to become familiar, the kind that still leaves us feeling just a little bit betrayed: Why didn't the story end the way it was supposed to? Why do these horrible things keep happening? It's the same question Tyrion asked about his beetle-killing cousin, the one he never figured out how to answer. Why?
In Game of Thrones, at least, the lack of answer is the answer: There is no reason. There is no “supposed to.” There is no justice. The gods, if they exist, aren't noble protectors or moral judges, but something far more terrifying: little boys who like to smash things to a pulp. If we hold the world of Westeros to our ear like a seashell and listen closely, the sound we hear isn't a ballad about honor or a dirge about loss; it's the steady, indifferent drumbeat of a rock against the ground. Thunk thunk thunk.
Back in Mole's Town, an unpleasant woman with a gift for musical burping has decided to give Gilly a hard time about her baby, which the Wildling girl tolerates until she hears strange bird calls outside the tavern and quickly realizes that the owls are not what they seem. Rather, they're signals of the Wildling army, which finally descends on Mole's Town to slaughter everyone they can find. Well, maybe not everyone; after Ygritte finds Gilly and her baby hiding behind a curtain, she puts a finger to her lips and slips away, sparing them. You've got a heart of gold, Ygritte! You know, except for the countless other innocent people you murdered. When news of the slaughter reaches Castle Black, Sam is convinced that Gilly has died, though the other men encourage him to stay optimistic. Since Mole's Town is only a few miles away from Castle Black, the men realize that it's only a matter of time now before they must fight--100 against 100,000--and that they are probably going to die. Valar morghulis!
In the books: Sam never sent Gilly away to Mole's Town, so she wasn't there when the town was sacked by the Wildlings. Though, neither was the rest of the town; they were the first people Jon warned when he returned from the Wildlings, and they'd evacuated by the time Ygritte and company arrived to burn it.
It's summer fun time for the servants of Daenerys, as everyone heads to the river for washing, bathing, and cannonballs, wooo! But as his Unsullied brothers splash about, something catches Grey Worm's eye: a very naked Missandei bathing down the river. Perhaps because he has watched Wild Things way too many times, Grey Worm decides that the best move here is to slink down into the water like some sort of sexy alligator and stare at her with unblinking eyes. Missandei notices and doesn't know to react. During girl talk later, Daenerys is also puzzled by his behavior, assuming that his castration ended his interest in women. But Missandei knows differently: “He was interested.” She admits that she's curious about him--and whatever remains of his male anatomy--as well. When he approaches her later to apologize for his peeping, she rejects the apology. “I'm glad you saw me,” she says. He agrees, but still walks away with the tortured look of a man gazing at something he can't have.
Meanwhile, Ser Barristan receives a very interesting message from Tywin Lannister: the official pardon given to Jorah by King Robert. Ser Barristan takes it straight to Jorah, who admits the truth: He was a spy for Varys all along, hoping to earn his way back to Westeros. He tries to tell Daenerys that he still loves her and has protected her as well, but Dany is in no mood for forgiveness, particularly when she learns that he sold them the secret of her unborn son. Jorah says sending him away will just give Tywin what he wants, but Daenerys--as usual--is more concerned with justice than strategy. “You betrayed me from the first,” she says, exiling him from Meereen on pain of death.
In the books: There is no hint of romance between Grey Worm and Missandei--she's around ten years old in the novels--although we hear that another member of the Unsullied goes to brothels simply to be held. As Grey Worm says, “Even those who lack a man's parts may still have a man's heart.” The revelation about Jorah's betrayal comes not from Tywin but from Ser Barristan, who initially served Daenerys secretly under the name “Arstan Whitebeard.” After stopping a would-be assassin, he revealed his true identity and the truth about Jorah, which he’d learned as a member of the Small Council under Robert. Jorah also stopped being a spy after Daenerys won his heart and became genuinely loyal to her, though this didn't absolve him of his initial dishonesty. Daenerys initially wanted to banish them both for their deceptions, but instead decided to send them on a dangerous mission through the sewers to capture Meereen. When they were successful, Barristan asked for forgiveness and got it, but Jorah couldn't stop copping an attitude and got banished anyway.
The nobles of the Vale have arrived in the aftermath of Lysa's “suicide,” as Littlefinger is now calling it, and they are suspicious as hell of both her new husband and her sudden death. Unconvinced that she took her own life, they call Sansa, aka Alayne to give her testimony. “I'm sorry, Lord Baelish,” she whispers. “I have to tell the truth.” But the girl who steps up to testify is not the same one who witlessly confessed her father's plans to Cersei. She reveals that she is in fact Sansa Stark, and tells the sad, sad story of her life at King's Landing and how Littlefinger rescued her from torment. It's not a childish confession, however, but a tactic; she quickly uses a half-truth to seal up the suicide claim, saying that Lysa killed herself out of jealousy when he saw Littlefinger give her a fatherly kiss on the cheek. As Sansa breaks down in tears, a noblewoman embraces her, but Sansa's eyes look rather different as they stare at Littlefinger: cold and calculated. Arya has learned a great deal about how to negotiate the worlds of life and death from people like Syrio, Jaqen, and the Hound, and now it seems like Sansa finally has a tutor of her own.
After it's all over, Littlefinger asks Sansa the same question she asked him so many times after her own rescue: “Why did you help me?” Her answer is fittingly just as oblique as Littlefinger's always was, and probably for the same reason: because she has an agenda all her own. “You're not a child anymore,” he growls, because for some reason the creepier he gets, the more he sounds like Batman. By the time she walks down the stairs of the Eyrie in her killer Maleficent dress, she looks less like Sansa the child or Sansa the victim and more like someone I like far better: Sansa the schemer.
In the books: Lots of changes here. First, Littlefinger never claimed that Lysa killed herself. Instead, he successfully blamed her murder on a bard named Marillion who was in the room when she died. (Marillion tried to rape Sansa, so don't feel too bad for him.) Sansa doesn't reveal her true identity to the lords, but simply blames Marillion for Lysa's death as Alayne. More generally, it is Littlefinger's delicate political manipulations that convince the reluctant lords to accept him as Lord Protector of the Vale, not anything Sansa does.
Ramsay has Theon all dressed up as a lord again, the same way some people dress their dogs up in little tiny sweaters and booties. And much like people teach their dogs to do little tricks, Ramsay wants him to go to Moat Cailin and convince the Ironborn currently holding the castle to surrender. The man who shows up to greet his supposed countrymen looks a lot like the old Theon, and even sounds a bit like him. But what Ramsay really sends to Moat Cailin is a Trojan Theon, just as hollow on the inside and just as ready to unleash death on the men foolish enough to take him at face value. After Theon swears to one of the Ironborn that Ramsay “will be just and fair with you as he has been with me,” the men agree to yield, unaware of exactly how true and terrifying that promise really is. Cut immediately to the flayed body of that same soldier, a promise fulfilled. Now, when Ramsay meets his father to give him Moat Cailin, he gets the one thing he's wanted most in return: legitimacy as a Bolton and the true heir to the Dreadfort.
In the books: Ramsay is legitimized by Tommen after the boy becomes king, not after Moat Cailin, which happens much later, in Dance of Dragons. Ramsay's meeting with his father afterwards is far less positive; Lord Bolton is primarily displeased by Ramsay's violent excesses, which have become so infamous that they could harm their interests in the North.
News of Joffrey's death has finally reached Arya, but she's still not entirely pleased since she didn't get to watch it herself. “Nothing makes you happy,” grumps the Hound, sounding ever so much like half of an old married couple. Although Joffrey deserved to die, the Hound scoffs at the use of poison, calling it “a woman's weapon.” Arya scoffs right back at how dumb it is to take any weapon off the table because of pride or gender stereotypes. “I'd kill Joffrey with a chicken bone if I had to.” The Hound's shoulder wound is still bothering him, and Arya says it's starting to slow him down. But who cares, because there they are, finally at the Eyrie! After their long and seemingly interminable travels, the Stark girls are now the closest they've been since Ned's execution. When the Hound announces to the guards that he's bringing Arya Stark to see her aunt, they shift uncomfortably. “Lady Arryn died. Three days ago.” The Hound gets the most amazing FML look on his face, and Arya just laughs and laughs and laughs.
In the books: Arya and the Hound never actually make it to the Eyrie--largely because he decides it would be too dangerous to face the mountain clans en route--but this non-canonical change is a hundred percent worth it for Arya's laugh alone.
As he and Jaime wait for the trial by combat to begin, Tyrion reminds Jaime of one of their cousins, Orson Lannister, who was dropped on his head as a child and spent his days in the garden smashing beetles with a rock. Tyrion developed an odd fascination with the young man, certain that there was some reason behind it, and began to study him in hopes of understanding why. “I had to know, because it was horrible that all these beetles should be dying for no reason...in my dreams I found myself standing on a beach made of beetle husks stretching as far as the eye could see.” Jaime points out that real people die every day just as pointlessly and often, which is kind of the point: this isn't a conversation about beetles so much as it's a conversation about violence.
Like many young people--and Game of Thrones fans, for that matter--Tyrion wanted the answer to that most basic existential question: why do terrible things happen for no reason? It's not just the story of the beetles, it’s the story of Tyrion’s life, the story of being hated and abused and killed for no reason at all, and desperately wanting to understand why. Even now he's still looking for the answer, but the only one he gets is the toll of the bells, reminding him that it is time, again, for more smashing. The Red Viper wears only light leather armor and sips wine before the battle, and waves off Tyrion's concerns: “Today is not the day I die,” he promises. It's the sort of comment that usually confers immunity in fiction, something we tend to treat as prophecy or at least prescience. In a George R. R. Martin story, it's the sort of hubris that should make us more than a little nervous.
The battle goes very well for Oberyn at first, as he leaps and whirls around his bigger, slower opponent, landing blow after blow until the Mountain is lying motionless on the ground. Tyrion looks ecstatic, almost like he believes that the gods are finally offering him justice. But defeat and death isn’t enough for Oberyn; he wants a confession straight from the Mountain's lips so he continues to poke at his seemingly defeated opponent. But hubris kills as surely as swords, and one moment of glib inattention is all it takes for the Mountain to grab Oberyn, gouge out his eyes and crush his skull to a disgusting pulp. Thunk thunk thunk.
Tywin’s on his feet almost immediately, relieved at the reversal of fortune and sickeningly eager to pass the sentence: Tyrion is condemned to death.
In the books: The scene between Tyrion and Jaime--and the story about the beetles--don't happen, though they are a fantastic addition. The battle and Oberyn's death are generally the same, though Oberyn doesn't specifically try to convince the Mountain to admit to Tywin's role in the killings.
