Walking and Falling: The Anxiety of Choice in Game of Thrones
by Tyler Davis
“We sail within a vast sphere, ever drifting in uncertainty, driven from end to end.” – Blaise Pascal
Missandei invokes the High Valyrian saying “Valar Morghulis” and we are reminded once again that – yes – all men must die. The more we learn of the conditions in Astapor – a slaver’s haven and Missandei’s cage – the more we understand why an enduring acceptance of death is common amongst its peoples. While finally passing through death’s waiting maw in one terminal gulp is the conclusion to any life, the trajectories by which we arrive at that grinning gate are inevitable, but not invariable. Season one offered sufficient proof that Westeros makes no exceptions for the honorable, or innocent. The multitude of the show’s fallen now stand like ghosts in the audience’s memory, each a signpost marking just one of the innumerable and often unexpected routes to oblivion. Each death becomes a story of crystallized steps, each step a choice, each choice a cause to another effect.
The unstoppability of what awaits was pronounced in the prologue of the first episode, heads rolling atop frozen earth in the northern wilderness. Since that time, this pronouncement has only ever softened to a steady beat reverberating from show’s backstage, never silencing, and frequently rising thunderously. Death always looms, haunting the game and threatening each player: what good is a throne, crown, title, family, or god when you’re gone? Little. But in avoiding death and achieving disparate ends, the characters of Thrones must contend with their uncertainty at every turn.
“What is not possible is not to choose.” – Jean-Paul Sartre
Thrones is preoccupied with existential questions: how do we live, and how do we die? In answering these questions, the temptation to appeal to a higher power in a world where magic exists seems sensible. But neither the show’s religions nor its overtly supernatural elements offer useful moral prescriptions. Characters like Bran, Daenerys, and Melisandre all interface with powers greater than themselves through prophetic dreams, warging, the rebirth of dragons, firesight and shadowbinding, but what these powers mean, to what ends they will be used, and why these characters can access them are all unknowns (even when a character purports to speak with complete accuracy about her gifts, as in Mel’s case). Further, a deeper uncertainty lurks behind seemingly obvious threats: the White Walkers are present, deadly, and demand response, but they are also inscrutable, and their reappearance as yet has no discernible purpose or cause. For characters lacking supernatural gifts, even religious affiliation must be called into question; Catelyn prays to the Seven, but would she be better off imploring the Old Gods for help, or not praying at all? Reliable patterns of truth cannot be isolated from out of this world’s supernatural landscape.
Unfortunately, the labyrinthine complexity of life for those caught in the Westerosi power struggle makes things no less difficult even when they haven’t been granted dragon babies or the ability to hop into an animal’s head. What the aptly-titled “Walk of Punishment” exposes so evocatively is how every person in this world is chained to their own freedom of choice, even when denied personal liberty. Theon – a prisoner – still chooses to seize upon the opportunity of escape, broken feet be damned. For the freely willing person, choices are obligatory, and often have unseen costs; this is an episode about the prices we pay for the steps we take. Existential realities must be faced up to despite an absence of instructions which would serve to clarify decisions or guide characters as they surmount obstacles. When seemingly straightforward paths do open up, they’re often suspicious, dangerous, or at cross purposes with reason, affiliation, or personal morality.
“It often comforts me to think that even in war’s darkest days, in most places of the world absolutely nothing is happening.” – The Blackfish
The uncertainty of fate, and the consequences of personal choice in an uncontrollable world provide the through-line for “Walk of Punishment.” Serving as the embodiment of these concepts, the actual Walk of Punishment is a coastal strip in Astapor where slaves are crucified for any reason their owners think up. Being born or sold into a life of slavery only to face torturous execution for the slightest failing in the eyes of your social superiors is perhaps the most arresting physical example of the capricious and arbitrary punishments the world of Thrones threatens. When a dying slave rejects Dany’s offer of water so as to not needlessly prolong his suffering, voice is momentarily given to his entire people, and by extension the unprivileged masses of the world. And while the Blackfish indicates that “most places” are free from subjugation, malice, or war, glimpses of Astapor and knowledge of the task set before the Brotherhood Without Banners would suggest that the lands whose shores truly remain untouched by conflict are fewer than he admits.
What’s clear is that the walk refers not just to its geographical namesake in Astapor, but also to the punishing trek each character must make. How does one navigate a world in which choice is necessary for survival, but predicting the outcome of a choice is all but impossible? There is no easy answer. Cersei privileges her family above all else, and Tywin his name. Littlefinger’s ambition drives his conquest, though to what end we are unsure. Robert gave thought to little other than his lust and gluttony, and Ned sought only honor, and truth. Arya seeks family, but revenge is a close second. Other characters – Varys, Melisandre, Jojen – have more cryptic aims. But the strength of the story centers on how each reason for being emerges naturally from plausible characterization. These modalities usually shift, because the world of Thrones does not permit immovable objects to coexist with unstoppable forces. Characters who cannot bend once outmatched usually perish, but those who do accede are by no means secure. Recall that Ned forswore the idea (if not the reality) of his honor before the gathered peoples of King’s Landing, proclaiming himself a traitor to better serve his family. Fat lot of good that did.
“When, for instance, a military leader takes upon himself the responsibility for an attack and sends a number of men to their death, he chooses to do it and at bottom he alone chooses. No doubt under a higher command, but its orders, which are more general, require interpretation by him and upon that interpretation depends the life of ten, fourteen or twenty men. In making the decision, he cannot but feel a certain anguish. All leaders know that anguish. It does not prevent their acting, on the contrary it is the very condition of their action, for the action presupposes that there is a plurality of possibilities, and in choosing one of these, they realize it has value only because it is chosen.” – Jean-Paul Sartre
Being condemned to freedom is a somewhat strange-sounding idea under normal conditions, but one which resonates whenever a difficult burden is shouldered. I quote the above passage from Sartre’s “Existentialism is a Humanism” lecture because it so neatly captures the Edmure-Robb dynamic on display in one of the episode’s earliest scenes. Edmure, impetuous, has effectively crushed Robb’s hopes of capturing and killing The Mountain That Rides by leading a rash attack on a captured mill in defense of his own lands. In so doing, Edmure has incurred a long-term cost greater than he could have ever predicted. Had he only been patient! And yet Edmure surely saw this as an opportunity to win glory, to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies, to win the day–in short, to be a proper leader. Hundreds of casualties and one recaptured mill later, Edmure balks before Robb’s withering deconstruction of the military blunder. And yet the punishment stops there. Robb is a good man–loyal, and just. Edmure may have been impatient, but he clearly meant well. Even so, no war effort can sustain itself beneath the miscalculations of men like Robb’s uncle. What does the Young Wolf do next? What response is just, and what response will achieve desired ends? Do we privilege our values, or goals?
These questions lead to another: are consequences (or punishments) necessarily proportional to actions (or crimes)? The answer is “no,” but reaching the reasons why is challenging. I once stated that Martin, Benioff and Weiss limit themselves to a local range of commentary on the show’s themes, and that they correspondingly refuse to universalize or recommend moral perspectives. This means that statements about proportional punishment are bound to be complicated by the characters interpreting them. Tywin’s justification for cutthroat responses to ineffectual commanders in his military camp will differ wildly from Robb’s, each general being motivated by distinct and intelligible views. In the same way that the characters lack a shared, external system of objective morality by which they can shape their actions and through which they can judge one another, the audience isn’t given a clear interpretive framework by which the characters can be judged. The show concerns itself with the characters’ philosophies about themselves and each other, and not a creator’s philosophy about his characters. This means that we may value Tyrion for his wit and good heart, or the Starks for their long-forgotten model family dynamic, or Ned in particular for his sense of honor, but that Westeros, its other inhabitants, and the authorial voice presenting both to us may not – and often won’t – respond as we do.
“Walk of Punishment” underscores the poor correlation between moral intent and moral consequence frequently, though perhaps never so descriptively as in Jorah’s proclamation that “Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, and Rhaegar died.” Also consider Jaime’s “fighting bravely for a losing cause is admirable, but fighting for a winning cause is far more rewarding” speech to Locke, as it’s the second time that a character elevates what’s rewarding and efficacious over what’s admirable, noble or traditionally worth esteem. But even so, Jaime had just engaged in his first unequivocal act of selflessness in the series: telling a convincing lie to save Brienne from rape. Moments later, his hand chopped off for having prickled the sensitivities of the class warrior, Locke, Jaime is a changed man. What crime did Jaime commit that mutilation was the commensurate penalty?
I think it’s natural to interpret Jaime’s dismemberment as a kind of karmic comeuppance; here’s a guy who fucks his sister, who sired Joffrey, who killed Jory, who attempted to kill Ned, who attempted to kill Brienne (debatable), who killed his own cousin to escape imprisonment, who pushed a child out a window, and now he’s getting what he deserves! Right? Well, maybe not. The show has preemptively complicated readings of this type; season one, bookended by the strictly legal decapitations of innocents, clearly established that characters don’t get what they ‘deserve’ in Westeros–at least not by any measure of justice we bring with us when we watch the show. No, Jaime is being punished because he put his neck–or wrist–on the line for someone other than himself, and in so doing, misread his captor. Nothing more, nothing less. One unambiguously good act, and one poorly calibrated interpersonal assessment later, Jaime is without a fist. It’s precisely because Jaime did something essentially altruistic just minutes before receiving his severe punishment that the show is able to remind us that it has no heavy-handed interest in moral bookkeeping.
The carving knife thuds into the stump, the fingers reflexively twitch, Jaime’s eyes go wide with the shock of acknowledgement, his scream carries us through a smash cut to black and–what’s this? A raucous rendition of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” performed by The Hold Steady? There is a rich series of tonal contrasts in this episode, with alternatingly dark and darkly comic scenes filling the running time. The same fifty-four minutes of Thrones featuring two attempted rapes and one dismemberment also includes a literal game of thrones in the small council,”direwolf bread,” musings about King Robb’s supposed lycanthropy, funeral hijinks, and a squire’s borderline camp-conquest of his own virginity in a brothel. While Theon desperately races through dark forests to save his skin in one moment, Tyrion wryly muses over the court’s ledgers as the new Master of Coin in the next. But where the episode usually separates its tonally distinct scenes from one another, this final sequence marries the black with the blackly funny.
First, it must be remembered that Locke and his men performed a less anachronistic rendition of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” whilst transporting Brienne and Jaime (bound together on horseback in a scene that first threatens buddy comedy before collapsing into a grave discussion of impending rape) earlier in the episode. They even sing it rather warmly–these rapists and murderers. So when we later hear it a second time, we’re at least aware that the song belongs to Westeros. The Hold Steady’s performance is an energized Celtic punk cover, and is unlike anything heretofore used within a GoT episode (though anachronistic songs have made rounds in promotional materials, they’ve been less jarringly obvious). The effect is twofold: first, it’s an aural slap to the face which invites confusion and restates one of the show’s principal truths: anything can happen to anyone at any time. But more importantly, the credits serve to undermine all attempts at reading a moral lesson into Jaime’s maiming. Yes, he has done truly bad things to characters we like. Yes, he performed a personally redemptive action before being brutally punished on account of Locke’s freakish and violent whims. Yes, it all comes down to what one man with all the power feels like doing in the split second before he brings that chopper down, and no, that man is certainly not performing the role of karmic agent.
Thrones can be hilarious, and I find it interesting that an episode as painful as “Walk of Punishment” is so thick with laughs. A simple interpretation might hold that the comedy exists to counterbalance or relieve the grim tension present in places like Craster’s Keep, but I find the juxtaposition more deliberate. It’s not quite a gallows humor, as the funniest moments aren’t necessarily located within the darkest scenes. Taken in aggregate, the effect is more akin to tonal variations on a given melody; it’s the same song, but it sounds very different from key to key, or depending on what room you’re listening to it in.
As the season intensifies, the stakes are raised, and the pathos heightens. Comedy serves to punctuate and disrupt the audience’s tendency to oversimplify narrative arcs. In this way, comedy acts as an interrupting force within a character’s movement from point A to point B–a kind of jarring reminder that these are tales about living entities and not narrative robots, and that they’re each subject to the hideous and laughable incongruities life musters. Jon Snow isn’t just a plucky, nascent hero; Jaime Lannister isn’t just some charming villain. Life keeps happening even when tragedy strikes. On the day of Ned’s beheading, jokes were told and lovers loved. Somewhere, people giggled. Somewhere else, people were probably beheaded for giggling.
When the show commits to its drama, it can be heartrending. These focused instances of comedy don’t snap us away from that poignancy so much as they remind us that a jester waits just offstage. The jester observes, and no player is free from his judgment. Occasionally this jester sings for the crowd. When the credits roll, it’s as if the jester is merrily cheering, “oh, and this is the game we play – this is the bloody fucking game we play!” The closing song isn’t sneering, but is cosmically amused. It answers “why not?” when we ask “did that really just happen?” It laughs not because Jaime did or didn’t deserve to have his entire identity murdered by a cleaver, but because this is the sort of game where warriors and fools spend their time punishing one another in the endless quest for transient ends, all of them so rarely savoring what little they gain.
The song also foretells change. It’s a departure, and it anticipates a transition. There is no grim dirge heralding Jaime’s loss, nor some generically thumping war song reminding us of how dangerous this game really is. The bright, contrasting burst overpowering the credits is like the closing of a rather disgraceful chapter before the opening of another. Jorah warns us that “there is a beast in every man, and it stirs when you put a sword in his hands.” What to make of a man, then, known to all as a golden beast – swords for fangs – who has lost his bite?
And just as “Walk of Punishment” measures penalties and personal losses incurred by choice, it is also a story of cost and payment. The promise of money isn’t enough to stop Roose Bolton’s best hunter from sating a desire to show a spoiled lion what power really looks like, but it is enough to call off the rape of a noblewoman. The promise of pleasure is all Tyrion, a lifelong whoremonger, can offer in disproportionately meager payment to Podrick, the loyal squire who took a life to save Tyrion’s. Bronn, the sellsword who gauges relationships by their monetary value, is unfamiliar with the concept of interest while the crown itself mortgages its future through the Iron Bank. Daenerys considers the true cost of acquiring her army, as Jorah and Barristan debate whether an army worth commanding can be bought for any price.
“You’re walking. And you don’t always realize it, but you’re always falling. With each step you fall forward slightly, and then catch yourself from falling. Over and over, you’re falling, and then catching yourself from falling. And this is how you can be walking and falling at the same time.” – Laurie Anderson
Walking – traversing time and space by way of self-propulsion – really is an interesting phenomenon. Like blinking, we can walk voluntarily, every step a conscious choice. We can even skip. But like blinking, we usually shuffle the path between where we are and where we’re going as if on auto-pilot, eyes raised to meet destiny’s face and averted from the engine of choice powering our stride. Of course, we benefit from relative safety. Short of the requirement to cautiously cross streets, our meandering paths are usually free from danger, requiring little of us. Our choices fall within a range of relative certainties. And yet even so, each step carries with it a moment where the unknown is embraced–a span of time where a footfall really means falling.
The walk of punishment isn’t just a miserable street in Astapor, and it’s not just a clever title for an episode; the walk of punishment is the gauntlet each character must cross again and again. The inhabitants of Westeros can choose each step, but they often have little control over how these choices will reshape the paths rolling before them. Like a game with ever-shifting rules, this journey features mutating terrain. The relationship between action and reaction can quickly prove fatal when the punishment is bloodier than the crime, or the cost greater than the payment. But that’s precisely what these characters must contend with: choosing when foreknowledge is impossible, while loyalties are frayed, when intentions are veiled, when moral consistency is a liability, and when death’s teeth loom steely above the block.
Watching the lot of travelers both cautious and reckless clamber their way over hills and courts and fields of battle, the jester cocks his head to the side, grinning. He snaps his eyes shut and sees a canvas of total darkness, erasing the weary wanderers, marveling at how little it takes to end the world.
So he starts laughing.