Winter Is Coming. Very, Very Slowly.

In my Fighting Words conversation with Game Of Thrones-skeptic Matt Roden over the weekend, I tried to put down his fixation with GoT being That Dragon Show by arguing that the series was “95% people and politics” and not really all that focused on silly magic things. But the season three premiere on Monday reminded me that the very first scene of the pilot, and the final scenes of both season finales so far, have centred on the supernatural element. Remember the blue-filtered chill of that first scene with those night’s watch men in the woods, and the little ice-eyed undead child? Before we got mad at the stupid honourable Starks or cheered for a well-deserved slapping, we were told quite plainly that this was a world where evil magic lurked, cold and dark, in the shadow of petty human machinations. Last season, there were shadow-baby assassins, shape-shifting assassins, and waterproof green fire, as well as boring old dragons and snow zombies. So I apologise if I overstated how Serious and Not Magicky At All it is, because while the show leans on human interactions and politics for most of its plot, it is not at all above throwing a lead character into a magic maze full of visions of her dead family and self-replicating warlocks with purple spit.

It was good of the show not to leave us hanging re: the fate of poor Samwell Tarly and Sinewy Ice Grandpa, out in the wilds above the Wall. Because we’re not permitted to actually see the daring escape, we must assume that Sinewy Ice Grandpa was not interested in chowing down on Sam’s delicious warm flabmeat; this must be a different kind of ice zombie from the frostbitten lumberjack who came stalking towards him, only to be set on fire by a conveniently-timed, epically-scarred and very disappointed Jeor Mormont (you had ONE JOB, Sam).

After this action-packed cold open (har!) we get the credits, which now include Astapor. And you all thought that giant gold harpy astride the gates was just a symbol in keeping with the informatively stylised map, but no, there’s an actual bloody enormous gold harpy astride the gates when Dany and her boat full of dragons and poor puking Dothraki get there. The dragons are looking terrific, not cheesy at all – the fish-frying trick illustrates nicely how they’re turning into smart, scary animals. The scene with The Unsullied is perfectly chilling – who else clutched involuntarily at their nipples? – and bodes well for Dany’s storyline this season, as she works out the balance of compassion and ruthlessness that she’ll need to rule effectively.

But the less said about the teleporting child of the corn and her scorpion ball the better. (An aside to A Song Of Ice And Fire readers: while the show is to be commended for recognising that the bit where Ser Barristan pretends to be some old guy called Arstan Whitebeard for half a book wouldn’t work when you have to cast the same actor, my disappointment at the apparent deletion of Strong Belwas knows no bounds.)

With the most boring storyline of last year already delivering fire and blood, we head north of the wall again for the second most boring, where Jon Snow is his boring self until he gets all up in Mance Rayder’s grill. Ciaran Hinds has this merry-warrior vibe that justifies his casting from his first line; at any rate it’s a nice change from smirking Ygritte messing with his head and calling him Jon Snore. There’s more sass from the Lannisters – Tyrion has a dainty scar on his pretty cheek and a chip on his shoulder, and when he points out to his father that he helped enormously with the battle and he’s also technically in line for the family title, Tywin responds most Charles Dance-ly with an intriguing mix of unwarranted “Shut your presumptuous little face, you wife-killing circus freak” reasons and not-totally-unfair “You whore and drink and smirk and are not fit to be Lord” reasons. (“That was way harsh, Tywin,” quoth my viewing companion.)

And Joffrey’s new fiancee Margaery Tyrell is out winning hearts and minds and blithely ruining her gowns in the shit-streaked streets of Flea Bottom, while a bewildered Joff cowers in his palanquin. At dinner, Margaery outs herself as a dirty great bleeding-heart lefty, one with warmer blood and scantier gowns than icy old armour-bodiced Cersei; the queen mother is clearly going to have to cut a bitch. Lena Headey’s “what-me-scheming?” cat’s-bum face is already getting a workout, but there’s real fear behind her eyes – Cersei’s threatened not only by a sweet, beautiful new queen-to-be who’s winning over her darling son, but by Tyrion’s knowledge, and the kingdom-wide rumours, of who Joffrey’s real father is. I’m not wild about fairest-of-them-all-there-can-be-only-one storylines about hot women trying to stomp on each other, but there’s a clear acknowledgement here that Joffrey is weak and malleable, and women with a will to power in a patriarchal society have ways of making themselves powerful.

Elsewhere, Robb is still mad at Catelyn, and his new wife is still bangin’. Davos is busy turning himself into Ned Stark 2.0, failing to recognise when he should shut up and abandon his heartfelt cause for four seconds to save his skin – and that’s before Melisandre taunts him silkily about how many people (including his own sons) he basically killed by convincing Stannis not to invite her to the fireworks last season. And Sansa is maybe less annoying than usual – especially when Littlefinger brings her (mostly fake) news of her mother and sister, and you remember that the last member of her family she saw alive was her father, at his execution.

And that’s where we are for now. We’re sure to catch up with Arya, Jaime and Brienne, the Greyjoys (ugh) and Bran and Osha and Hodor (Hodor!) next week; by not trying to shoehorn them into this episode on top of everything else, the show’s allowed the scenes we do see to breathe. Think of poor Sansa, trying to invent whimsical backstories for the trade ships in the bay, in the face of Shae’s blunt recognition of what she knows to be true. “The truth is always horrible or boring,” Sansa protests sadly, speaking for every single character on this show who’s found that nothing turns out the way you think, hope, or want it to.

Gird your loins for a bunch of horrible and let’s hope they go easy on the boring, as we dive into another season of grim adventuring. Now, who had twelve and a half minutes in the first-tits pool?

–

Caitlin Welsh is the acting Assistant Editor of Sydney street press The BRAG. She has written for The BRAG, Mess + Noise, FasterLouder, Cosmopolitan, TheVine, Beat, dB, X-Press, and Moshcam.