Child Abuse and the Wicked Stepmother
Catelyn openly leverages her position of authority to punish an innocent child for merely existing. She has striven to make Jon feel like an abomination ever since he was an infant.
This is undeniably child abuse, and the way the text emphasizes Catelyn’s emotions and makes excuses for the way she abuses Jon is truly repulsive. What’s perhaps more sickening, however, is how some fans have attempted to defend this framing.
Moving the Goalposts
I’ve actually heard several Game of Thrones fans argue that the way Catelyn treats Jon “doesn’t count as child abuse,” and their reasoning is both shockingly wrongheaded and so callous as to make me question whether these apologists have any moral compass whatsoever.
One argument goes as follows:
“It’s not child abuse because Catelyn doesn’t make him work as a domestic slave, dress him in rags, or force him to sleep in the stables.”
A Game of Thrones fan trying to defend the indefensible
This betrays a truly warped understanding of what abuse is. When people define “abuse” as only the most overt form of abuse, they set the bar so high that most real-world abuse can be dismissed. Often, this is deliberately weaponized by abusers, who gaslight their victims into thinking it doesn’t count.
Child Abuse Redefined
Terrible as that fallacy is, there exists perhaps an even more imbecilic defence:
“Catelyn’s not a child abuser; she’s a good mother to her own children. The way she treats Jon doesn’t count as child abuse, because Jon’s not her child! She’s not obligated to be a good mother to him.”
An even dumber Game of Thrones fan trying to defend the indefensible
How does one even begin to pick apart something so braindead? I mean, for one thing, the definition of child abuse isn’t limited to abuse by the child’s parents! Child abuse is child abuse, whether it’s by a parent, an aunt (which Catelyn technically is), a teacher, or even some random stranger!
What Is Child Abuse?
If you won’t take my word for it, the World Health Organization defines child abuse thusly:
Child abuse or maltreatment constitutes all forms of physical and/or emotional ill-treatment, sexual abuse, neglect or negligent treatment or commercial or other exploitation, resulting in actual or potential harm to the child’s health, survival, development or dignity in the context of a relationship of responsibility, trust or power.
the World Health Organization
This definition easily encompasses what Catelyn Stark does to Jon Snow in Game of Thrones. It is without a doubt emotional ill-treatment, neglect, and negligent treatment that results in actual, obvious harm to Jon’s mental health, development, and dignity.
The relationship of Catelyn to her stepson is undeniably one of power, and it’s arguably one of responsibility as well, given that Catelyn has largely forgiven Ned himself for his transgressions.
Catelyn has every right to hate her husband for his betrayal, even if the patriarchal society she lives in prevents her from just divorcing him. But she doesn’t hate Ned; she makes a point of only hating a child who didn’t ask to be born. Forgiving the person who’s actually at fault absolutely nullifies any excuse she might otherwise have had.
It All Comes Back to Framing
Now, I’d like to make clear one thing: This whole abuse dynamic is not inherently unacceptable to use as subject matter in a work of fiction. A similar or even identical family dynamic could easily make for great conflict, if only the narrative framed it as the toxic abuse that it is.
But the narrative framing in Game of Thrones doesn’t do this; quite the opposite! Jon and all the other characters consider Catelyn’s hatred of an innocent child to be basically reasonable. Furthermore, the narration takes great care to portray Catelyn as sympathetic as she tells her stepson she wishes he were dead.
And many Game of Thrones fans are quite willing to defend her actions. Indeed, anyone suggesting that taking out her anger on a defenceless child might be unacceptable is likely to receive dozens of angry replies to the effect of:
Child abuse? REALLY?! When has Catelyn EVER been guilty of child abuse???
A very angry Game of Thrones fan
Catelyn is a wonderful mother, you dumb cuck! How can you accuse her of child abuse? You clearly didn’t even watch the show or read the books. Kill yourself.
Another angry Game of Thrones fan
When you explain the ways she works to make Jon feel unworthy of existing alongside her own children, her defenders resort to trying to redefine what “child abuse” is, whether by insisting that only the most extreme violence counts or by making up new criteria out of thin air.
A Far-Right Agenda
I would say that such attempts to defend Catelyn are amazingly bad arguments, but in all honesty, I don’t actually think these arguments are even meant to be good! It seems to me that they function not to advance a position, but to terminate discussion as quickly as possible.
I’ve come to call this sort of thing a “pseudo-argument,” since it attempts to seem just similar enough to a reasoned proposition as to look convincing to those not paying attention, despite being as hollow as the common thought-terminating cliché.
The point of these pseudo-arguments is to end the discussion. They want you to stop questioning the story they’re invested in, and the more extreme among them are alt-right trolls who are actively trying to shift cultural attitudes in favour of a society much like the one portrayed in Game of Thrones.
Wealthy Heroes
Whatever George R.R. Martin’s political leanings may be, I don’t really care. Because the reality is that the text of Game of Thrones focuses pretty much entirely on the richest noble families in Westeros, families that (for the most part, at least) view ordinary peasants as they would animals.
Many rich people throughout history have indeed treated the poor as disposable, but Game of Thrones invites us to entertain the same worldview. Martin always talks about how rich people fight amongst themselves and poor people have to suffer through it all, but throughout his story it’s clear we’re only supposed to care about the rich characters.
The All-Important Question
For all he questions morality (or rather, denies its relevance) there’s a rather important question George R.R. Martin seems never to have asked. Therefore, I will ask it. Why is it important for people to understand that life isn’t fair—that bad things happen to good people?
Because when people think bad things don’t happen to good people, they’re likely to distrust—and even lash out at—anyone who’s having a hard time. It’s horrible, but people who think misfortune only befalls the wicked have a tendency to assume the unfortunate must be evil.
Game of Thrones Fails at Representation
Despite the fact that Game of Thrones spends much of its runtime telling its audience that rape, child-murder, child-molestation, wife-beating, and rampant selfishness are somehow moral grey areas, many of the show’s non-sociopathic fans seem determined to interpret this story as being secretly progressive. Look as I might, I just don’t see it.
One of the more common arguments for why Game of Thrones is actually super forward-thinking is that Game of Thrones has great representation in its cast of characters. Perhaps even more than other genres, many fantasy writers have tended towards writing stories focused almost entirely on straight, cis, white men.
There are indeed more female main characters in Game of Thrones than in many other fantasy stories, and not all are conventionally attractive. There are also, as many fans love to point out, a number of disabled main characters. Fans have argued that this representation helps increase the visibility of various minorities.
Representation in fiction is important, and fantasy stories have often lagged behind in this regard despite their potential to go even further than more conventional genres. However, I’m not so sure Game of Thrones has really succeeded here.
It’s certainly important for stories to feature diverse casts of characters, especially now. The series began with A Game of Thrones, which came out in 1996. At the time of writing this, the most recent book was A Dance With Dragons, which came out shortly after the show’s first season aired in 2011. The show ended in 2019.
Since Game of Thrones is a relatively modern series, I think it’s reasonable to hold its representation and messages to a higher standard than a story from, say, the 1970s or ‘80s. Storytelling conventions that were ubiquitous then aren’t necessarily acceptable now. So how does Game of Thrones hold up?
Misogyny and Narrative Framing
The world of Game of Thrones is misogynistic on every level, and to its credit, the story spends a good deal of time establishing how that negatively impacts its female characters. Taken on its own, this sounds like it would serve to criticize the sexism in our own society, but how the narrative frames things is important.
Whether or not George R.R. Martin acknowledges it, narrative framing is inherent to storytelling, and every story provides the reader with hints as to how they should view what’s happening in the narrative. Trying to be some sort of “invisible puppetmaster” is just unrealistic, as every detail of a text will influence how your reader engages with it.
Throughout Game of Thrones, the narrative framing tells us how we should interpret the characters and events that make up the story. When it comes to the treatment of women, the text consistently seeks to justify the status quo. Rapists and wife-beaters are often framed as sympathetic, which is an obvious red flag.
The women in Game of Thrones, by contrast, are subtly framed as incompetent, overemotional, manipulative, or otherwise ineffectual. When a man and a woman both commit similarly cruel acts, it’s generally the man who gets a redemption arc.
Of all the many characters that populate the story, only one understands and objects to the patriarchal structures in Westeros. That lone proto-feminist is Cersei Lannister, the unambiguous villain of the whole series. Her brand of evil is that of a comic book villain, and the text draws attention to her emotional instability.
Having the only person who objects to sexism be the villain will almost always result in the story coding her objection to sexism as wrong, especially if it’s a villain like Cersei.
Black Women in Refrigerators
The situation is somehow worse for characters of colour. There are noticeably few prominent characters who aren’t white, and they spend most of their time talking to or about Daenerys, the white saviour who conquers foreign lands and teaches the dark-skinned natives that slavery is wrong.
Also, the show’s only black woman gets shoved in a refrigerator gets her head chopped off to drive a white character’s arc forward, so there’s that.
It’s not enough to just include lots of minority characters in your story. To have good representation, you also have to portray those characters in ways that don’t reinforce the entrenched prejudices that bigots use to justify inequality. Game of Thrones fails at this, and it fails hard.
Game of Thrones Glorifies Border Security
Remember a few sections ago when I said, “Imagine if Game of Thrones were set in modern Texas”? Well, that bit was foreshadowing, unfortunately. Because while these implications are most likely the unintended consequence of authorial incompetence, Game of Thrones still exists in a wider political context. And in that context, the story’s grotesque symbolism is unforgivable.
The Night’s Watch and the Wall of ICE
Sure, [the Night’s Watch] are criminal scum, but they are also heroes.
George R.R. Martin
Given the above quote, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that the Night’s Watch are supposed to come across as heroic, at least to some degree. It is, however, quite the understatement to point out that this framing is somewhat troubling, given what country George R.R. Martin is from.
The Night’s Watch are a combined penal colony and monastic order who guard a giant wall that stretches across the northern border of Westeros. Their chief function is to guard the civilized country of Westeros from refugees—referred to as “wildlings”—who attempt to cross the border as they flee a horde of ice zombies.
Literally every part of this is reactionary drivel—and just to be clear, I don’t care in the slightest whether George R.R. Martin intended this metaphor. No matter what the author was trying to do, the very concept of the wall fits perfectly within a far-right, white nationalist allegory glorifying United States border security.
Even beyond the mere image of a giant border wall to keep out the refugees, its description evokes the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency (or “ICE”), which is guilty of an ever-increasing assortment of crimes against humanity targeting people of colour.
Admittedly, the first Game of Thrones book came out a few years before ICE was established, but I’m not convinced it’s a coincidence that the books’ popularity didn’t explode till well after ICE became a thing. And even if it is just a coincidence, maybe adapting it into a TV show in 2011 was a tad ill-advised?
The Watchers on the Walls
Let’s ignore for a moment that a large percentage of the Night’s Watch are convicted rapists serving a life sentence, making their status as “heroes” inherently creepy in a story where cuckoldry is consistently framed as a worse injustice than rape.
The way Game of Thrones frames the institution of the Night’s Watch is altogether horrifying. Sworn to defend the border with their lives, the Night’s Watch are described as an organization that’s above the political squabbles of the nobility. The implication here is that preventing desperate asylum seekers from crossing the border is apolitical.
While we’re on the topic, the key to this supposed apoliticality is said to lie in the vow the Night’s Watch brothers take when they first join the order: namely to “take no wife, father no children.” It’s explained that this is to prevent members from ever feeling love, as that might compromise their sense of “duty”:
“Jon, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night’s Watch take no wives and father no children?”
“No.”
“So they will not love, for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms … or the memory of a brother’s smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.”
A Game of Thrones
This is absolutely in keeping with the worldview Game of Thrones eagerly endorses: that emotions like love and compassion make you weak, and that stoic, individualistic masculinity (known more properly as toxic masculinity) makes you strong and allows for supposedly “rational” decision-making.
It’s a worldview that’s shared by the various fascist ideologies that comprise the alt-right. Their figureheads love to shout, “Facts don’t care about your feelings!” Reactionaries always insist that their bigotry is rational, and the claim that emotions make the left weak is a core element of fascist thought.
Here in the real world, damn near everything the alt-right says is either a flat-out lie or a half-truth so warped that it might as well be a lie. Trying to reduce the amount of suffering in the world is not a sign of weakness, and the individualism that Game of Thrones pushes can only make our own world materially worse.
Also, I know Martin wanted to play with “heroes” who wear all black, but the Night’s Watch consists largely of rangers who carry out covert operations in a landscape dominated by snow and ice. When last I checked, snow is notoriously light in colour, making black the single worst uniform colour for the task at hand.
Even the Night’s Watch encampments are black. Did it not occur to the author that this might stick out like a laser lightshow?
Craster’s Keep
It should be obvious that the “wildlings” trying to cross the border into Westeros are roughly analogous to refugees and asylum-seekers. Consequently, the way Game of Thrones frames them as savage invaders is almost self-evidently disgusting. But it gets worse.
The only wildlings that the Night’s Watch consider among their allies are outliers. Most prominent among these is a man named Craster, himself the bastard son of one of the Night’s Watch who shagged a wildling woman and then abandoned her when they conceived a child.
Despite being only just Westerosi enough to be an ally, Craster worships the ice zombies and offers each of his newborn sons as human sacrifices to them. These sons, incidentally, are the product of Craster marrying and raping his own daughters.
To reiterate, the Night’s Watch are “heroes” according to the author, and they’re willing to tolerate an uneasy alliance with a monster like Craster, so long as he’s got some “civilized” blood in his veins. Families fleeing a marauding horde of undead, on the other hand, are enemies who need to be killed at the border.
It’s also worth mentioning that despite all this, the story does a lot more to humanize the white “savages” north of the Wall than it ever does the brown-skinned “savages” in the eastern regions. Brown people in Game of Thrones seem to be little more than props in Daenerys’ white saviour plotline.
The Zombie Horde
Even the horde of zombies itself is not without its own racist implications. To start, a mindless horde of inhuman monsters bent on crossing the border into “civilized” nations with the intention of wiping out and replacing the white people there is precisely how white supremacists always frame people of colour.
But the shuffling zombies in particular have an even more direct connection to racism. You see, white Americans have long appropriated the motif of the zombie from Haitian folklore, twisting it into a veiled metaphor for black people attempting to gain basic human rights.
During the Civil Rights movement in the early 20th century, white racists made zombie films where the zombie hordes functioned as allegories for black protesters. When you consider the racist connections of both the zombie trope and virtually every facet of the Border Wall concept, it’s hard to miss the implications of the Night’s Watch as “heroes.”
Game of Thrones is a story that emerged from the culture of the United States: a culture that skews further towards the right-wing than most. It’s a culture that’s always been preoccupied with whiteness, and America’s treatment of those fleeing oppression and death is callous at best and arguably genocidal at worst.
It doesn’t matter if George R.R. Martin set out to write a story that’s on the wrong side of history. More than likely, he’s just incompetent and writes this rubbish without knowing what ideas his books communicate—or perhaps even that they communicate anything at all.
The reality is that the text of Game of Thrones exists in the form that it does, whether the author intended it that way or not. Stories communicate ideas, and the ideas that form Game of Thrones’ base assumptions are on the wrong side of history.
Game of Thrones Promotes Ableism
Likewise, Bran Stark is often hailed as good representation for disabled people, which is admittedly woefully rare in fiction. I would argue, however, that Bran’s character arc is ableist in the extreme. After learning that he’ll never walk again, Bran says that he wishes he’d died instead:
“I’d rather be dead.”
Bran Stark, Game of Thrones
And just in case you didn’t hear him the first time, his brother tells him not to say such things, and Bran repeats himself:
“I’d rather… be dead.”
Bran Stark, Game of Thrones
I would say something sarcastic like “Because that’s not a huge middle finger to anyone with a physical impairment or anything!,” but I fear that might run the risk of some idiot not understanding the sarcasm.
As it is, I will try to make this easy to understand. When you write a scene where a disabled person says repeatedly that they’d rather be dead—especially if you yourself don’t have that disability—you are communicating the message that disabled people would be better off dead.
You’re conveying this vile and all-too-common idea not only to any readers who might have a disability, but also to others who might be susceptible to this sort of bigotry. This is, to put it very mildly, unforgivable. There was a time when people just didn’t know any better, but we can and should expect more from today’s writers.
This theme only gets worse as the story progresses. At the start, Bran objects to being called a “cripple,” and much of his arc in the early seasons revolves around learning to refer to himself as such. At one point, Tyrion calls Bran “a cripple,” to which Bran responds:
“I’m not a cripple!”
Bran Stark, Game of Thrones
Notice the choice of words. Bran could have said, “Don’t call me a cripple!,” which would have framed the word as the slur it is.
In case you’re somehow unaware, “cripple” is now rightly regarded as an ableist slur, but the show’s wording explicitly frames Bran’s objection as a sign of denial.
Of course, the main reason for this odd choice of words is so Tyrion can say something George R.R. Martin thinks is “witty”:
“Then I’m not a dwarf! My father will rejoice to hear it!”
Tyrion Lannister, Game of Thrones
This line, like almost every sentence that crosses Tyrion’s lips, is clearly meant to be seen not just as a witty quip, but as words of wisdom from a man who “says it like it is.” Tyrion’s response thus serves to normalize and even glorify the use of an ableist slur that bigots in the real world use every day to demean disabled people.
This scene doesn’t shed light on the ableist bigotry of our own world so we can strive to dismantle oppressive systems. Like most of the issues that Game of Thrones touches on, the text shows us how horrible the world is and then tells us we’re stupid for wanting our own world to be better.
This willingness to leave the world’s injustices as they are bears a strong resemblance to the rhetoric of conservatives. Tyrion’s “Then I’m not a dwarf!” quip isn’t that different from how alt-right figureheads whine about “political correctness” while firing off every Nazi dog-whistle they can think of.
The Music of Game of Thrones
The one thing that almost everyone seems to agree on is that Game of Thrones’ title sequence, which explores a three-dimensional map of the show’s fantasy world, is really cool.
A huge part of that is the music, composed by Ramin Djawadi. It’s definitely a theme that grabs you, and its use in the opening credits has a real feeling of energy to it. Unfortunately the music in Game of Thrones is all downhill from there.
Main Theme
The main theme of Game of Thrones consists of four notes that repeat over and over… and over… and over… After a few seasons one starts to notice how endlessly repetitive it is.
A good cello could probably make a Justin Bieber song sound at least mildly pleasant, and it certainly makes Djawadi’s score fun to listen to. That is, it’s fun for about the first season or so—or however long it happens to take you to get bored.
This isn’t like Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings or Alexander Nevsky, all of which are magnificent throughout, no matter how many times you listen to them. Rather, most of the music of Game of Thrones’ first season was well-orchestrated and atmospheric, if just a touch dull, but in later seasons its weaknesses waxed while its strengths waned.
Every part of Game of Thrones’ main theme feels circular, which certainly meshes with this sort of soap opera. Sadly this means there’s little sense of direction. There’s certainly a sense that it’s building to something, but in the end it peters out (foreshadowing?).
Instead of building to a finale like the title sequence of BBC’s Merlin, this one has a lot of buildup, but then it just becomes quiet while a dulcimer plays the four notes over and over. In the end, it stops short of a satisfying conclusion.
Leitmotifs
Despite Djawadi’s score allegedly having at least fifty leitmotifs, by far the most played are the main theme and the theme for House Stark, which play so often in later seasons that they crowd out all others.
Worse, almost all the themes are themselves derived from the main theme, and most have those four notes repeating below them. The music therefore becomes increasingly repetitive with each new season. By the end, the score seemed to consist largely of only two or three themes, and—particularly in the final season—the endless repetition made it close to unlistenable.
(“What Is Dead May Never Die”)
Most of the themes in Game of Thrones are quite poorly documented, and I was thus unable to examine them all in depth. Although some themes like Theon Greyjoy’s have potential, the dull repetition seems intent on wearing the listener thin.
Even Theon’s theme is derivative, though. Specifically, it often feels like a rip-off of Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard’s much more interesting theme for The Dark Knight.
Most of Djawadi’s motifs are just the same thing repeated twice or more. Many consist primarily of half-notes and quarter-notes. This isn’t to say they’re all bad—just not quite so complex as those in some scores.
The Sum of Its Parts
Game of Thrones’ title sequence is engaging enough when taken on its own, building to an anticlimax that works despite the theme not really developing. However, while it makes for a fine opening, the music accompanying the action never seems to build on this foundation.
When the best Game of Thrones has to offer is a rather repetitive opening credits sequence, we’re left with quite a dull soundscape throughout the actual show. The various themes grow stale after a few seasons, and by the final season, it’s mostly devolved into an endless stream of that one-bar ostinato.
That’s not to say every track is bad—far from it. The instrumentation of any given track will often be quite good—sometimes even exceptional, as is certainly the case with the opening. Analyzed in isolation, most of these tracks would give no indication of belonging to a bad score.
Rather, the problem becomes obvious only when you consider the score as a whole. Most of the tracks would be perfectly fine on their own, but when taken together, they start to blend into an amorphously dreary work.
A Symphony of Ice and Tired
All the music in Game of Thrones feels the same: a droning, morose stream of texture trying—and often failing—to be foreboding and sad. There’s shockingly little variation in tone, and the result is frankly boring to listen to.
(“The Rains of Castamere”)
Even when the orchestra seems like it’s trying to swell triumphantly, the emotion never shifts. And the boring music has serious consequences for Game of Thrones overall, because the droning accompaniment ends up making the story even less engaging than it would have been otherwise.
The most obvious score to contrast it with is, of course, Howard Shore’s masterwork: The Lord of the Rings. That score is everything Game of Thrones isn’t, seamlessly moving from one emotion or setting to another as the plot demands without ever losing cohesion.
I mean, just listen to these clips from The Lord of the Rings! Howard Shore’s magnum opus is in a whole different league.
There. Hear the difference? Good; let’s move on.
Different Tones
Obviously, the tone of Game of Thrones is different enough from The Lord of the Rings that some of you may wonder if it’s really a fair comparison. After all, Tolkien’s epic runs a much wider gamut of emotions than Game of Thrones does.
I myself suspect these differences in tone are more the result of George R.R. Martin’s failure to replicate The Lord of the Rings, as opposed to a deliberate storytelling choice.
All the same, I will indulge that idea later in this article by comparing the music of Game of Thrones to that of a more similar story and seeing how it holds up.
Production and Acting
Game of Thrones boasts perhaps the biggest budget in the history of television, which lends it a polished feel. Artistically, however, the show is less impressive. The cinematography and lighting are often poor or else derivative. The only shots that are even remotely competent are bland close-ups of the actors.
Much of the camerawork in Game of Thrones emphasizes when we’re supposed to be impressed by how badass characters like Tyrion are, which comes at the cost of any humanity the shots might have had.
I lost count how many times Tyrion delivered a punchy comeback and walked away, and rarely did we see his face as he did so; it was always shot from behind him as he left the room. We see neither his face nor anyone else’s, meaning we learn nothing about the characters’ emotions.
Imagery
An early review of George R.R. Martin’s book rightly called its imagery “less than memorable,” and it’s certainly that more often than not in the show.
The fantasy world, with its religions barely fleshed out and its cultures ranging from essentially American to caricatures of non-white cultures, is bland to the point that there’s barely anything to mention.
One of the few ideas here that’s almost interesting is the Wall. I think the Wall’s premise is something that a more skilled writer could have fashioned into a decent story, but in Game of Thrones it’s as stale as everything else.
Acting
The acting in Game of Thrones is as one might expect of a low-brow American soap opera: mostly mediocre despite a few performances that stand out. Sean Bean (Ned Stark), although hampered by stiff direction and dialogue, gives the best performance by far before dying an offscreen death at the end of Season One. Peter Dinklage (Tyrion Lannister) is usually quite enjoyable to watch, but his accent is so dreadful that I can scarcely understand his dialogue.
I don’t think it’s fair to blame the show’s actors for all the many lacklustre performances, as a director can have a huge impact. That said, some of the performances are worse than others, and some are terrible one minute and almost impressive the next.
Kit Harrington (who plays Jon Snow) is certainly a bit wooden most of the time, as are Emilia Clarke (Daenerys Targaryen) and most of the younger actors. The very worst performances are those given by the pornstars the show hired as both extras and secondary characters.