We just watched 70 minutes of very good TV. It was galvanizing. In the episode’s final moments, long-gestating storylines threatened to clash with a sense of inevitability and, still, the frisson of surprise.
It was all always heading right here — to this place — and yet the path House of the Dragon took made me doubt that we would ever find our way. An emotional coda boomeranged an important character back from season two’s margins, forcing her to make a hard choice between her children — a choice I don’t imagine is simple for Alicent just because some of her kids are monsters. And it was a terrible season finale, evasive and deflating.
In its final moments, I couldn’t help but obsessively check how many minutes were left. (Could they fit a battle into 15 minutes? Into nine minutes? Into two?) It was always heading right here to this place, yet the series denied its audience and its characters catharsis. War is like the horizon on House of the Dragon , receding no matter how (and how many times) you approach it.
I’m so primed for battle at this point that I’m rooting against Alicent’s last-gasp plea for peace. Burn the innocents! Sink the recently rechristened Queen Who Never Was! This series’ most persistent flaw is that it is forever pulling back when it should run headlong, saving “story” for some imaginary later, taking for granted that we’ll keep tuning in. It’s so afraid of running out of gas that it never dares to floor it, which is espec.