“Shakespearean.” What does it mean? The word has been used so much, so flippantly over the decades that its precision in describing narrative art has eroded into platitude. William Shakespeare wrote a wide variety of plays and poems that encompass a great many themes, philosophies, and artistic flourishes. Yet, we often come back to this one adjective to pinpoint a story or character that is supposed to embody one man’s entire literary output.

Game of Thrones is Shakespearean in two or three key areas. The most obvious is the violence and palace intrigue of its milieu. Another is the rich, almost frightening contradiction that lives in the souls of so many of its characters. A third is the way in which those characters collapse under the weight of their own impulses–the beliefs of what they think they are, rather than what they could be. Finally, power corrupts and destroys all who seek it. So many of Shakespeare’s plots and protagonists take these elements and run with them, particularly in the tragedies. And so it is with the characters at the heart of George R.R. Martin’s story, and the ways in which David Benioff and D.B. Weiss have adapted it. Tragedy has reared its ugly head in Westeros, and there doesn’t appear to be any escape.

Tragedy was always there in some form, most especially with people who had the chance to shed their former identities to become somebody new, somebody happier. Robb married for love, and lost his head for it. Jon could have stayed with Ygritte, and she died instead. Tyrion could have sailed off with Shae, but killed her after she betrayed him. None could allow themselves to prevent these events. Years later, they and so many others are faced with choices that could free them of their burdens, and yet they stop themselves. Doom almost certainly awaits, most among those heavy heads upon which crowns lie.

We are currently faced with four people in control of the continent: Cersei Lannister, Daenerys Targaryan, Aegon VI “Jon Snow” Targaryan, and Sansa Stark. All four have been guided by essential elements of who they are, and who they have always been. The Great War sublimated those features in order to confront the immediate threat. Now that the threat has been dealt with, those four leaders have nothing to do but fall back within the borders that those around them have drawn–and those they have drawn for themselves.

Daenerys has a messiah complex. She always has, going back to the first season and her consumption of the horses’s heart. Her walk into the pyre and the birth of her dragons fed this sense of destiny. The adulation of the freed slaves of Slaver’s Bay let it grow to full bloom. At every turn, she has never wavered from her sense of self-righteousness, the utter belief in herself as a savior.

What does she do when that identity is threatened? She turns desperate. It isn’t enough that Jon doesn’t want the throne; she demands that he never breathe a word of it to anyone. She can’t rule alongside him, even in name only. “We can live together,” Jon insists. “We can,” she responds. “I’ve just told you how.” She will never yield.

Indeed, Cersei then lures her into the same trap into which Ramsay Bolton lured Jon in season six. She has already slain Rhaegal with a scorpion. The ramparts of the Red Keep are loaded with more to take Drogon down. There are thousands of innocent people inside the castle walls. She demands surrender, and then has the Mountain decapitate Missandei, knowing that it will trigger Daenerys into action. But how will Daenerys overcome this? She is outmanned and Drogon is most likely neutralized. And if she does take Cersei down, how will the people flock to her banner when the inside of the Red Keep will look like Dresden in 1945? It doesn’t matter; Daenerys will do it anyway.

Jon shares Daenerys’s impulsiveness and impatience, but is trapped by the sense of honor he inherited from his adopted-father-who’s-really-his-uncle. That is why he can’t keep his secret and tells Sansa and Arya. That is also why he can’t really see himself daring to press his own claim, which could at least clarify the stakes a bit. Telling his family won’t make him any happier, or bring him any greater sense of peace. It actually has a chance to make things so much worse. It doesn’t matter; he does it anyway.

Sansa may have only truly become the steely ruler she is today when she escaped from Ramsay and took back the North, but there has always been a cold belief in her own superiority. It was petty and authentically adolescent in her younger years, but she always knew who her enemies were, and that they were worthy of her scorn. She has served as a much needed check on both Jon and Daenerys, but no matter what Daenerys does, Sansa can’t trust her.

What’s worse is that she can’t trust Jon, either. She went behind his back and enlisted the Knights of the Vale to swoop in at the last moment to win the Battle of the Bastards. She similarly decides to betray his confidence and tell Tyrion the truth. In both cases, Sansa acted in what she thought was Jon’s best interest. More truthfully, she acted out of her own intellectual vanity. She is smarter than everyone else. That’s often true. But just like Jon and Daenerys, she refuses to believe otherwise when it isn’t. She is the show’s greatest diplomat. She should be negotiating with Jon and Daenerys about what the future of Westeros should look like, not undermining the both of them and possibly causing more bloodshed. It doesn’t matter; she does it anyway.

Cersei’s humanity has corroded, her bitterness metastasized. And yet, she can’t kill Tyrion when given the chance. She has never been able to, not really. She’s had so many opportunities, but deep down, despite all their enmities, they still love each other. Tyrion appeals to her on that sense of love, that for her, her children always come before everything. She has the Golden Company. She has dozens of Scorpion bolts locked and loaded. But even she must know that without the support of the common people or any of the other kingdoms, she won’t be much longer for this world, much less as its queen. She could kill Missandei and trigger the great battle that she could just as easily lose as win, or she could stand down, and raise her child in some form of peace. Westeros doesn’t have to burn on her orders. It doesn’t matter; she does it anyway.

Even Jaime, the Hound, and Arya can’t get out of their own ways. Arya has become a solitary figure, and while she may not have ever been a true lady, she could have put down her blades and rested. Instead, she rides south to kill the last person on her list. The Hound could have found comfort in some young woman’s arms, maybe farmed the land, or even finished building the sept he started years before. No, he must ride south, to kill the Mountain. “I don’t plan on coming back,” he says. “Neither do I,” says Arya. She and the Hound might live, or they might die. Neither believe they can escape who they are.

Jaime finally felt some tenderness from someone who loved him without the burden of his heritage and legacy. Why not stay north with Brienne? She could, say, command the Northern forces, and he could be master-at-arms at Winterfell. They could marry, have children. But after abandoning Cersei to fight under Daenerys, he runs back home because he can’t bear the thought of Cersei’s execution. “She’s hateful…so am I.” You see in his face that he wants to stop himself, and he can’t. That bitter statement to Brienne isn’t an admission. It’s a suicide note. It may be the saddest line in the entire series.

With the dead no longer a threat, the wheel could be truly broken as Daenerys once promised. Instead, she awards the lordship of Storm’s End to Gendry. She and everyone else acknowledge the supremacy of male inheritance. Feudal monarchy is the system of government that nobody can think past. The North must never kneel again, and anyone who challenges any leader’s authority is an enemy. Vengeance is the only justice, fire and blood the only means of achieving peace.

Most egregiously, the common people remain pawns. Varys tells Daenerys that Cersei is using the citizens of King’s Landing as a human shield. “I am here to free the world from tyrants,” she declares. “That is my destiny, and I will serve it no matter the cost.” She will be queen of the ashes if that’s what it takes.

Varys is having none of it. In fact, perhaps for the first time, the show pulls the common people into focus. “We may not know their names, but they’re just as real as you and I. They deserve to live. They deserve food for their children. I will act in their personal interest, no matter the cost.” Varys still believes in the throne and kings and queens, but only he sees that the wheel should be broken.

Many have thought that Game of Thrones lacked the courage to finish this story with anything but a happy ending. No character seems able or willing to bring it about. We are hurtling toward what could be another spin of the wheel. Many more will die. Cersei may remain on the Iron Throne, or Daenerys will depose her. Perhaps Jon will press his claim with Sansa at his back. Whatever happens, it’s hard to see any joy coming to the people of Westeros. After all, they are who they think they are. Why bother changing now?

RANDOM THOUGHTS

RIP Rhaegal and Missandei. You were loved dearly by your queen, and you didn’t deserve your fates.

If I were Arya, I would at least enjoy one more roll in the hay with the sexiest blacksmith-cum-nobleman in the Seven Kingdoms before I restarted my murder spree. Then again, I’m old-fashioned.

Sam and Gilly honored the age-old tradition of getting busy in the library that we have all honored while in college. I salute them.

I would never have imagined that Tormund was Duckie. At least he got to try a little tenderness with a serving girl.

I will read all the Bronn-and-Olenna fanfic you dare to print. The Reach would have been the quippiest of the Seven Kingdoms if the Queen of Thorns had lived to enjoy the bargain the Lannister boys made with everyone’s favorite sellsword.

Evan Davis is a writer living in New York City. Follow him on Twitter @EvanDavisSports

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