Amelia G: Game of Thrones, Season 6, Episode 57: The Broken Man, or Drink the God Damned Ale

Our fancy new episode of HBO’s Game of Thrones begins with a good old fashioned barn raising, I think. And Septon Al Swearengen! And the HOUND! You fucked up there, Arry.

(Was that the first pre-credits scene of the series? I guess that’s necessary, since the credits would tip any mildly observant viewer to the Hound’s return.)

Looks like the Hound has taken up a peaceful life of fucking up logs with an axe. And he’s been with these hippies long enough to heal up from blood poisoning, a compound femur fracture, and whatever else Brienne put on him.

If the gods are real, why haven’t they punished me? Damn, Hound, if that’s the proof you need for the existence of the gods, you should have that sexy septon medallion all up in your own chest hair.

Back at the Great Sept, Manson & Squeaky are having a session. Marge’s crown looks a bit cosplay. The HS is giving her a gross Lay Back and Think of Westeros pep talk, meaning Tommen has been bitching about being hard up, which is wrong in so many ways. The HS is also making barely veiled threats against Grandma Olenna. Victory isn’t going to his head or anything.

Lady O is in fact salty as fuck about all this, and is ready to beat down some nuns. Marge keeps a lid on things, and manages to convince her to skip to Highgarden without obviously tipping off Septa Ratchet.

And that cute rose drawing says: Marge isn’t done with the game. Tyrell 4 Life.

Dead Snow is having a parlay, the outcome of which never seems in doubt. There’s the requisite bitching, a decent speech from Snow, a call to honor from Giantbeard, and a mic drop from Wun Wun the giant. The Free Folk are all in. Davos doesn’t even have to step up.

Back in the Capitol, Cersei takes another run at a secure alliance with the Tyrells, and Lady O dourly reads her for filth.

Up at Riverrun, Bronn gets yet another promotion in title only.

The Blackfish could not be less impressed with the garbage Freys and their shitshow siege and cheap threats. It helps that he probably genuinely doesn’t give a shit if they kill Edmure, who has been a useless disappointment up to and since the Red Wedding.

Jaime’s possibly less impressed with the Frey boys, and his 15 lb. pimp hand is strong.

Up at Bear Island, Lady Lyanna Mormont has become my new favorite character in this entire show. For this pitch, Davos has to step up, and he plays the Endless Army of Ice Zombies card. That wins House Starkish a whopping 62 men.

Seriously, Lady Lyanna is the best. Find another ten year old who can pull off the Hand of Silence.

Meanwhile back at the siege, we get some grand shots of Jaime on a white charger, all riding through camp on important king business. The Blackfish is duly unimpressed, and treats their meeting as a break in the boredom. He insults Jaime thoroughly and dismisses him. Looks like a long two years ahead.

Back up North, the Starkish road show is hitting some snags. They don’t even get through the front door at Moat Caillin, which is not a good sign. Apparently the Glovers didn’t like being on the losing side last time, and blame Robbo for the brutal opportunism of the Asshole Islanders. The Glovers can fuck that fist on their banners.

Speaking of the Asshole Islanders, the Greyjoy armada is on shore leave in sunny, whorey Volantis. In the midst of a sea of ale and gratuitous tits, the mortal remains of Theon are having a truly shitty time. Asha pulls her face free of a fine pair and makes a last joke about Theon’s severed cock, then kick-marches Theon to an ultimatum. You’re here, or you’re not. If you’re not, open a vein. If you are, drink the god damned ale and let’s get on the side that has dragons and fuck some shit up.

Theon kills his cup, and that frozen sheen of terror finally leaves his eyes. That Volantis brew must be some serious shit.

Up north at Stannis’ lucky campground, the slightly upgraded Starkish forces are setting up tents and brawling among themselves. Sansa is voicing concerns, and Dead Snow is showing some worryingly Stannis-like overfocus.

If Sansa is that conflicted about the raven she’s about to send, it has to be going to Scratchy the Pimp. Oh, no.

Back amongst Septon Al’s idyllic hippie camp, we get a bit of background on his conversion to a life of good works. Apparently he was a soldier and a real piece of shit, and it finally went too far even for him. On cue, a party of shakedown men from the BWB ride up, lick their lips, and ride back off to tell their chums about the unarmed camp full of food and women.

Arya, having haggled for passage back to Westeros, allows herself a last look at the rusty ass of the Titan. And lets her guard down. Dumbass. The revenge of Ginger Bitchface is swift, nasty and gleeful, and fortunately sloppy. And apparently you can wander the streets of Braavos bleeding out from a gut wound, and people will just look at you like your shoes are from last season.

And that was one brief visit from Septon Swearengen. Welp, time to go see about those hooplehead Brotherhood cocksuckers.