The long-awaited conclusion of HBO’s Game of Thrones has unfolded over a rapid six weeks. Fans and critics are now left with plenty of time to ponder the lessons of this tragic tale, and the grim vision of political life on which it rests. Since its inception the show has grappled with perennial questions of political philosophy in a way that few others have. The final season is no exception, regardless of what the groanings of a fickle fandom might seem to indicate.
The most memorable and controversial moment in the story came in the show’s penultimate episode, when Daenerys Targaryen chose to destroy the city of King’s Landing without regard for the lives of its one million inhabitants. For many outraged viewers this was an egregious subversion of the character arc of the show’s most inspiring heroine. The would-be queen, whose political ambitions were always informed by compassion for the weak and downtrodden, finally succumbs to genocidal madness. What could be more illogical, not to say offensive? How can we make sense of the dragon queen’s turn to the dark side?
It’s tempting to appeal to the old clichés which might seem especially applicable here: power corrupts; hurt people hurt people; she was a product of her environment, brutalized on some deep level by the lasting influence of an abusive brother and a barbaric Dothraki society; her action was determined by her nature and the hereditary madness that has historically plagued her family. But a deeper explanation is likely to come from the political philosophy with which the show has shown such an affinity.
The “great game” of Westerosi politics clearly draws inspiration from the political philosopher Niccolò Machiavelli. In the Machiavellian universe of Thrones, Daenerys’s fatal flaw was that she was not Machiavellian enough. Although she intuitively grasped and applied many of Machiavelli’s lessons, she was blind to the most important one: political success is the supreme end, transcending considerations of morality. Ironically, Dany’s fateful decision resulted from a reversal of this Machiavellian logic.
Throughout her journey, Dany’s political ambition is inseparable from her desire to be perceived as righteous and to be loved by those she rules. Her early methods are those of a Machiavellian armed prophet, as she galvanizes support with a quasi-religious message about the moral purpose of her cause. She is the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, the last Targaryen, sent to rid the world of oppression and to “break the wheel” of tyranny. This prophetic vision is quite useful in the pursuit of her ambition to rule. Rising to power on the wings of her dragons, Dany embarks on a campaign of liberation and the exportation of freedom and equality.
The righteousness of her mission wins the adoration of those she helps, who come to view her as a savior. Her political strength grows along with the debts of gratitude owed to her. In the cities she conquers freed slaves join her cause, fighting for her out of love, not fear. She is hailed the “Breaker of Chains” and affectionately referred to by the liberated masses as “mhysa” (“mother”). To her subjects and to fans of the show (including Democratic presidential contender Elizabeth Warren) she is an attractive ruler because she deserves to rule, and she deserves to rule because of her humanity and compassion.
To be sure, the dragon queen periodically shows a penchant for cruelty. But up until the final season, her acts of cruelty are strategically targeted and few in number. Her actions in Essos reflect Machiavelli’s observation that love is inseparable from fear. Dany’s acts of mercy and kindness carry more weight and elicit more gratitude when her subjects know that cruelty is always on the table. And her cruelty towards the oppressive masters of Essos is kindness to those who have suffered under their depraved rule.
Unfortunately, Dany’s Machiavellian prudence wanes as time passes and she makes her final push for the Iron Throne. Upon crossing the Narrow Sea, she fails to adapt her methods to a wholly new political context. The people of Westeros are not in chains and collars, nor are they waiting for a liberator. Nonetheless, she obstinately holds to her original modes and insists that she is here to “free” them. She is unwilling to alter or to qualify the image she has created of herself and her cause. It becomes clear that her myth was never just a means to political power. She wholeheartedly believes it.
Her decision to annihilate King’s Landing is made amidst the nagging awareness that she is being denied the adoration she deserves. As she grows despondent, she laments to Jon Snow: “I don’t have love here. Only fear.” Deprived of the love of the people of Westeros, she begins to doubt that she deserves to rule. Undermined by mounting self-doubt, she becomes enraged at the disjunction between the reality of Westerosi politics and the idealism that seems to have driven her past accomplishments.
In the end, Daenerys deals with her doubts by repressing them, doubling down on her hopeful convictions. She convinces herself that it is precisely because the people of King’s Landing don’t love her that they deserve to die. Unlike the people of Essos, these have “chosen” to serve a tyrant while rejecting a known liberator who actually deserves to rule. They have sided with tyranny against freedom, with tradition against progress. Why should she be blamed for their moral blindness?
To the very end Dany clings to the hope that she will one day be loved again. With increasingly convoluted reasoning, she desperately tries to justify her decision to destroy the city: “[Cersei] knows how to use her enemies’ weaknesses against them. That’s what she thinks our mercy is. Weakness. But she’s wrong. Mercy is our strength. Our mercy towards future generations, who will never again be held hostage by a tyrant.” The massacre that ensues, by her twisted rationalization, is her supreme act of compassion. The vindication and esteem she longs for must be derived from the fear which is all she has left.
From a Machiavellian perspective, the atrocity committed at King’s Landing could have been avoided had Daenerys kept her eyes on the true prize: winning and maintaining political power; unseating Cersei and ruling the Seven Kingdoms. Instead, her political ambition was polluted by her high hopes for eradicating tyranny wherever it may reside. From the moment her prophetic message became something more than a political means—which is to say, from the very beginning—Dany was doomed.
Machiavelli would have reminded her that the world in which we live cannot be without tyrants. He would have cautioned her that while a certain aversion to tyranny in human nature can be seized upon and utilized for electioneering purposes, such passions should never become the basis for a ruler’s actual decisions. And he would have showed her by way of numerous examples that armed prophets must never forget the instrumental purpose of their prophecy. A stronger dose of cold Machiavellian realism would have been more conducive to Dany’s success, and to the survival of countless innocents at King’s Landing, than her genuine commitment to the justice she thought the world deserved.