Television Review: Mhysa (Game of Thrones, S3X10, 2013)

Mhysa (S03E10)

Airdate: 9 June 2013

Written by: David Benioff & D. B. Weiss
Directed by: David Nutter

Running Time: 63 minutes

The seismic shock of The Rains of Castamere represented not merely a narrative high point for Game of Thrones, but the dramatic zenith of television in the early 21st century. The Red Wedding was a meticulously engineered catastrophe that redefined what epic fantasy could do on screen, blending Shakespearean tragedy with visceral horror. This created an almost insurmountable problem for the series: having peaked so early, any attempt to match or build from that moment was far more likely to initiate a gradual descent into diminishing returns than to scale new heights. The difficulty of this post-traumatic landscape was demonstrated almost immediately in Season 3’s finale, Mhysa. Tasked with providing new cliffhangers and propelling the story forward, the episode instead largely functions as prosaic filler—a necessary, yet artificial, prolongation of a narrative that, in more ruthless hands, could have been considerably shorter.

The episode is fundamentally concerned with the immediate, grisly aftermath. We witness the consequences through the eyes of Arya Stark and Sandor Clegane, a perspective that underscores the episode’s thematic distance from the preceding horror. They observe the Frey butchers burning Northern men alive and the macabre, drunken spectacle of Robb Stark’s desecrated corpse—a direwolf’s head crudely affixed—being paraded in triumph. This is powerful imagery, yet it feels like a postscript to an event we did not see firsthand; the emotional capital has already been spent. Inside the Twins, the political calculus is coldly settled. Roose Bolton’s elevation to Warden of the North and Walder Frey’s acquisition of the Riverlands formalise the new order born from treachery. Arya’s response—a swift, brutal murder of a boasting Frey soldier—provides a cathartic dose of vengeance, but it is a small, personal act in a world now dominated by their victory. Her story, like the episode itself, is left in a holding pattern, uncertain of its next destination.

Conversely, the Lannisters’ fortune rises as the Starks’ falls. The Small Council scene, where Tywin receives the news, is a great display of subdued power dynamics. Joffrey’s gleeful, sadistic crowing is sharply curtailed by his grandfather’s command to leave, a stark reminder that true authority resides with Tywin. It is a effective beat, but again, it confirms a status quo we already understood. Similarly, Jaime Lannister’s return to King’s Landing, accompanied by Brienne and the sinister Qyburn, is a moment that closes one long-running thread—his captivity—and dutifully sets the stage for the next phase of his and Cersei’s co-dependent ruin.

The episode’s most significant narrative ‘mop-up’ concerns the fate of Theon Greyjoy. Through Roose Bolton, it is confirmed that his tormentor is Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton, who holds a broken Theon at the Dreadfort. The christening of ‘Reek’ and the ghastly dispatch of Theon’s severed manhood to his father, Balon Greyjoy, is pure, unadulterated horror. Yet, like the Frey celebrations, it feels like an explicit confirmation of off-screen atrocities. Balon’s cold refusal to treat for his son’s life prompts the episode’s first genuine spark of proactive heroism: Yara Greyjoy’s decision to mount a rescue mission. This, alongside other threads, begins to form the episode’s core purpose—to offer glimmers of defiant hope against the crushing darkness.

North of the Wall, the structural patchwork continues. At the Nightfort, the convergence of Samwell Tarly, Gilly, Bran Stark, Hodor, and the Reeds is a convenient narrative shortcut. Sam’s reluctant guidance, showing Bran the hidden gate, feels like a plot coupon being exchanged to move a character to the next zone. At Castle Black, Jon Snow’s return, grievously wounded by Ygritte’s arrows, provides the season’s most poignant personal tragedy—the definitive end of their star-crossed romance. Maester Aemon’s order to send ravens south, warning of the White Walker threat while dismissing the southern wars as ‘petty’, is a crucial thematic pivot. It is a message that, famously, falls on deaf ears almost everywhere.

The sole exception is the episode’s most dramatically satisfying development. On Dragonstone, Ser Davos, having orchestrated Gendry’s escape from Melisandre’s sacrificial knives, faces Stannis’s wrath. His life hangs by a thread until he produces Maester Aemon’s letter. In a moment that would become iconic, Davos argues passionately that the true war lies in the North. Surprisingly, Melisandre, after reading the same missive, concurs. Stannis is persuaded, and Davos is spared. This is Mhysa at its best: a character-driven decision that meaningfully alters the geopolitical board, redirecting a major faction toward the series’ ultimate existential conflict.

All this narrative housekeeping culminates in the titular finale in Yunkai. Daenerys Targaryen, having engineered the city’s liberation, is hailed as ‘Mhysa’—mother—by a sea of formerly enslaved people who lift her onto their shoulders. Directed with sweeping grandeur by David Nutter, it is a visually stunning and emotionally resonant conclusion, designed to send audiences into the hiatus on a note of unadulterated triumph. It was, and remains, a powerful piece of cinema.

Yet, this very scene later became a locus of potent controversy. In the years following, a increasingly loud and influential segment of “woke” critics levelled accusations of the ‘White Saviour’ trope, noting the stark visual contrast between the pale, silver-haired Daenerys and the darker-skinned extras (a practical consequence of filming in Morocco). In response, George R. R. Martin and the show’s defenders argued, somewhat awkwardly, that slavery in Essos was conceived as a class-based, not race-based, institution in the books. The defence felt like a retrospective attempt to align the imagery with modern sensibilities, highlighting the inherent tension between the scene’s intended epic heroism and its potentially problematic optics.

Ultimately, Mhysa was well-received upon airing, securing strong ratings and generally positive reviews that acknowledged its solid craftsmanship. Critics, however, universally conceded it could not hope to match the gut-punch of its predecessor. Its function was inherently reactive: to clear the debris, take stock, and point tentatively toward future horizons. The worst has already happened; the surviving protagonists are largely in states of recovery or transit. In this, the episode serves as crucial, if undramatic, emotional counterprogramming. After the unrelenting nihilism of the Red Wedding, we are given Yara’s courage, Bran’s purpose, Davos’s persuasive integrity, and Dany’s victory. It is a necessary palliative, a bridge between trauma and the next chapter. But a bridge, no matter how sturdily constructed, is rarely as thrilling as the cataclysm that necessitated its building. Mhysa is competent, often beautiful, and strategically vital, but it stands as the first clear sign that even Game of Thrones could not indefinitely sustain the altitude it had so spectacularly achieved.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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