Television Review: The Spoils of War (Game of Thrones, S7X04, 2017)

The Spoils of War (S7x04)

Airdate: 6 August 2017

Written by: David Benioff & D. B. Weiss
Directed by: Matt Shakman

Running Time: 50 minutes

By the time Game of Thrones reached its penultimate season, the narrative machinery had undergone a profound and irreversible shift. The decision by showrunners David Benioff and D.B. Weiss to condense the final two acts into a mere thirteen episodes—a drastic reduction from the earlier ten-per-season cadence—meant that the luxury of subtlety, elaborate exposition, and the slow-burn political chess that defined the series’ golden age was utterly forfeit. With the endgame in sight, the story required not incremental manoeuvring but seismic shocks; narrative twists had to be as brutal and decisive to maintain momentum. Spoils of War, the midpoint of Season Seven, is the quintessential product of this accelerated ethos. It functions as a devastating narrative reset, hurling the balance of power in Westeros into fresh chaos while simultaneously delivering what was, at that point, the most technically spectacular and viscerally overwhelming set piece the series had ever produced. It is an episode where thematic subtlety is sacrificed wholesale on the altar of plot propulsion and spectacle, a compelling but deeply flawed exemplar of the show’s late-stage philosophy.

The episode’s title is a piece of grim irony, referring directly to the fruits of Jaime Lannister’s ruthless, blitzkrieg campaign against Highgarden. With brilliant strategic misdirection, Jaime sacrificed the symbolically potent but strategically barren family seat of Casterly Rock for the true prize: the vast wealth and food supplies of the Reach, now plundered from the defeated House Tyrell. The opening scenes establish this ‘spoils’ concretely: a weary but triumphant Jaime oversees a massive convoy snaking its way towards King’s Landing, a train of wagons laden with Tyrell gold and grain. This tangible success fuels Cersei’s next move in the capital, where she confidently informs Tycho Nestoris of the Iron Bank that the Lannister debt will be repaid in full. The banker’s satisfied nod and subtle hint at future funding—potentially for the infamous Golden Company—paints a picture of a regime, against all odds, stabilising and re-arming.

Meanwhile, in the North, the emotional landscape is barren. Meera Reed’s departure from Winterfell is a quiet, heartbreaking moment that underscores the profound cost of Bran Stark’s transformation into the Three-Eyed Raven. Overwhelmed by a torrent of memories not his own, he has become an emotionally distant vessel, a change that renders his long-awaited reunion with his siblings functionally inert. When Arya finally arrives home, her joyful relief upon seeing Sansa curdles into confusion and wariness, a dynamic the show handles with more nuance. The reunion of the three surviving Stark children in the godswood should be a cathartic pinnacle, but it is undercut by Bran’s eerie, transactional demeanour. His act of handing Sansa the Valyrian steel dagger—the very weapon used in the assassination attempt on his life years prior—is less a familial moment and more a cryptic data dump. It serves the plot, seeding Sansa’s suspicion of Littlefinger, but it fails as drama, feeling like a programmer inputting a command rather than a brother sharing a crucial memory.

South of Winterfell, on Dragonstone, the narrative drags its feet. Jon Snow, having committed to the true war against the dead, begins mining dragonglass and takes Daenerys to the island’s caves. His intent is noble: to use the ancient carvings of the Children of the Forest and the First Men united against the White Walkers as a historical parable, urging a cessation of the squabble for the Iron Throne to face the common foe. Emilia Clarke and Kit Harington, however, generate all the romantic heat of two damp towels. Their scenes together lack the compelling tension of ideological clash or the believable spark of attraction; it is dialogue-driven plot advancement at its most sterile. The show’s awareness of this deficit is painfully apparent in the clumsy insertion of Ser Davos Seaworth as a romantic narrator, literally spelling out Jon’s supposed feelings to the audience because the performances cannot convey them. This lack of chemistry becomes a critical liability, undermining the central political-romantic alliance the season is desperate to forge.

Daenerys’s frustration in these Dragonstone scenes is, however, entirely justified and forms the crucial catalyst for the episode’s explosive climax. Her campaign for the Seven Kingdoms has unravelled with humiliating speed. In quick succession, she has lost her allies in Dorne, the Tyrells, and the Greyjoy fleet led by Yara. Hemmed in by the sea and her advisors’ caution, she simmers with a rage born of impotence. Blaming Tyrion for the failure of his indirect, siege-based strategy, she advocates for the direct application of her ultimate power: a dragon-led assault on the Red Keep itself. It is only through Tyrion’s desperate diplomacy—an appeal to avoid becoming the very ‘Queen of Ashes’ she seeks to surpass—that she is stayed. Yet, her wrath must have an outlet. The Lannister army, lumbering home with its spoils, presents itself as the perfect target. This decision marks a definitive pivot: the Mother of Dragons, the breaker of chains, fully embraces the role of conqueror, setting aside liberation for sheer, terrifying military dominance.

What follows is the ‘Battle of the Goldroad’, a sequence that redefined television spectacle. For nearly twenty minutes, the episode transforms into a breathtaking, horrifying treatise on asymmetric warfare. The Lannister forces, bolstered by Randyll Tarly’s reinforcements, represent the pinnacle of traditional Westerosi military might: disciplined, heavily armoured professional infantry. Against the charging Dothraki horde—a cavalry force of legendary ferocity—they initially hold, forming a formidable shield wall. Director Matt Shakman, shooting over a month in Spain with a record number of stunt performers set ablaze, crafts a visceral sense of chaos and panic. The audience experiences the battle primarily through Jaime’s eyes, a clever narrative trick that momentarily makes us root for the underdog Lannisters, for the men we have spent years learning to despise. We see their professionalism, their courage, and their palpable terror.

Then the Wunderwaffe arrives. Drogon’s descent is the introduction of an epoch-ending weapon. The dragonfire that engulfs the shield wall is a vision of apocalyptic efficiency. The formation becomes a death trap, with hundreds of men burned alive in moments, their agonised screams cutting through the battle din. The visual metaphor is unmistakable and brutally effective: this is the Maxim gun at the Battle of the Shangani, the tank rolling over trench lines, the drone strike on a medieval army. The disciplined might of Westeros is rendered obsolete in a torrent of napalm-like flame. The ensuing Dothraki massacre, pouring through the shattered gaps, is a one-sided slaughter of thousands, depicted with a gruesome, unflinching clarity that the series had only hinted at before.

Yet, Shakman resists letting the sequence become a simple, heroic victory lap. The possibility of a reversal is kept agonisingly alive through Bronn’s desperate race to operate Qyburn’s scorpion. The ballista’s bolt striking Drogon and forcing the dragon to land provides a jolt of genuine tension, a reminder that even gods can be wounded. Jaime’s subsequent, suicidal charge towards a stunned Daenerys is a moment of pure, chivalric folly—a knight attempting to slay the dragon with a lance. His near-immolation and plunge into the deep waters provide the episode’s ambiguous, cliff-hanger ending. Most importantly, we watch much of the carnage through the horrified eyes of Tyrion Lannister from a distant ridge. His face registers not triumph, but profound trauma and guilt as he witnesses the brutal demise of the soldiers he once led, men with whom he shared the victory at Blackwater. This perspective ensures the battle is framed not as glory, but as tragic ruin.

Inevitably, the colossal shadow of this sequence dwarfs everything else in the episode. The Stark reunions in Winterfell, which should carry immense emotional weight, feel perfunctory and chilled by Bran’s catatonic performance. The only moment there that truly lands is Arya’s playful, deadly serious sparring with the two Winterfell guards at the gate—a small, character-driven beat that proves more engaging than the grand reunion. It is a minor footnote that one of those guards, played with memorable charm by Joseph Quinn, so impressed Shakman that he was later cast as the Human Torch in the director’s 2025 Fantastic Four reboot, a rare happy legacy from the episode.

In the end, The Spoils of War is a television episode of stark dichotomies. It is a narrative blunt instrument, wielding plot developments with a heavy hand that forsakes the nuanced character work of earlier seasons. The Winterfell and Dragonstone subplots are functional at best, emotionally hollow at worst, severely hampered by a lack of convincing performance chemistry where it matters most. Yet, as a piece of pure, audacious cinematic spectacle and as a definitive turning point in the series’ endgame, it is undeniably masterful. It executes with terrifying efficiency the very mandate the shortened seasons demanded: burn the existing board, escalate the stakes at any cost, and march relentlessly towards the conclusion.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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