Almost Over

There’s a point where a show stops being entertainment and becomes something you’re stuck with, obligated to see through. Game of Thrones hit that point for me sometime around season five, maybe earlier. But I kept watching anyway—through the Red Wedding, through Stannis burning his daughter, through Cersei’s naked walk of shame down those heavy stone steps. All designed to make me feel something darker than shock.

The thing about Game of Thrones was that it taught me not to invest too hard in anyone, and then it made me watch my investments burn alive. That’s a cruel calculus. It felt like the show was punishing me for caring, which meant either I’d stop caring or I’d keep showing up knowing better. I chose the second path.

For seven years it had been like this—beautiful, brutal, impossible to look away from. A mirror, yeah, if mirrors showed the worst version of yourself reflected back without mercy. And now season eight is coming in April, the final eight episodes that are supposed to answer all the questions the show spent nearly a decade asking. Who ends up with the throne? Who’s even left to want it? What was the point of any of it?

HBO released the first teaser. It’s short, just a reminder of who’s still standing and what they’re still fighting over—winter is coming, the factions are dwindling, and everyone knows the stakes now. But that doesn’t make it any less exhausting to think about. I’ll watch it. I’ll probably hate parts of it. I’ll probably spend the whole season angry or disappointed or numb, waiting for some ending that can’t possibly satisfy seven years of buildup.

That’s Game of Thrones though. It never let me have what I wanted anyway.