Coming to grips with the ending of Game of Thrones one year later: An emotional odyssey

Since Game of Thrones ended last year, I’ve written a lot about the influence it’s had on the entertainment industry. Even if we never watch an episode of the show again, we’ll be seeing it up on the screen for years to come. The current wave of big-budget fantasy and sci-fi shows, from The Witcher to The Wheel of Time to The Lord of the Rings, is one example of the effect it’s had, but it goes beyond that. Game of Thrones has inspired producers to dream bigger, to tell stories that expand the horizons of what’s possible on TV. The professionals that worked on it will be sought after for the rest of their careers. Whether it’s storytelling or casting of technology or locations or costumes, Game of Thrones has left its mark.

And I stand by all of that. But analyzing the effect the show has had on the industry kind of lets me off the hook. How has Game of Thrones affected me? I think I avoid talking about this topic because, if I’m being honest, remembering how the show ended still stings a bit.

All the usual disclaimers apply: if the ending of the show satisfied you in every way, I am genuinely glad for you. But I know I’m not the only fan who felt a little let down. The reasons have been stated many times: I thought the series wrapped things up too quickly, I don’t think the ending did right by characters I’d spent years getting attached to, I thought they served up spectacular set pieces without laying the emotional foundation needed to give them meaning, and so on.

But those reasons aren’t what I want to talk about. I want to talk about how to reckon with the nagging hurt I feel over the end of the show. I know, I know: it’s a TV show; it’s not worth feeling hurt over. At the end of the day none of this is that big a deal. But I spent years studying and writing about Game of Thrones. I don’t love it like I love my family or my friends or my dog, but I did fall in love with it a little bit. I fell in love with the world the show created, and with the experience of enjoying it as a community. And when it ended like it did, it hurt.

Last month for the WiC Club, I wrote about how fans become emotionally involved with their favorite shows or movies or books, and how when not guarded against, that emotional involvement can lead them to act…ahem…inappropriately when something like this happens. I tried my best not to cross that line, as I think everyone should, but I was emotionally involved.

This past month marked the one-year anniversary of the end of Game of Thrones, and lots of people were writing think pieces about what they show meant, to them and to TV. Reading those is what peeled off the bandaids and made me want to write this article. What gets me is the bare emotion in the articles. Some are still clearly angry about how things went down, some are finding comfort in nostalgia, and others are looking forward to what’s next for the series.

And almost all of the authors have rewatched the final season to reevaluate it. That’s something I actually haven’t done. Is that weird? On one level, I don’t think so: I feel like I know the show so well that rewatching it front to back hardly seems necessary; that’s what happens when you spend years immersed in it. But I also know that I’m avoiding it in part out of fear. I’m afraid that if I go back and watch the final season, I’ll find that my love for the show is really gone, that the series that enchanted me for years has lost its magic.

But even writing that, part of me knows it’s nonsense. Just thinking about Podrick’s beautiful song from “A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms” has a lump starting to form in my throat. Game of Thrones and I are too close for something like a (to me) lackluster ending to tear us apart. And if I really want to get over whatever lingering hurt I have, I think rewatching the final season, or even the whole show, is a must. Then, hopefully, I can move on to the next stage: I can remember why I loved Game of Thrones in the first place and use that love as fuel to do something else, whether that’s opening my heart to another series or creating something new myself. Maybe both.

Even writing this, I feel myself remembering the good times. I feel myself wanting to go back and revisit moments that had me rising from my chair with my fists in the air, or curled up in a fetal position scared to look at the TV. I think that’s a good sign. I think it’s a sign that however bruised I felt by the ending, what I’m really going to remember was the joy of the show. It also means I’ll finally be able to watch that final season with some distance, and may well find more things to appreciate about it when it doesn’t have the weight of an eight-season emotional investment on its shoulders.

Whew, I think I’ve written myself into feeling better about this, although it got pretty emotional. The window into my soul is closed until further notice. Happy June!