Martin, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

“They have really good puppet shows in Dorne!” —  HBO/HBO Max’s six-part series, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 

Reviewed by Kevin J. Harty, Ph.D.
La Salle University
harty@lasalle.edu

HBO/HBO Max’s six-part series, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, is based on the first of three novellas by George R. R. Martin usually referred to collectively as the Tales of Dunk and Egg.  The formula is that of a buddy film or series, or even a bromance.  Paired are a hulking, rather thick hedge knight, Ser Duncan the Tall, a.k.a. Dunk (Peter Claffey), and a precocious bald-headed boy, Egg (Dexter Sol Ansell), who serves as his squire. 

Hedge knights are the most errant of knights errant, wandering the Seven Kingdoms in search of lords to serve and deeds of derring-do to carry out.  Theirs is a rough, unsatisfying, and unheralded life. 

Such a knight is Ser Arlan of Pennytree (Danny Webb) perhaps most notable for the length and girth of a shaft other than his lance, given a quick shot that we get of him emerging naked from a tent post-coitus. Ser Arlan sleeps rough as he wanders hither and yon with his squire Dunk, who as a boy was rescued from a life of penury in Flea Bottom. When Ser Arlan dies, Dunk, whom his master may or may not have knighted, decides to set out as a knight.  Viewers of the series and readers of this review may recognize that A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms shares this plot element (and several others) with Brian Helgeland’s 2001 film A Knight’s Tale, though the series does not have an as over-the-top musical score as the film does.

In the first episode, Dunk buries Ser Arlan and, after taking a very impressive public dump, heads off with Arlan’s sword, shield, and three horses to a great tournament being held at Ashford, where Dunk hopes to test his mettle and earn real knighthood. Stopping for a rest at an inn, Dunk encounters a motley crew, many three sheets to the wind, and leaves, unknowingly at first, with the bald-headed boy Egg in tow; Egg wants to serve as Dunk’s squire. But Dunk has a bigger problem; he cannot prove that he is indeed a knight and needs someone to vouch for his bona fides. In Ashford, Dunk and Egg watch a puppet show staged by Tanselle from Dorne (Tanzyn Crawford). In that show, a fiery dragon is slain by a knight. Dunk is immediately infatuated with Tanselle; Egg, with the puppets.

Dunk searches without much success for someone to vouch for him until Prince Baelor Targaryen (Bertie Carvel), remembering Ser Arlan’s service to him, agrees to do so. Dunk needs to create his own coat of arms and turns to the talented Tanselle for help. He then sells his favorite horse, Sweetfoot, to the blacksmith Steely Pate (Youssef Kerkour) for a suit of armor. Dunk waxes and wanes in his enthusiasm for the tournament and the life of a knight, especially when he is asked to participate in a rigged tournament designed to recoup the funds spent to stage the event.

As the series progresses, the politics behind the tournament come into relief. Nearly everyone hates the Targaryens—and not without reason.  When they are not drunken cowards like Daeron (Henry Ashton), they are cheating bullies like his brother Aerion (Finn Bennett). When Aerion watches Tanselle’s puppet show, he reacts with violence, breaking her finger for insulting his family, tied as they are to dragons. Dunk then attacks Aerion knocking out one of his teeth. Only Egg’s intervention saves Dunk, because it turns out that he is Daeron and Aerion’s younger brother who shaved his head of the telltale familial silver locks because he is ashamed to be identified with his older brothers.

Dunk is then arrested when Daeron asserts that he kidnapped Egg.  Targaryen word seems to be law, but Dunk asks for trial by combat, which he is granted on the condition that he engage in an ancient ritual known as the Trial by Seven—two sets of seven knights battle each other to determine who is innocent or guilty.  Aerion assembles a group of six impressive knights, but Dunk keeps coming up short until none other than Baelor Targaryen declares for him to uphold the honor of knighthood.

The ensuing tournament is a muddy and bloody mess; horses are slaughtered, and knights are maimed, until a badly wounded Dunk forces an equally badly wounded Aerion to yield.  The victory proves Pyrrhic, as Baelor collapses dead into Dunk’s arms on the field of battle. Dunk is abject in his grief over the prince’s death and once again unsure about how much he really wants to be a knight.  

Maekar Targaryen (Sam Spruell), mindful of his late brother’s kindnesses to Dunk, invites Dunk to Summerhall to complete his proper training as a knight and to tutor Egg in the duties of a squire. Dunk demurs, and says that he is only willing to squire Egg on the road. Maekar refuses Dunk’s counterproposal, so Dunk rides off on his own, soon joined by Egg who lies and says that his father has changed his mind about Dunk squiring him on the road.  The two then set off to explore the Seven Kingdoms—though Egg allows there are nine, not seven, kingdoms (an altered final title card inserts a 9 over the 7)—beginning, Egg insists, with Dorne because “they have really good puppet shows in Dorne!”

The events in A Knight of the Seven [or Nine] Kingdoms take place almost a century before those in A Game of Thrones.  A second and third series are promised dramatizing the remaining two books in the Dunk and Egg trilogy. Much lower budgeted and differently focused than Thrones, Knight nonetheless references and anticipates the internecine strife than informs the chronologically later, dynastically-focused series. But Knight is intentionally microcosmic. It is not concerned with the rise and fall of great kingdoms. No one unharnesses any dragons to lay waste to cities and towns—the only dragon is a puppet. There are no great castles or cites, no windswept vistas or enchanting isles; instead of epic battles, we get a ragtag tournament fought in a seemingly endless downpour—the sun rarely shines. The cameras point downward at the earth and mud and at the people who eke out their existence there as peasants, prostitutes, tradespeople, petty bureaucrats, and the fringes of the noble and royal societies celebrated in Thrones.  

Knight focuses on the glue that supposedly holds all the seven, or nine, kingdoms together: knighthood.  It offers a variation on the Arthurian theme of the fair unknown. Dunk, born in the slums of Flea Bottom, eventually becomes the hedge knight Ser Duncan the Tall—a man trying to rise up in a society that keeps pushing him down.  He is not the brightest, though he certainly doesn’t lack determination. The series pairs him with an at first unlikely sidekick, Prince Aegon Targaryen, a bald-headed boy wise beyond his years.  Fascinated as any child might be with puppets, Egg at the same time trains Dunk’s battle steed, constantly gives him pointers about knighthood, and seamlessly switches from funny to straight man in his banter with Dunk—nuance is not Dunk’s strong suit, but it is Egg’s forte! Cable and television in general have recently offered few buddy/road series as quietly enjoyable as A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and I certainly look forward to seasons two and three, and the further adventures of Dunk and Egg—and, of course, to more of those Dornish puppet shows!

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS, created by Ira Parker and George R. R. Martin, based on Tales of Dunk and Egg by George R. R. Martin; produced by Friendly Wolf Productions, GRRM, and HBO Entertainment; six episodes running 30-42 minutes; first broadcast on HBO/HBO Max 18 January to 22 February 2026.

Houghton, The Middle Ages in Computer Games

 

Houghton, Robert. The Middle Ages in Computer Games: Ludic Approaches to the Medieval and Medievalism. (Medievalism vol. 28) Boydell & Brewer, 2024. 327pp. £115.00. ISBN: 9781843847298 

Reviewed by Chris Herde (cherde@wisc.edu) 

Robert Houghton’s The Middle Ages in Computer Games lays out an incredibly thorough groundwork for future studies on the specific intersections of medievalism, ludic interactivity, and the commercial and cultural pressures present in the modern videogame industry[1]. At every turn, Houghton clearly reiterates the ways in which “ludic medievalism” aligns with and diverges from the traditional incarnations of medievalism (particularly those presented in films and television shows) as well as the presentation of other historical periods in videogame form. In so doing, he not only highlights the ways in which these mediums reinforce and contradict one another but also lays out a coherent argument for the existence of a ‘ludic medievalism’ that is informed (but by no means fully defined) by its medium, its subject matter, or the interactions between the two. 

Houghton insists that his object of study is not any specific game or even any individual genre of games but rather the shape of the emergent worlds created by the conscious and unconscious decisions and presuppositions of the people who make and play videogames. I say ‘worlds’ in the plural because one of Houghton’s key points is that supernatural elements and full-blown fantasy cannot and should not be separated from the analysis of ludic medievalism. At no point have the two ever been totally disconnected, but in Houghton’s view fantasy has been so central to the history and development of videogames as a medium that even games purporting to depict ‘accurate’ history cannot be understood without the context of the medium’s fantastic conventions. 

With that in mind, the book is organized into thematic chapters, consciously eschewing the presentation of individual case studies. The first two chapters lay out the unique elements of videogames as a medium for encountering the past by focusing on its essential interactivity. More so than any other medium, videogames must take the audience into account, as their active participation is required not just to ensure commercial success, but also to render the experience “complete.” In particular, Houghton emphasizes the power players have on an individual level to alter the fundamental text of a game in the form of counterplay and emergent narratives. Houghton therefore chooses to expand Alan Chapman’s division of historical game genres with recourse to the still-maturing genre conventions used within the medium itself. In addition to Chapman’s “realist” games—which one might call “narrative” or “immersive”—and “conceptual” games—mostly aligning with the “strategy” genre—Houghton adds “Role-playing” games and the more recently-identified “hardcore” genre. In so doing, he shifts the focus of his analysis toward the active agency of the players: not simply acknowledging their interactions within the game, but also their decisions about what games to pick up in the first place. These four genres provide a solid groundwork for Houghton’s later analysis and furthermore take the necessary step away from considering historical videogames as mechanisms to access an author’s idea of the past and toward conceiving of them as complex objects in their own right that interface simultaneously and dynamically with designers, players, histories and cultures past, present, and imagined. 

Each subsequent chapter presents an exhaustive and self-contained argument about the way in which a given theme (violence, political authority, faith, scientific advancement, morality, race, gender and sexuality) is presented in medievalist games as opposed to its presence in games set in other historical periods or in noninteractive forms of medievalism. The Middle Ages in Computer Games will therefore be a useful reference work for more focused studies, but the chapters are also organized such that a reader engaging with the book cover-to-cover will begin to see the consequences of a relatively complex web of interacting concepts well before Houghton fully elaborates them (for example, the teleological role of science in strategic videogames vs in traditional medievalism and the impact that contradiction has for the presentation of organized religion in medievalist RPGs). 

The question of historical accuracy is present throughout the book, though it is not one on which Houghton particularly focuses. This decision is largely to the book’s benefit. Houghton demonstrates early on that, if a game prioritizes it at all, historical accuracy is almost exclusively confined within the domains of aesthetics and marketing. Given that the unique appeal and power of the medium is in its mechanical interactivity, the aesthetics of accuracy[2]  therefore necessarily always give way to the requirements of a smooth, functional, fun play experience. Thus, rather than focusing overmuch on litigating the accuracy of those aesthetic elements, Houghton explores the implications of the interactive experience: the intended and unintended narratives produced by systems interacting as well as the power of players to exploit and overwrite those systems to produce their own narratives. 

This book succeeds convincingly at Houghton’s stated goal of defining “ludic medievalism” as a distinct category of engagement with the medieval past, governed by its own tropes and pressures and worthy of study. While not every chapter presents equally groundbreaking or unique observations about medievalist videogames as separate from their companions in other medievalist media and digital game studies, they all do important ground-laying work in support of future research. Each chapter concludes with a number of more speculative claims to demonstrate the field’s openness and potential for further debate. For example, Houghton posits that the “hardcore” genre of souls- and rogue-likes might present a divergence from the paradigm of traditional masculine power fantasy, heretofore ubiquitous within the medium, by forcing the player to accept the inevitability of failure and thus their weakness relative to their opposition. This claim seems to me fruitful ground for discussions of differing expressions of masculinity and the power of game audiences to redefine the medium through paratext. “Hardcore” is the game genre which brought us the colloquial phrase “git gud,” after all. 

Ultimately, I believe that the utility of this book as a fundamental reference work within its academic niche is such that it will likely only be superseded in the face of significant shifts in the culture of videogames or popular medievalism.

1. The fact that I will predominately be discussing  “videogames” while Houghton describes “computer games” is exclusively an artifact of American and British vernaculars referring to the same medium.

2. Or perhaps “authenticity,” as Houghton shows that appeals to historical accuracy within aesthetics and marketing are much more concerned with conforming to the expectations of the audience and designers rather than any significant engagement with modern historiography. 

 

Chris Herde

University of Wisconsin-Madison 

Poland: Millennium of the First Coronation

 A Voice from Poland: Missed Opportunities for the Millennium of the First Coronation (1025-2025)

Piotr Toczyski, Maria Grzegorzewska University in Warsaw, Poland

ptoczyski@aps.edu.pl 

Abstract: This brief article examines the cultural and political significance of the millennium of Bolesław the Brave’s coronation in 1025, set against a backdrop of Poland’s semi-peripheral position in European history and the enduring global fascination with the Middle Ages. The analysis explores how foundational dates - especially 966 (Christianization) and 1025 (Coronation) - have been remembered, mythologized, and instrumentalized across Polish history. It revisits the 1966 millennium of Mieszko I’s baptism and the simultaneously ongoing film response to the 550th anniversary of the Battle of Grunwald to highlight tensions between narratives in state commemoration. The text critiques the lack of contemporary cultural production around the Piast dynasty and the missed opportunity to engage with medieval symbolism in inclusive and reflective ways. By tracing how symbols like the royal sword have shifted from unifying icons to contested emblems, the essay calls for renewed engagement with Poland’s medieval and medievalism heritage - one that acknowledges its ambivalence, narrative gaps, and potential for public dialogue. 

The Piast dynasty (966-1370) ruled Poland from approximately 960, though they gained recognition on the international stage only after Mieszko I’s baptism in 966, and remained in power until 1370, with a brief five-year interruption. The millennium of Mieszko’s son’s coronation hits at a time of enduring fascination in the Western world with the Middle Ages, especially the quasi-Middle Ages. The proof is provided by cinema, including series such as Game of Thrones, Lord of the Rings, The Witcher - and their numerous prologues and epilogues. These are business decisions of American corporations (HBO, Amazon, Netflix), as are the lightsaber duels of Disney’s recent neo-medieval Star Wars series. Of course, there is also a steady 120 years of cinematic Arthurianism in new variants (not so long ago, King Arthur’s ecocritical and self-critical nephew in his encounter with the Green Knight).

It would be difficult to compete with all this for attention without a clear business decision, a political decision - or a sensible combination of both. And it is especially difficult in the semi-periphery, in which we still find ourselves here in Poland. The center’s offerings meet local needs well enough. However, the millennium of Bolesław the Brave’s (Polish: Bolesław Chrobry) coronation presents a significant opportunity for Poland to re-examine its medieval heritage and engage in a broader public discussion about its historical symbols and national identity. Nevertheless, the current socio-political climate and the controversies surrounding national symbols hinder such a unifying conversation, especially in the presidential election year. 

Why 966, 1025 and their millennia matter in Poland

In Poland, two of the first historical dates children learn at school are 966 and 1025. Why? Because they mark two key moments in the story of how Poland became a country. In 966, Duke Mieszko I was baptized - this is seen as the symbolic beginning of the Polish state and its entry into Christian Europe. Then in 1025, his son, Bolesław the Brave, became the first king of Poland. These dates are easy to remember and packed with meaning: One stands for the birth of the nation, the other for the crowning of its independence. However, despite this important beginning, Poland remained a semi-peripheral player in the medieval world. It was neither part of the dominant core powers, like the Holy Roman Empire or France, nor completely isolated on the periphery, but occupied a middle ground, gradually building its influence.

In between those two key dates - 966 and 1025 - there is another important event that often comes up: the Gniezno Congress (Polish: Zjazd gnieźnieński, German: Akt von Gnesen) in 1000. It was a meeting between Bolesław the Brave and Emperor Otto III of the Holy Roman Empire. The event symbolized recognition of Poland’s growing importance in Europe. Otto acknowledged Bolesław as a powerful ruler and ally. So, between baptism in 966 and coronation in 1025, the year 1000 marks Poland’s official welcome into the European ‘club’. It was more than a diplomatic gesture, but a clear indication that Otto regarded the Polish ruler as a partner in shaping the spiritual and political landscape of Europe. Two years later, Otto died, and the situation became more complicated. 

It was only in 1025 that Bolesław the Brave crowned himself the first king of Poland - just a few months before his death. It was a big moment: Poland had been a Christian state for only about 60 years. The coronation meant more than just a title. It was about international recognition, political independence, and showing that Poland could stand on its own next to the other kingdoms of Europe. Bolesław had been pushing for this recognition for years, using diplomacy, alliances, and war to put Poland on the map. The crown was both a reward for those efforts and a powerful symbol of Poland’s rising status. Although Bolesław did not live long enough to consolidate his royal authority, the act of coronation established a precedent that would shape the Polish monarchy for generations.

Back in 1966, the thousand-year anniversary of Mieszko I’s baptism - the symbolic start of Polish statehood - sparked massive nationwide celebrations. But it was more than just a historical moment. The communist government and the Catholic Church each wanted to own the narrative. On the one hand, the post-war communist state framed the 966 baptism as a step toward Polish independence and unity under secular leadership. On the other hand, the Church emphasized its spiritual meaning and continuity through the ages. These two competing anniversaries turned into a symbolic debate over who gets to define Poland’s roots. Despite the political tension, the millennium left a lasting mark. It showed that history isn’t just about what happened, but about how we choose to remember and use historical events. One of the biggest and most visible parts of the 966 anniversary in communist Poland was the "1000 Schools for the Millennium" campaign. Instead of building churches, which the state obviously was not keen on, the authorities launched a massive school-building project. The idea was to mark the thousand-year anniversary of the Polish state not with religious monuments, but with education and progress. And it worked - by the mid-1960s, hundreds of modern schools had popped up all over the country, and many are still standing today. For the ruling party, it was a way to offer a secular, forward-looking counter-narrative to the Church’s religious celebrations. For everyday people, it often meant something much simpler: a new local school, closer to home, and a sign that the state was investing in their children’s future. 

Simultaneously, Aleksander Ford’s Knights of the Teutonic Order (1960) became one of Poland’s most-watched films, attracting 32 million viewers by 1987. Produced to commemorate the 550th anniversary of the Battle of Grunwald and aligned with the communist state’s nationalist agenda, the film adapted Henryk Sienkiewicz’s novel as both patriotic spectacle and propaganda. It portrays a stark moral divide: noble Poles versus villainous Teutonic Knights, using visual contrasts and simplified characters to reinforce political messages. Though criticized for its ideological bias and lack of depth, the film’s grand scale, emotional moments, and technical innovations secured its popularity both in Poland and abroad (e.g. Soviet Union, Czechoslovakia, France). Knights of the Teutonic Order was the first Polish blockbuster, produced with the involvement of the highest state authorities of the time, including the leader of the Polish communist party, Władysław Gomułka. 

The film’s production coincided with escalating tensions between Poland and the Federal Republic of Germany. Polish state media widely reported that West German Chancellor Konrad Adenauer had appeared at a state anniversary ceremony wearing a cloak resembling that of the Teutonic Order. As a result, the black cross on the knights’ robes in the film was intended as an allegory for the swastika, and the Polish-Teutonic conflict served as a metaphor for the contemporary diplomatic dispute between the two nations in the post-war period. 

How millennia and medievalisms are troubling for Poland

Since the screen adaptation of the Battle of Grunwald (1410) - somehow remaining related to the visuals of the German chancellor in a Teutonic cloak - a convincing film epic about the Jagiellonians dynasty (1386-1572) has not been produced. Serious Piast dynasty’s film story was not attempted. The propaganda of People’s Poland reached out to Piastism and Piast Concept, creating the groundwork for the idea of the so-called Recovered Territories of Poland’s post-1945 Western borderland.

Before (since 1920s) and afterwards, the sword of the Brave, famously (but untruly) chipped at Kyiv’s gate, both independently and interdependently found its way into magazine titles and onto specific jacket lapels. Sword of the Brave (Polish: Mieczyk Chrobrego) is a nationalist symbol in Poland. It depicts the royal coronation sword, Szczerbiec, wrapped in a ribbon in Poland’s national colors. First used in the interwar period by the nationalist parties, it became so politically charged that wearing it was penalized and legally debated already in the 1930s, but still used by nationalist groups and even in the 21st century banned from UEFA Euro (2008) events due to its association with extremist ideologies. Its return was noticed by the press in unusual circumstances, when one of the police officers checking the IDs of participants in the so-called anti-fascist picnic had a nationalist emblem pinned to his uniform vest. At that time (2019), a nationalist march was passing through Warsaw.

And that was it. Although resurrections of Antoni Golubiew’s serious and intellectual novels (written mainly between 1947-1956) about the Brave exist (discussions about them and films don't). There has also been no solid adaptation to the legendarium of Lech, Siemowit, Popiel or the Wawel Dragon outside the world of award-winning Allegro ads. Thus, the cultural background to discuss Poland’s origins and mythmaking would be there. One could, for example, turn to a very interesting work by a Lublin-based medievalist Czesław Deptuła on the Cracow conflict between the Skalka and Wawel as a mythical metaphor for the two centers of power - symbolized by Krak, Krakus, dragons. For the time being, we are left with a global spectacle in this role - the Targaryen fratricidal battles from Game of Thrones.

 From elsewhere in Poland, the role of knights - including the misguided ones, the ronins - is held (yes, yes) mainly by twentieth-century soldiers, policemen and even former secret police officers (after the trilogy about “Pigs”) - soon the premiere of “Assassination of the Pope”, from which I expect to remain on the same sheet of mytho-landscape. And as the quintessential honorary hero - Hans Kloss (once a captain, once a Hauptmann) and several of his doubles. These are also references to the ethos of chivalry, emblematic of the Middle Ages.

Therefore, let’s not be surprised that Boleslaw the Brave as a symbol does not have it easy at all in such a global and local environment. One would have to do the necessary homework on mythologization and demythologization. For it to make sense for the millennium of the coronation (and it could have), a major public discussion should have started a good five years ago. It could, for example, have come out of the world of museums, a cultural congress. However, this would have been a very labor-intensive undertaking. Let me illustrate it with an example of the Brave’s royal sword. 

I remember well how, in the second half of the nineties, on the corner of Ujazdowskie Avenue and Wilcza Street in central Warsaw, a sad gentleman vendor traded books from unfolded polka dots. A large sign in paint in the background of his workplace proclaimed “Either Szczerbiec - or stand.” Above referred as Brave’s Sword, Szczerbiec is a ceremonial sword used to crown most Polish kings between 1320 and 1764. Today, it is the only surviving piece of Poland’s medieval crown jewels and is kept at Wawel Castle in Kraków. Its hilt is decorated with Christian symbols, floral designs, and magical inscriptions, and the blade contains a slit with a small Polish coat of arms. Though often called “the Notched Sword,” the blade is smooth - the name refers to a sword meant to notch others. A legend claims King Bolesław I the Brave chipped it against Kyiv’s Golden Gate in 1018, but the gate was built later, and the sword itself comes from the 12th or 13th century. Still, the story lives on - illustrating how legends shape cultural memory even when the timeline doesn’t quite align. National symbols like Szczerbiec blend myth with documented fact.

‘Szczerbiec’ refers to the magazine named after the sword. Either the vendor agrees to sell the nationalist magazine Szczerbiec (founded in 1991), or their bookstand will be damaged or removed. The magazine in question was on the stand. This kind of pressure reflects the tactics sometimes used by fringe nationalist groups in post-communist Poland to assert dominance in public spaces and intimidate those not aligned with their ideology. The presence of the sign behind the vendor’s stand suggests that he may have been forced to comply, highlighting an atmosphere of fear and ideological bullying. And that’s probably how the conversation about the Middle Ages in the measure of twenty-first-century Poland would have ended.

It is a pity that today the atmosphere for the Brave and his sword as unifying symbols is not yet there. And it is a potentially capacious symbol - both of pride, and shame, and history, and myth, and an honest conversation about ambivalence. And also about reception and non-reception - what we want more of and what we want less of. For now, we are taking away the opportunity for such conversations. Maybe next time.