Television Review: The Broken Man (Game of Thrones, S6X07, 2016)

The Broken Man (S6x07)

Airdate: 5 June 2016

Written by: Bryan Cogman
Directed by: Mark Mylod

Running Time: 50 minutes

By the sixth season of Game of Thrones, the tell-tale signs of creative fatigue were becoming difficult to ignore. The most glaring structural symptom was the decision, from Season 7 onward, to truncate the episode count, abandoning the established ten-episode format that had defined the series’ sprawling narrative pace. This contraction hinted at a paucity of substantive plot, a scramble to reach pre-determined endpoints rather than nurture organic story. Season 6, therefore, us the last gasp of the old structure, and within it, episodes like The Broken Man serve as stark evidence of why that structure was doomed. It functions precisely as the kind of filler episode one might expect from a more conventional, pre-prestige television drama—a placeholder composed largely of exposition and predictable, wheel-spinning vignettes, desperately trying to muster momentum for the grand conflicts to come.

The episode’s most touted moment is its cold open, which resolves a two-year cliff-hanger with deliberate anti-climax. Season 4 concluded with Sandor ‘the Hound’ Clegane left for dead by Arya Stark, his fate a subject of fervent fan debate. The series’ habit of avoiding on-screen deaths for certain characters (Stannis Baratheon being a prime example) fuelled speculation that the Hound lived. The Broken Man confirms this with the rhythmic thud of an axe. We find him in the Riverlands, part of an idyllic, pacifist commune led by Brother Ray (Ian McShane), a septon. Their exposition-heavy dialogue efficiently establishes Ray’s backstory: a former soldier turned to peace after his own atrocities, now offering the Hound a path to atonement. It is a classic narrative setup, and therein lies its fundamental flaw. The entire arc is a transparent, morality-play trope: the introduction of a ‘too-good-to-be-true’ sanctuary in the grim world of Westeros exists solely to be violently destroyed, thereby justifying the protagonist’s return to his old, violent ways. The trio of horsemen from the Brotherhood Without Banners, hinting religious rivalry, serve as cartoonish heralds of this inevitable doom. When the Hound returns to find the commune slaughtered, Ray included, his decision to take up an axe is not a compelling character turn but a foregone conclusion. The storyline is less about the Hound’s internal struggle and more a lazy narrative mechanism to re-introduce a popular fighter into the fray, its emotional beats rendered hollow by their utter predictability.

This theme of predictable stagnation permeates the other narrative threads. At Riverrun, Jaime Lannister’s arrival to oversee the siege feels like a bureaucratic exercise. The incompetence of Lothar Frey and Walder Rivers is a cheap gag, and Jaime’s assumption of command lacks tension. His parley with the Blackfish is a textbook example of static dialogue where both parties simply restate their immutable positions—the Blackfish boasting his walls can hold for two years, Jaime failing to achieve diplomatic solution. Nothing is advanced, no nuance revealed; it is pure procedural marking of time. Similarly, in King’s Landing, the revelation that Margaery Tyrell is merely play-acting her piety for the High Sparrow is a twist so widely anticipated by the audience that it lands with a dull thud. The ensuing, reluctant re-alliance between Olenna and Cersei is born not of compelling political intrigue, but of narrative necessity, two formidable actresses going through motions the script has already dictated.

The Northern plotline, while injecting a dose of energy, underscores the season’s logistical awkwardness. Jon Snow and Sansa’s rallying of the wildlings succeeds, but their attempt to galvanise the Northern lords is a parade of feeble excuses and cowardice, save for one glorious exception: Lady Lyanna Mormont. Played with scintillating ferocity by the then-unknown Bella Ramsay, the ten-year-old Lady of Bear Island is a bolt of lightning in a murky sky. Her verbal evisceration of the craven lords is the episode’s sole moment of genuine, unscripted-feeling vigour. Yet, the narrative immediately undercuts this by having her commit only sixty-two soldiers, a comically minuscule number that highlights the contrivance of the Stark army’s weakness. Jon’s decision to march on Winterfell regardless feels less like desperate heroism and more like a writer forcing a climactic battle despite having deliberately starved the protagonists of resources.

Elsewhere, the plot meanders with a sense of contractual obligation. Yara and Theon’s scene in a Volantis brothel is a perfunctory nod to HBO’s trademark ‘sexposition.’ While it efficiently establishes their plan to sail for Meereen and Yara’s sexuality—as she enthusiastically enjoys the company of topless prostitutes—it feels grafted from the earlier, more gratuitous seasons, a stale attempt to spice up a purely logistical dialogue. In Braavos, Arya Stark’s storyline reaches a nadir of convoluted inertia. Her stabbing by the Waif is presented as a shocking cliff-hanger, but it is a neat, manufactured crisis. Given the established rules of the Faceless Men and the show’s proven reluctance to kill its core adolescent protagonists, the audience is left not fearing for her life, but merely wondering about the mechanics of her inevitable survival. The injury, like the Hound’s commune, exists only to trigger a return to a previous state—in this case, Arya the vengeful fighter, not Arya the ascetic assassin.

Written by Bryan Cogman, the series’ so-called “bible” keeper, The Broken Man epitomises the weaknesses of a writer deeply versed in lore but struggling with momentum. The episode is a catalogue of conversations where characters explain their intentions or reiterate their dilemmas, mistaking exposition for development. The guest casting further highlights its filler quality. Ian McShane, a magnetic presence who built a late-career television legacy on shows like Deadwood, is wasted in a role that amounts to a glorified cameo, his character a mere philosophical prop to be destroyed. For aficionados of British comedy, the brief, nearly unnoticeable appearance of Tim McInnerny, a Blackadder alumni, as Lord Robett Glover is a similarly squandered opportunity, a nod that signifies nothing.

In the end, The Broken Man is an episode that wears its function plainly: it is a bridge, and a rickety one at that. It moves pieces on the board with mechanical efficiency, relying on worn-out tropes and predictable violence to simulate depth. Its most lasting contribution is not any narrative shift, but the introduction of Bella Ramsay, an actor whose sheer force of personality momentarily pierces the fog of exposition. For a series that once redefined television with its ruthless unpredictability and dense political weave, this episode feels like a surrender to convention.

RATING: 5/10 (++)

==

Blog in Croatian https://draxblog.com
Blog in English https://draxreview.wordpress.com/
InLeo blog https://inleo.io/@drax.leo
Substack https://draxster.substack.com

LeoDex: https://leodex.io/?ref=drax
InLeo: https://inleo.io/signup?referral=drax.leo
Hiveonboard: https://hiveonboard.com?ref=drax
Rising Star game: https://www.risingstargame.com?referrer=drax
1Inch: https://1inch.exchange/#/r/0x83823d8CCB74F828148258BB4457642124b1328e

BTC donations: 1EWxiMiP6iiG9rger3NuUSd6HByaxQWafG
ETH donations: 0xB305F144323b99e6f8b1d66f5D7DE78B498C32A7
BCH donations: qpvxw0jax79lhmvlgcldkzpqanf03r9cjv8y6gtmk9