It’s a funny thing, this show. At this point, we empathize with almost everybody left standing. I don’t want to see this dragon incinerate the Lannister army—or, at least, Jaime, Bronn, and Dickon—and I don’t want to see Bronn kill the dragon or the maddening faerie-like queen atop its back. Our loyalties are complicated. So are Tyrion’s. “Flee, you idiot,” he says, watching Jaime, his brother, his supposed enemy, who once saved him. Jaime takes off on his horse, galloping with his spear out. “You fucking idiot,” Tyrion whispers, sounding like a true sibling. Jaime charges toward the dragon, the dragon gets a good blast going, and, just in the nick of time—how on earth does he do this?— Bronn gallops up and knocks Jaime into a conveniently placed body of water. Phew. But! Jaime, weighed down by his armor and his gold hand (Qyburn must be really marvelling at his handiwork in all this), is sinking. Not weighed down by his riches, exactly, but close enough. I suspect he won’t sink for long—he’s too central, and too handsome, to just drift away—but he’s sunk for tonight. Fade to black.