I watched Dunk sit beneath that tree until the light went flat and the last ale-swarm quieted. The funeral pyre smoked into the sky and the crowd split, carrying whispers instead of answers. You could feel the season folding around him, a small man with big culpability and a heavier future.
I’m going to be blunt: if you felt hollow after “In the Name of the Mother,” you’re not wrong. I felt it too, and I want to show you how “The Morrow” turns that hollow into a hinge—one that swings toward an intimate road story with surprising political teeth. Read on and I’ll point out the moments that will matter when season two arrives on HBO and when George R.R. Martin’s legacy meets Ira Parker’s choices.
At village wakes people swap stories as currency. Why Dunk’s guilt becomes the episode’s emotional currency
Dunk is a weathered oak, bark split by years of blows and loyalty. That image does the heavy lifting here: he is physically battered and morally raw, and the show lets you sit with that without grand pronouncements. I watched him refuse Lyonel’s baited invitation—“come with me to Storm’s End, be my brother or my enemy”—and felt the episode calibrate itself around a single human truth: people who carry other men’s blood do not recover on a schedule.
That refusal isn’t just character work; it’s narrative friction. You, watching, are asked to consider what kind of stability a hedge knight can offer a prince, and whether being “the honorable man” is the same as being useful.
At sad goodbyes people reveal their true allegiances. How the episode reassigns loyalty and sets stakes for season two
The Trial of Seven settled honor on the field; the funeral recasts it in whispers. Maekar and Dunk trade a brutal, quiet exchange about responsibility—Dunk argues for usefulness over ceremonial safety, Maekar insists on protecting his last son. That fight is smaller than a throne-room showdown and bigger than a father-son tiff: it will define where Egg goes and what he becomes.
Maekar’s offer of Summerhall reads as a direct reference to the books and to history buffs, while Dunk’s counter—Egg should be taken away from the castle—acts as a practical experiment about upbringing. You can feel the narrative laying down a question that will drive the next season’s arc.
Will Dunk take Egg as his squire?
Short answer: yes, in this episode he agrees—but not the way Maekar expects. Dunk tells Maekar he will take Egg, but not to Summerhall; he wants the boy away from the gilded cages and toxic role models. That choice repositions the story from court intrigue to an on-the-road apprenticeship, and it hints at the kind of moral test Ira Parker plans to stage next.
At barroom tables truth comes out in asides. What the show does with guilt, reputation, and the camera’s patience
The smallest beats here are the most revealing: Lyonel’s drunken proposals, Raymun’s apple sigil, and the selling—and rebuying—of Sweetfoot. Those moments are cheap on paper but rich in emotional payoff. They let you breathe between the big moral choices and keep your attention because the series trusts you to fill in the social geometry.
The episode also does something smart with perspective. It refuses to let the camera moralize; instead it shows you the consequences and lets you weigh them. That restraint is what keeps me invested as a viewer and as someone watching HBO’s production choices; it’s the show’s way of saying it believes your judgment.
What does Summerhall mean for Dunk and Egg?
Summerhall carries mythic baggage in Martin’s lore and in showrunner interviews. For your purposes: it is a symbol of Targaryen privilege and disaster. Dunk’s refusal to raise Egg there turns the castle from a destination into a warning sign. HBO and outlets like io9 and Gizmodo have been tracking this for readers who want the connections between source material and screen; here, the choice speaks louder than any reference.
At the story’s edge small gifts say more than speeches. How the finale plants curiosity hooks for the next season
Raymun buying back Sweetfoot and giving Dunk a living tether is an elegant, almost filial beat. It rewires what a “gift” means in this story: less inheritance, more steadiness. That steadiness is the narrative engine that will carry Dunk and Egg forward and convert genre momentum into human stakes.
The episode’s last beats—Egg’s new growth, Maekar’s missing Aegon, and the soundtrack choice of “Sixteen Tons”—are attention hooks. They operate like newsroom teasers: small facts that tell you where to look next. If you follow HBO’s release pattern and the breadcrumbs George R.R. Martin fans parse across forums and io9 posts, those crumbs line up toward a road-focused second season.
I’ll leave you with a practical note: if you want to trace how this episode sets a path, follow two kinds of signals—character bargains (Dunk’s promise to Egg) and misplaced authorities (Maekar’s blind confidence). Those are the levers Ira Parker and HBO will pull next season, and tracking them is how you’ll separate surface drama from long game narrative.
One last thought: guilt has settled in Dunk as an iron harness, and that harness will either make him a better guardian or a broken man; which outcome will stick with you as the credits rolled?
