In the series finale of “Game of Thrones,” the killing was minimal, the writing of books maximal, and the primacy of “story” questionable. “There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story,” Tyrion says at one point. “Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it.” By the end, a leader is chosen because he has the best “story”.

As the episode begins, Tyrion is walking through the smoldering remains of King’s Landing, looking like we all feel: grim, contemplative, uncertain. He runs into Jon Snow and Davos, then stumbles on in search of the charred or pulverized remains of his siblings. Grey Worm, recently turned unsympathetic, is about to kill a bunch of soldiers on their knees, per the queen. Jon and Davos disagree: No, Grey Worm, we should not kill everybody. Tyrion makes his way into the Red Keep, across my beloved floor map—goodbye, floor map!—and heads downstairs to look for Lannister cremains.

Agony! A pile of bricks, and a golden hand poking out of the rubble. Tyrion’s not happy about it, either, and he begins some of the saddest reverse masonry we’ve ever seen. He uncovers a square that perfectly frames Jaime and Cersei’s faces; in death, they lie side by side, attractive heads unscathed. Put those bricks on my heart, Tyrion, because I am furious. (I wonder what will become of the hand.)

Outside, Arya and Jon wander among the Dothraki, who are lustily waving their adorable arakhs. (Still scythey after all these years.) “Blood of my blood!” Khaleesi says. (I’m nostalgic for her Season 1 Dothraki dialogue, which was more “moon of my life.”) “We will not lay down our spears until we liberate all the people of the world!” she hollers, and starts naming neighborhoods we haven’t thought about in many episodes: Dorne, Qarth, the Jade Sea, Lannisport, Hyannis Port. Where will it end? “Will you break the wheel with me?” she yells, making a handful of sane onlookers uneasy. Friend, you were supposed to break the wheel—not melt it and the entire cart. Then she starts talking like Cersei, telling Tyrion he committed treason by freeing Jaime.

“And you slaughtered a city,” he says. Touché. He removes his little Star Trek hand-of-the-queen insignia and tosses it aside, glaring purposefully at Jon as he is marched off to his doom. Jon looks even glummer than usual—and even more so when Arya reminds him that Dany is dangerous. “I know a killer when I see one,” Arya says. Oh? How could you tell?

As ever, Tyrion is in a dungeon, awaiting death, when he is visited by a friend. This time, it’s Jon, because Jaime was crushed by that pile of rocks. Tyrion, feeling philosophical and psychedelic, asks Jon what it’s like to be dead, and wonders what Varys’s ashes will say to his. Although Jon, like all present, has seen Dany commit genocide, somehow he still needs convincing that she’s an untrustworthy leader. Luckily, Tyrion is eloquent—mostly. “I know you love her. I love her, too. Not as . . . successfully as you.” “But I believed in her with all my heart.” His well-reasoned words begin to bore a hole through Jon’s dopey certitude; he would like Jon to murder her, please, and soon. Tempus fugit!

We have to choose someone, they all bluster. “Why just us?” Sam Tarly says. Sam is about to invent democracy, mes frères! A kindly intellectual, he is promptly laughed at. Tyrion has a better idea: narrative. “What unites people?” he asks. “Stories,” he says, a little too on the nose. “And who has a better story than Bran the Broken?” Or a worse personality! Hang on, Tyrion—what about the rather interesting stories of, say, you, Sansa, or Arya? One of whom is a capable, effective, and experienced leader? That leader, Sansa, calmly observes that Bran can’t have children. (Not even corvids?) “Good!” Tyrion says. “That is the wheel our queen wanted to break.” Too soon, Tyrion, too soon. The queen is dead, boys. After Bran, “rulers will be chosen on this spot, by the lords and ladies of Westeros,” he says, inventing the Electoral College. Tyrion tells Bran that he knows he doesn’t want the job—but will he take it?