‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ Episode 1 review: “The Hedge Knight”

There’s a moment early in “The Hedge Knight” where our protagonist, the towering and perpetually anxious Ser Duncan the Tall (Peter Claffey), squats behind a tree and explosively shits himself. It happens maybe ninety seconds after the show opens with a genuinely moving burial scene, complete with rain-soaked grief and the mournful stirrings of that iconic Game of Thrones theme we all know by heart. Then cut to…medieval diarrhea, presented in unflinching detail.

I’m not being crass here. This tonal whiplash isn’t a mistake. It’s the point. And if you can’t handle that jarring transition from reverence to bowel movements, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms probably isn’t for you.

But if you can? You’re in for something genuinely special.

The hedge knight as thesis statement.

HBO’s latest return to Westeros arrives with none of the pomp we’ve come to expect from this franchise. No sprawling title sequence mapping out castles and family trees. No Ramin Djawadi score swelling to operatic heights. Instead, we get Dan Romer’s more whimsical, folk-inflected music and a simple title card. The message is clear: this isn’t Game of Thrones. This isn’t even House of the Dragon. This is something smaller, stranger, and—dare I say it—more human. Let’s call it the TV show I’ve been waiting for since A Knight’s Tale.

Showrunner Ira Parker and George R.R. Martin have adapted the first of Martin’s Tales of Dunk and Egg novellas, and they’ve done something remarkable. They’ve made a Game of Thrones show that feels like it’s actually about something other than who gets to sit on a pointy chair.

Don’t get me wrong, I love political intrigue and dragon-fueled civil wars as much as the next scribe. But there’s something deeply refreshing about a story that stakes its entire emotional core on whether a broke, socially awkward giant of a man can convince anyone that he’s actually a knight.

Because that’s the whole show. At least, that’s what Episode 1 is selling us on.

Peter Claffey’s performance as Dunk is a masterclass in making contradictions feel coherent. He’s physically imposing—the camera constantly reminds us of his height through low angles and scenes where he has to duck through doorways—but socially, he’s a disaster. He bumbles through conversations, dances like a middle schooler at his first formal (that Baratheon feast scene is painful in the best way), and spends half the episode talking to his horses because he has literally no one else.

The reluctant hero we deserve.

The opening sequence establishes everything we need to know. Dunk buries Ser Arlan of Pennytree (Danny Webb), the only father figure he’s ever known, in the rain. He delivers a eulogy that’s equal parts touching and awkward, apologizing for things he maybe didn’t even do (“I swear I didn’t eat that pie in Maidenpool, ser”). It’s the kind of rambling, guilt-ridden monologue that feels painfully real. Sort of like the way people actually talk when they’re grieving and no one’s around to hear them perform grief correctly.

Dunk claims Arlan’s armor, his horses, and his sword. He decides he’s going to call himself a knight, even though the only witness to his knighting was Arlan himself, on his deathbed, with no one else around. But also, did that really happen? Or is it a, dare we say, tall tale? The show doesn’t belabor this point, but it’s crucial. Dunk’s entire claim to knighthood is based on words exchanged in private, which means it’s functionally unprovable. He could be lying. Even to the audience. And that uncertainty hangs over every interaction he has.

The show converts a lot of Dunk’s internal monologue from the novella into conversations with his horses, which should feel gimmicky but somehow doesn’t. Claffey commits so fully to these moments. Specifically discussing his options with Thunder and his other mounts like they’re his board of advisors. It just becomes part of who this character is. He’s isolated. Uncertain. And he processes the world by talking it through, even if the only available audience has four legs.

The squire who’s too good at this.

Then there’s Egg. Dexter Sol Ansell is eleven years old and shouldn’t be this good. The kid has to play multiple layers simultaneously. First, he’s precocious without being annoying, confident without being arrogant, and his chemistry with Claffey is so natural that their scenes together feel like watching a friendship that’s existed for years, not hours.

Their first meeting at the inn is pitch-perfect, as Egg doubts Dunk’s knighthood immediately, offers to be his squire, gets rejected, and then just… follows him anyway. By the end of the episode, he’s set up Dunk’s entire camp, cooked him dinner, and is casually dropping knowledge about heraldry and noble houses that no stable boy should possess.

“You don’t look like a knight.”

The final scene—where they watch a falling star together—is where the show’s thesis crystallizes. In the book, this moment is Dunk’s internal thought. He notes that the luck of seeing the star is his alone because all the other knights are in their silk pavilions. Here, the show gives that observation to Egg, turning it into dialogue. “A falling star brings luck to those who see it. All the other knights are in their pavilions by now, staring up at silk instead of sky.”

And Dunk, processing this, asks, “So the luck is ours alone?”

Egg just smiles and rolls over to sleep. It’s a perfect encapsulation of their dynamic. Egg understands things instinctively that Dunk has to work through. But Dunk’s the one who asks the question that reframes the observation as something meaningful. They need each other. The show knows this. And it’s not going to clout you over the head with it.

The Worldoros at ground level.

One of the smartest choices this adaptation makes is its commitment to showing us Westeros from the ground up. We’re not in throne rooms or war councils. We’re in a tent city at Ashford Meadow, surrounded by hedge knights, minor nobility, camp followers, and people just trying to make a living at a tournament.

The production design here is spectacular for all its seeming simplicity. HBO built this entire tournament ground practically with hundreds of extras in period-appropriate costumes, colorful heraldic banners everywhere, mud and grime coating everything. It feels lived in in a way that green-screen environments never do. You can practically smell the place (and Dunk).

And the show populates this world with fascinating supporting characters. Lord Lyonel Baratheon (Daniel Ings, absolutely devouring this role) is a flamboyant, slightly unhinged nobleman who throws a rager in his pavilion and then casually tells Dunk he has “no chance” in the tournament. The Fossoway cousins—stuffy Ser Steffon and sympathetic Raymun—establish class tensions in a single training scene. Manfred Dondarrion, who Dunk hopes will vouch for his knighthood, turns out to be a pretentious ass who doesn’t even remember Ser Arlan.

“It’s like a knight, but sadder.”

Even the original characters the show adds—like the camp followers Red and Beony—serve a purpose beyond just filling time. When they mock Dunk for being a hedge knight, it stings. And when Dunk calls them out on it, and Red actually levels with him honestly, it’s a small moment of human decency that means something. This is a world where kindness exists, but you have to earn it, and you have to give it first.

The show also isn’t afraid to be genuinely funny. Plummer, the master of games, has this ridiculous bit about the “Ashford Chair” torture device that’s clearly just him messing with Dunk, and when he reveals the joke—”We’re in the Reach, not the Riverlands!”—it’s both a laugh line and a piece of world-building. The show trusts that we’ll get both levels.

The Baratheon gambit.

The biggest departure from Martin’s novella so far is the extended feast sequence in Lyonel Baratheon’s pavilion. In the book, Lyonel barely appears until much later. Here, he gets a full scene—arguably the centerpiece of the episode—and it’s a masterstroke of adaptation.

This sequence does so much work. It establishes Lyonel as a character (eccentric, physically imposing, lives up to his “Laughing Storm” nickname). It demonstrates Dunk’s complete inability to navigate noble social spaces (the dancing! the awkward small talk! the pastry he’s holding!). It reinforces the tournament stakes through Lyonel’s warning that Dunk has no chance. And it gives the audience a scene with energy and momentum in an episode that’s otherwise quite slow and contemplative.

To be fair, the episode is deliberately unhurried. But I’d argue that’s a good thing in this case. The show is teaching you how to watch it. This isn’t going to be a breakneck political thriller. This is going to be about two guys traveling around medieval fantasy land, getting into scrapes, learning about each other. The journey is the point.

And the Baratheon scene proves the show can deliver spectacle when it needs to. The dancing, the music, the chaos of dozens of drunk nobles celebrating. All of it’s kinetic and fun. And then it ends with Lyonel casually crushing Dunk’s confidence, reminding us that for all the revelry, the class divide is real and insurmountable.

What makes a knight?

Dunk’s knighthood is questionable by every formal metric. No one saw Arlan knight him. He has no lord to vouch for him. He’s from Flea Bottom, the slums of King’s Landing. His armor is a patchwork of borrowed pieces. By the standards of Westerosi nobility, he’s basically cosplaying.

But the episode also shows us that many “legitimate” knights are kind of terrible. Steffon Fossoway is a snob. Manfred Dondarrion is dismissive and cruel. Even Lyonel, for all his charisma, offers Dunk no actual help.

The central question driving this episode—and, I suspect, the entire series—is deceptively simple. What actually makes someone a knight?

Is it the ceremony? The witnesses? The bloodline? The armor? Or is it something else. The code you follow, the people you protect, the choices you make when no one’s watching?

“I am only a hedge knight.”

Meanwhile, Dunk stands up to mockery. He treats his horses with care. He takes on a squire he doesn’t need because the kid clearly needs him. He’s trying, genuinely trying, to live up to an ideal that most of the “real” knights have long since abandoned.

This is classic George R.R. Martin territory. We’re seeing the tension between the romantic ideal of knighthood and the brutal, cynical reality of how power actually works in Westeros. But because we’re experiencing it through Dunk’s eyes, someone who believes in the ideal despite having every reason not to, it hits differently than it does in Game of Thrones or House of the Dragon.

Those shows are about people who understand that the game is rigged and play it anyway. This show is about someone who thinks the game might actually be fair if he just tries hard enough.

The adaptation challenge.

Here’s the thing. Martin’s The Hedge Knight novella is only about 30,000 words. You can read it in an afternoon. The audiobook is under three hours. This season of television is roughly 3.5 hours. That means the show is longer than the source material, which rarely happens in adaptations.

So how do you stretch a novella into six episodes without it feeling padded?

The answer, at least based on Episode 1, is that you don’t stretch. You expand (which I’m pretty sure isn’t the same thing). You take the skeleton of the plot, and you flesh out moments that Martin glosses over. And you add scenes like the Baratheon feast that illuminate character and theme without derailing the core narrative. You even give characters like Red, Beony, and Plummer room to breathe and be more than just functional plot devices.

And crucially, you trust that the audience is here for Dunk and Egg, not just for tournament fights and dragon cameos. The relationship is the draw. Everything else is just context.

And yes, this is a risky approach. There are absolutely going to be viewers who bounce off this hard. If you came to A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms expecting Game of Thrones levels of shocking violence, you’re going to be disappointed. This is not that show.

But if you’re willing to meet it where it is, as a character study about two lonely people finding each other in a world that doesn’t particularly care about either of them, it’s shaping up to be genuinely satisfying.

Technical excellence.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention how good this looks. Directors Owen Harris and Sarah Adina Smith are doing excellent work here. The cinematography beautifully balances intimacy and scope. We get lingering close-ups on Dunk’s face as he processes rejection, but we also get wide shots of Ashford that establish just how big and overwhelming this world is for someone like him.

Dan Romer’s score deserves special mention. Replacing Djawadi was always going to be a challenge, but Romer’s work here is distinct enough to establish its own identity while still feeling like it belongs in this universe. The music is lighter, more folk-influenced, almost pastoral at times. It supports the story rather than overwhelming it.

And the costume design! Dunk’s patchwork clothes tell a story all by themselves. The nobles are dressed in vibrant colors and fine fabrics that contrast sharply with the mud-stained roughspun of the common folk. Every visual choice reinforces the show’s thematic preoccupations with class and authenticity.

Where do we go from here?

“The Hedge Knight” is a mission statement. It’s telling you exactly what kind of show this is going to be. It’s character-driven, tonally flexible, and more interested in small human moments than grand machinations. And it’s betting that Martin’s Westeros is rich enough to support stories at multiple scales, from the fate of kingdoms to the struggles of one guy just trying to prove he belongs.

The episode leaves us with clear narrative hooks. Will Dunk find someone to vouch for him? How will the tournament play out? What’s the deal with that drunk nobleman in the inn? How will Dunk and Egg’s partnership develop?

But more than plot questions, I’m invested in these characters. I want to spend time with them. I want to watch Dunk fumble through social situations, only to surprise everyone by being genuinely good. And I want to watch Egg try to teach Dunk about the world while learning from him what it means to actually care about people.

That’s the magic trick this episode pulls off. In less than an hour, it makes you care about a hedge knight and his squire. Everything else is just details.

The bottom line.

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Episode 1 is not Targaryen levels of “perfect.” The pacing may frustrate some viewers, and the crude humor won’t land for everyone.

But it’s also confident, beautifully textured, and emotionally intelligent in ways that most fantasy television simply isn’t. It understands that intimacy and epic scope aren’t mutually exclusive. You just have to choose which one you’re prioritizing in any given moment.

This is a show about two people who need each other, finding each other at precisely the right time. It’s about trying to be good in a world that doesn’t particularly reward goodness. It’s about the gap between the stories we tell ourselves and the messy, complicated reality we actually inhabit.

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms airs Sundays on HBO and HBO Max.

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Images courtesy of Warner Bros. Discovery.