Like many viewers, I was left disappointed with the lacklustre final season of Game of Thrones. Eight years of epic storytelling ended with a whimper. And so, sensibly, I greeted news of a prequel series with trepidation. GoT had, after all, betrayed me with several years of terrible episodes, how could I possibly trust this universe again?
As it turns out, I’m very easily won over: after the first trailer for House of the Dragon I felt a surge of optimism, for while Game of Thrones was inspired by the War of the Roses, House of the Dragon seemed to be inspired by an earlier English civil war: the Anarchy. In the 12th century, the Empress Matilda fought her cousin Stephen for the throne of England. And this just so happens to be one of my very favourite, most beloved eras of history, and so, nervously, I looked forward to the premier.
The first episode swiftly confirmed the show was heavily inspired by the Anarchy. And that the main character, Princess Rhaenyra, was Matilda’s analogue. Thankfully, the writing and acting and general marvellousness of the show meant that I could settle in and enjoy all the political shenanigans and lovely dragons. Like Matilda, Rhaenyra is fighting for a throne, a throne that had never before belonged to a female monarch. And that brought with it unique challenges.
So, who was the Empress Matilda? How did she come to be the first woman to fight for the throne of England? And how does she fare compared to her fictional counterpart?
Matilda’s father was Henry I of England, and Matilda was his only legitimate daughter. At twelve years old she was married to the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry V (Henry was a pretty popular name in the 12th century). After eleven years of marriage, her husband died, and Matilda returned to England (she had a very strong sense of her own importance and used the title Empress for the rest of her life). Back in England, there was a serious problem. Henry I’s only legitimate son, William, died after a tragic drowning. His ship had sunk when crossing the Channel, thanks to a drunk helmsman.
Henry was thus faced with the same problem as House of the Dragon’s King Viserys: without any legitimate living sons, who would be the heir to his kingdom? Both kings eventually came to the same conclusion—any kid of theirs on the throne was better than none—and they threw their support behind their daughters.
In the twelfth century male primogeniture was still a fairly novel concept in England, and so being the eldest son was no guarantee that you’d inherit that big shiny castle you grew up in. There were many more compelling reasons than your parentage that you could use to claim a throne. Like an army. William the Conqueror, Matilda’s grandfather, had taken the English throne by force of arms, just as Aegon the Conqueror had taken Westeros. After William, his two younger sons held the throne in succession, even though his eldest son was still alive. And Stephen himself had an elder brother living when he was crowned. And so, initially, Matilda’s claim was not based on her bloodline at all, but on these oaths that the barons had sworn to her. (And on the large army she eventually formed.)
If there’s one thing I took away from House of the Dragon, it’s that if you’re a woman who wants to win a throne in an intensely patriarchal society, it’s a lot easier to do when you have a dragon. Of course, you might think, that’s obvious. It’s a dragon. But it’s not just the clear advantage of having a massive fire-breathing reptile on your side, it’s the cultural shift that comes with how they’re used in Westeros. House of the Dragon normalises women as dragon-riders, the controllers of the single most terrifying military asset available in Westeros, making them a crucial part of the war machine. A fundamental part of kingship in the medieval era was to be a military leader, to lead one’s troops in glorious battle, and, thanks to her dragon and the cultural norms surrounding it, Rhaenyra can embody that role unchallenged. England, alas, had no dragons, and Matilda could not lead her soldiers in battle. Unfortunately, her rival Stephen was popular with his soldiers, and the sort of royal that sat down to have a drink with his men.
What Matilda did have were the oaths her father had made the barons of England swear, no less than three times, that they would support her and her heirs. A similar oath swearing happens in Westeros at the behest of King Viserys. For Rhaenyra these oaths are less important than the fact she’s the king’s daughter and he has named her heir, but for Matilda they were the foundation of her claim.
In Westeros and England there were attempts to discredit these oaths. Claims were made that the king changed his mind at the last minute, and that was used to shore up the claims of Stephen and Aegon, Rhaenyra’s younger half-brother and rival claimant. In Westeros, it’s an honest mistake, but that doesn’t make it sound any less suspicious. In England, news of a last-minute change of heart by the king was regarded as a bit of a desperate fib on Stephen’s part.
Male primogeniture also seems to have a loose hold in Westeros. Even though Viserys has two living sons at the time of his death, he still insists on Rhaenyra as his heir. Viserys’s own rise to the throne was based only partly on his lineage. In a remarkably civilised decision, his predecessor, who also lacked a male heir, called for the nobles to vote between his nearest living relative, a woman, and his nearest living male relative. While the show emphasised that sexism is a major reason Viserys won the vote, the actual basis for his claim is based on popular support, not the fact he is a man. Neither Matilda or Rhaenyra face any legal obstacle to their thrones. There was no law against it, as it hadn’t really come up before, not for England as a whole. (And record-keeping being what it was, no-one was citing the great, but at the time forgotten, Æthelflæd of Mercia as precedent for a woman in charge.) But a lack of legal obstacles wasn’t the most persuasive argument for a society that was soaked in misogyny.
Rhaenyra gets the less vicious attacks: the objections on the grounds of her sex are there, but they are bland and muted. Rhaenyra is a woman, so she can’t rule because it’s never happened before, and a man ruling is “the order of things.” The misogyny flung at Matilda was far less restrained. Her contemporaries condemned her for her arrogance, her haughtiness. Misogyny is rife throughout the chronicles that record her character. The author of Gesta Stephani tears her down, accusing her of “an arrogant demeanour instead of the modest gait and bearing proper to the gentle sex.” Matilda was caught in the trap laid before many powerful women in history: she had to exercise what was perceived as masculine authority if she was to rule, but if she did so then she was condemned by those she sought to rule for acting like a man. Elizabeth I found her answer to this conundrum; Matilda, alas, did not.
But this misogynistic disgust wasn’t universal. After all, Matilda couldn’t fight her claim without the backing of powerful men. Her most important supporter was her elder half-brother, Robert of Gloucester. He was rich and powerful enough that it would have been possible for him to make his own play for the throne if his ambitions had leant in that direction, but there was never any indication he coveted a crown. Instead, he committed to Matilda’s cause, and spent the rest of his life fighting for her. Matilda may not have been allowed to command on the battlefield, but she could command personal loyalty.
Meanwhile in Westeros, Prince Daemon, Viserys’s brother, also put aside his own claim to support his younger relative. Daemon was the heir presumptive to the Iron Throne for many years, but in the end, he marries Rhaenyra and throws his support behind her. These were men who decided the sex of their monarch was less important than what advantages they might gain under her rule, their personal loyalty, or the oaths they’d made at the behest of her father.
Concerns about legitimacy are also played with in both worlds. In Westeros, it’s blatant in a way that would be titanically disastrous in twelfth-century England: Rhaenyra’s children are bastards, and everyone knows it. But if anyone actually says it, then they’re likely meet a swift end in true Game of Thrones style. Matilda had no accusations of bastardy aimed at her family, but Stephen did make a transparent attempt to bring Matilda’s own legitimacy into doubt. She was accused of being the child of an incestuous union as her mother was a professed nun. Since the Archbishop of Canterbury, St. Anselm, was the one who was satisfied that her parents’ marriage was able to go ahead this argument wasn’t considered terribly convincing.
But it wasn’t all fire and pitchforks for woman who wanted power. The most consistent, stable power royal women held in the Middle Ages was as consorts or regents. Matilda of Boulogne, Stephen’s wife, was praised for her leadership, and raising an army when her husband was captured by the Empress’s forces. Matilda of Flanders, William the Conqueror’s wife, ruled in Normandy whenever her husband was absent; Matilda of Scotland, the wife of Henry I, acted as regent of England whenever Henry was out of the country. (Matilda was an incredibly popular name in the 12th century; if ever you’re asked a pub quiz question that needs you to name a woman in the 12th century, it’s either Eleanor of Aquitaine, or Matilda.) And the Empress Matilda herself was appointed regent in Italy at the age of sixteen, while her first husband was busy putting down rebellions in Germany.
In Westeros, this more conventional female power is wielded most effectively by Alicent Hightower, second wife of Viserys, and mother of Aegon. While Aegon may be the other claimant to the throne, it’s Alicent who is truly Rhaenyra’s rival. Alicent appears at first to be more sedate, more feminine, and she’s occasionally shocked at Rhaenyra’s behaviour; she plays the saintly virgin to Rhaenyra’s rebellious whore. But she has every bit of Rhaenyra’s determination and intelligence. Alicent sits on the Small Council in place of both her father and her son, and wields her power as regent without fear or reticence. The idea of her as the feminine ideal is subverted as she is shown to be every bit as capable as Rhaenyra of violence, foolishness, and anger. It’s a delight to see how House of the Dragon takes the sexist sketches of medieval chronicles and creates nuanced characters that offer insight into the real lives of these queens.
As a fantasy reader, I confess I grew tired of reading stories set in imaginary patriarchal worlds a long time ago, but House of the Dragon acquits itself marvellously in being an exception to that rule. Women are neither side-lined or diminished; and it understands that even in a patriarchy, women can, and did, wield immense power. Though she persevered for years, Matilda never did win her throne. The Anarchy ended as it began: with the tragic death of a son, this time Stephen’s. To bring an end to the conflict, he agreed to recognise Matilda’s son, (yet another) Henry, as heir. While I know there are books where I can discover Rhaenyra’s fate, I’m avoiding spoilers for House of the Dragon. It’s such a joy to watch a show so interested the challenges of medieval queenship, to see how history has helped shape the story, and to know that a few more people are discovering the epic life of the Empress Matilda.
© 2023 Lizbeth Myles
