In Martin’s Game of Thrones series, the character of Daenerys Targaryen casts a long shadow. From the moment that rumours of her wedding to Khal Drogo come to King Robert’s ears back in Westeros, he is determined that she should die. Was it because he saw the young woman, herself, as a serious threat to his throne? No. Robert Baratheon’s fears were tied up in Daenerys’ possibility to bear a son who would challenge the Baratheon kingship as he makes clear in this first season conversation with Ned Stark.
This is a familiar conception of women and political power for medieval historians. The great conflict of the Hundred Years’ War between England and France derived from a difference of opinion on female inheritance. When Charles IV died in 1328 without any direct male heirs, there was a legitimate question about who should succeed. King Charles’ closest male relative was his nephew, Edward III of England, son of Isabella of France. Edward’s claim was rejected in favour of another cousin whose royal French descent had never been sullied by passing through female lines – Philip VI, the first Valois king.
The principle invoked by French jurists and courtiers in support of Philip’s claim was a tradition in French history known as Salic Law. An early medieval Frankish law code, the Lex Salica included a provision which held that “of Salic lands, no part of the inheritance shall come to a woman but the entirety of the heritable land shall come to the man.” What exactly was Salic land and what was meant by “the inheritance” wasn’t exactly clear. Hotly contested and even amended over the centuries to allow female inheritance, the principles of Salic Law were revived in the fourteenth century to exclude Isabella’s lineage from claiming the French crown. When England’s Edward III failed to accept this judgment, war ensued but it was never on behalf of putting his mother on the throne. (Knowing what we know of Isabella who was implicated in the death of her husband, Edward II and luridly termed “The She-Wolf of France” in some histories, her son might well be forgiven for wanting to bypass Mother Dearest.)
Principles of inheritance in Westeros seem very much in line with this particular medieval mentality that land and rule were manly concerns. We are told of a bloody and devastating civil war between two branches of the Targaryen family known as the Dance of the Dragons. The death of King Viserys left two possible contenders: his elder daughter, Rhaenyra, and her younger half-brother, Aegon. Their dispute tore apart the kingdom and the resolution of the civil war relegated women to the last-chance position of inheritance, a view almost as drastic as the Salic Law. (Read an excerpt from Martin’s “The Princess and the Queen, or the Blacks and the Greens”, forthcoming in Dangerous Women published by Tor (December, 2013).)
This devastating civil war bears close resemblance to another infamous episode in English medieval history – the Civil War of Stephen and Matilda. Lasting from 1138-1154, this cousinly conflict devastated England so utterly that one contemporary chronicler swore that it was as if “Christ and his angels slept”. Although not so closely related as their Westeros parallels, Matilda (the old king’s daughter and recognized heir) and Stephen (her cousin whose royal right came through a female line) represented similar choices. More medieval English nobles preferred Stephen to Matilda (who was sometimes termed arrogant) but many were loyal to Matilda, if only to honour their oaths to King Henry I. Matilda was relentless and effective: her husband’s campaigns brought Normandy under her control and, for a while, she held power in England, too. But the divide was too deep to paper over. The anarchy ended only when Stephen agreed to recognize Matilda’s son as heir – the future Henry II.
Matilda and Isabella were sidelined from the succession, but that is not a role that Dany is ready to accept. Perhaps it is because she believes herself to be the last Targaryen after her brother’s gruesome death? If so, she might well be expected to meekly step down in favour of one of the other claimants being groomed, such as Young Griff, or an eventual son as Robert feared. I believe that Daenerys is not just putting herself forward as the last of her line but that she has come to believe in herself as a legitimate, even the predestined ruler, with no apologies needed for her gender.
Consider this snippet from Dany’s conversation with a hostile mercenary captain, Prendahl, who disputes her ability to wage a campaign:
“Woman?” She chuckled. “Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man.” Dany met his stare. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, khaleesi to Drogo’s riders, and queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.” – A Storm of Swords
Here, Daenerys stands against the historical notion that a woman was only a vessel of royal inheritance. Daenerys Targaryen sees her self-worth more than in her presumed position as the last of the Targaryens. She adds to those distinctions others that are hers and hers alone: the Unburnt, because she survived her husband’s funeral pyre which hatched the dragons which she sees as her children (and also as vindication of her Targaryen right to rule). From these virtues, it is a short step to assert her role as queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not in trust for an unborn son, but in her own right.
However, just as with the Ghiscari captain’s disdain, Daenerys has much to overcome to make that last boast into a reality – the widespread prejudice in Westeros and beyond against a woman’s right to rule. For this last challenge, history offers other interesting parallels, from the military exploits of Joan of Arc to the self-assured reign of Elizabeth Tudor. Which model of women and inheritance will win out in George R. R. Martin’s world? History cannot say, but it shows that Daenerys’ problems will not end on the battlefield but can extend on indefinitely with the entrenched prejudices against women’s rule.