ANY KNIGHT CAN MAKE A KNIGHT

To make a crude yet, I feel, fair parallel: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is to A Game of Thrones what Rogue One is to Star Wars.

It is a story set within a universe of dragons, White Walkers, and prophetic ravens, but stripped almost entirely of the mystic or supernatural. The magic fades into the background, and what remains is something far more intimate and, paradoxically, more powerful: humanity. Just as Rogue One stepped aside from Jedi and destiny-driven heroes to tell a story about ordinary people driven by the universal need for freedom, purpose, and justice, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms gives us a Westeros that feels recognisably, frustratingly human.

We already know what happens before and after this story through The House of the Dragon and A Game of Thrones. We know the wars, the betrayals, the political machinery, and the eventual collapse. Yet here, we are given something smaller: a vignette. A fleeting, grounded snapshot of life inside a much larger historical narrative. In doing so, the story achieves something rare — it transforms epic fantasy into social realism.

I should preface this by saying that I am only on episode four, and am yet to see what happens in what will inevitably be a brutal and pivotal story arc through the Trial of Seven. I feel somewhat like the opposite of a formal media critic (who envyably gets to watch everything early). I am avoiding spoilers and instead sitting with the emotional texture of what I’ve seen so far. While waiting for a watch party I’ve organised — and repeatedly delayed — with friends, I’ve found myself reflecting on what is, to this point, the most human iteration of medieval fantasy I’ve ever encountered.

While there is much we can see of ourselves in Ser Duncan the Tall — his insecurity, decency, and quiet resilience — and while Lyonel Baratheon embodies a confidence I deeply admire, it is Raymond Fossoway who has lingered with me. Specifically, his knighting.

“Any knight can make a knight.”

We’ve heard this before in this universe, but here it lands differently. It crystallises into a single word: emancipation. And it draws a striking parallel to something very real — education.

“Any knight can make a knight.” At face value, the phrase seems procedural. A technicality of tradition. But beneath it lies something profoundly radical: identity can be bestowed, transferred, and transformed. One human being can fundamentally alter the social position of another.

In a world rigidly organised by bloodlines and inherited power, this idea is quietly revolutionary. Knighthood is not merely a title — it is legitimacy. It grants social mobility, legal authority, and moral recognition. It changes how the world sees you and, crucially, how you see yourself.

This is precisely what education does in our own world.

For individuals born into poverty, structural barriers often make upward mobility feel mythical. Where you are born, the wealth of your parents, the quality of your schools, and the expectations placed upon you determine far more than raw ability. Poverty narrows possibilities. It compresses imagination. It tells people, explicitly or implicitly, that certain futures are not meant for them.

Education interrupts this narrative.

It does not merely provide knowledge or vocational skill. It confers legitimacy. A qualification signals that you belong in certain spaces, that your voice carries authority, that your aspirations are valid. In effect, education knights people into social participation. It allows individuals to step into rooms, professions, and conversations that would otherwise remain inaccessible.

Like knighthood, education functions as a gateway to self-determination.

Without it, identity is often dictated by necessity. People become what they must in order to survive. With it, they gain the freedom to choose who they wish to become. This is why education has always been politically charged. It redistributes power by redistributing agency.

Raymond’s knighting scene encapsulates this perfectly. He does not suddenly become more capable in that moment. His skills, temperament, and character already exist. What changes is recognition. Someone in authority acknowledges his worth and, through that recognition, reshapes his destiny.

This is emancipation in its purest form: the transfer of possibility.

Education operates on the same principle. A teacher who believes in a student, a mentor who opens a door, a scholarship committee that takes a chance — these are all modern acts of knighting. They declare: you are not confined to the story written by your birth.

And yet, as with knighthood, the right to bestow this transformation is unequally distributed.

It would be naïve to believe that the only thing limiting people in life is education. Of course, the issue is far more systemic and nuanced. Poverty is not merely a deficit of knowledge or qualification; it is a web of economic instability, housing insecurity, healthcare inequality, racial and gender discrimination, geographic isolation, and political neglect. Education alone cannot dissolve inequality, just as knighthood alone cannot dismantle Westeros’ rigid class hierarchy. But what both can do is expose how power distributes opportunity, and how legitimacy is granted, withheld, or rationed.

Even within knighthood, there exist clear levels of status. A hedge knight of no renown, no lineage, and no patronage will struggle to enter the lists, as we see with Ser Duncan. His skill, integrity, and courage mean little without recognition. Meanwhile, lords and princes have their knighthoods — and their places in tournaments and life — handed to them, regardless of merit or even desire. Prince Daeron’s resentment highlights this perfectly: status can feel as burdensome as it is privileged, but privilege nonetheless remains privilege.

Yet, Ser Duncan shows us something essential: knighthood is not defined by ceremony but by conduct. He behaves like a knight long before anyone formally recognises him as one. His honour, restraint, and compassion precede his title. The knighting merely ratifies what already exists.

Yet society does not function this way.

In Westeros, it is not enough to act knightly — one must be recognised by the institution of knighthood. Legitimacy flows downward from power. Those who control titles control identity.

Education works in this very same way.

In theory, learning is what matters. In practice, certification from approved and reputable institutions carries the true weight. A self-taught individual may possess extraordinary skill, but without formal credentials, their knowledge often lacks legitimacy. Degrees, diplomas, and institutional endorsements function as social gatekeepers. Not all degrees carry equal weight. Not all schools open the same doors. Not all learning is valued equally. A qualification from an elite institution confers authority, confidence, and social mobility far beyond that attached to underfunded or lesser-known establishments. Two individuals may possess equal intelligence, work ethic, and curiosity, yet their life trajectories diverge sharply based on where — and under whom — they learn.

Any KNIGHT can make a knight.

Education, then, becomes not just a ladder, but a sorting mechanism.

And like knighthood, legitimacy flows downward from power. Those who already occupy elite positions decide whose credentials matter, whose knowledge counts, and whose voices are worth hearing. Educational institutions do not merely transmit knowledge — they curate belonging. Admission processes, funding structures, standardised testing, and cultural capital all shape who gains access. These systems frequently reflect and reproduce existing inequalities. Students from affluent backgrounds arrive equipped with advantages that extend far beyond academic ability: private tutoring, stable home environments, social networks, and familiarity with institutional norms. Meanwhile, students from impoverished communities contend with overcrowded classrooms, underfunded schools, food insecurity, and chronic stress. Even before the race begins, the starting lines are miles apart.

When elite institutions confer legitimacy, they are not merely recognising talent — they are validating privilege.

This mirrors Westerosi knighthood with uncomfortable clarity. Those born near power have vastly greater chances of recognition. Those born far from it must overcome extraordinary odds merely to be seen. Thus, emancipation through education becomes conditional.

This is the central tension: education is framed as a universal ladder, yet its rungs are unevenly spaced. Access is filtered through economic, cultural, and social bias. As a result, education risks becoming not a tool of liberation, but a sophisticated mechanism for preserving hierarchy.

Perhaps, then, the deeper question is not simply who gets to be knighted, but what we recognise as knighthood in the first place.

Ser Duncan forces us to confront an uncomfortable truth: virtue, wisdom, and competence often exist outside formal recognition. His conduct embodies everything knighthood claims to represent, yet his legitimacy remains fragile because it does not conform to inherited standards of status. In this tension, we glimpse a larger problem — not just of access, but of definition.

Education suffers from the same limitation.

Western models of education have long privileged particular forms of knowledge: written over oral, abstract over embodied, institutional over communal. Academic authority has historically dismissed lived experience, indigenous knowledge, manual skill, emotional intelligence, and local wisdom as secondary, informal, or insufficiently rigorous. In doing so, it has narrowed not only who is allowed to learn, but whose knowledge is allowed to matter.

Yet there are beginnings of change. Within academia, movements toward decolonised curricula and participatory action research are attempting to rebalance these hierarchies. They seek to recognise communities not merely as subjects of study, but as producers of knowledge. They challenge the assumption that expertise must flow downward from institutions, instead proposing collaborative, reciprocal models of learning. This is not a revolution, but it is a start.

If emancipation through education is to become meaningful, it must involve more than widening access to existing systems. It must also involve expanding what counts as education itself. Just as knighthood should not be reduced to ceremony, knowledge should not be reduced to certification.

Perhaps the most radical possibility is this: that by recognising multiple ways of knowing, we might finally begin to recognise the full humanity of those who hold them.

And in doing so, we may discover that the world already contains far more knights than we have ever been willing to see.