There doesn't seem to be a religion in 'Game of Thrones' that's

Hear, O seekers of truth both in story and in life, the words of Carice van Houten, who once observed: “There doesn’t seem to be a religion in ‘Game of Thrones’ that’s totally peaceful… we haven’t seen any Buddhists.” At first, her remark may seem but light commentary upon a tale of fantasy, yet hidden within it lies a reflection on the nature of belief, the shadow of conflict, and the yearning of the human spirit for peace amidst the storms of power. For the religions of Westeros, as in much of history, are woven with fire, sword, and sacrifice, not with silence, compassion, and stillness.

The origin of her words comes from her role as Melisandre, the Red Priestess, who served the fiery Lord of Light with zeal and dread. In speaking of the world of Game of Thrones, she noted what the story itself reflects of our own: that most religions, though they promise light, are entangled with violence, with conquest, with the will to dominate. It is striking, she says, that we find no path like Buddhism, no doctrine of gentle renunciation, of non-violence, of peace, in this imagined world. Thus, her observation becomes not only about fantasy, but about the human condition itself: why do the gods of fire and steel shout louder than the gods of compassion?

Consider this deeply. The gods of Westeros demand blood. The Faith of the Seven burns heretics, the Lord of Light consumes with flame, the Drowned God calls for death beneath the waves. These are mirrors of our own history, where faith often walked hand in hand with war. Crusades marched under banners of holiness; temples became fortresses; prophets’ words were twisted into weapons. Yet Buddhism, in contrast, was born of the renunciation of violence, of the quest for awakening, of a flame not of destruction but of enlightenment. Carice van Houten’s remark awakens in us the longing for such a voice in a world of chaos—whether real or imagined.

Look to history for proof. In the third century before Christ, Emperor Ashoka of India waged fierce wars, conquering lands with rivers of blood. Yet after the slaughter at Kalinga, his heart was broken by the cries of the dead. He turned to Buddhism, embraced peace, and spread teachings of compassion across his empire. His transformation is a real-life echo of the very absence Carice noted in Game of Thrones: a figure who turned from conquest to peace, from violence to non-violence. His story shows us that even in a world of iron and war, the path of stillness can arise, if only a heart is willing to turn.

The meaning of her words, then, is twofold. First, they reveal the tragedy of human storytelling—that we often glorify conflict more than peace. Second, they remind us that a vision of religion without violence is rare but precious. Peaceful faiths may not seize the throne nor command armies, yet they hold the power to transform the soul. The absence of such a presence in Game of Thrones mirrors the absence of it in much of our world’s history, where the gentle flame is too often overshadowed by the roaring fire.

What lesson shall we draw? That while tales of swords and conquest may stir the heart, the true victory is in mastering oneself, not others. Peace is power, though it does not glitter. Compassion is strength, though it does not roar. If the world of men is to avoid becoming a perpetual Westeros, then we must learn to honor the silent paths, the faiths that seek harmony, not conquest.

Practical wisdom follows. Seek out peace in your own practice, even when the world glorifies strife. Honor the faith of others, but question when it becomes an excuse for cruelty. Be the Buddhist in Westeros—a voice of calm in a storm of fire. And remember always, that though violent gods may rule stories and empires, it is often the quiet path, the path of compassion, that endures across the centuries.

Thus, let Carice van Houten’s words echo not only as commentary on a tale, but as a challenge to us all: to imagine and to embody a world where religion is not a call to arms, but a call to peace. For though the songs of war resound loudly, it is the silent prayer of compassion that builds the truest kingdom, unshaken by time.