Okay, let’s talk about something that’s always fascinated me: the way men write women. And whenever this pops into my head, two names immediately battle for attention like queens fighting over the same throne – Lady Macbeth and Cersei Lannister. I mean, on the surface, what do a Shakespearean character from 1200s Scotland and a modern fantasy queen from Westeros really have in common? A lot, it turns out. They feel like two versions of the same story, written by guys who are totally captivated by a certain kind of woman – the ambitious, clever, and downright ruthless kind. You can feel the author’s fascination leaping off the page, but if you look closely, there’s something else there too… a little bit of fear.
Let’s start with Lady M. She’s not just Macbeth’s wife; she’s the CEO of his entire career move. While her husband is busy having doubts and seeing spooky daggers in the air, she’s the one drawing up the business plan for regicide. Her power isn’t in a sword; it’s in her words. The way she manipulates Macbeth is a masterclass in psychological warfare. She doesn’t yell or threaten; she goes straight for the jugular by questioning his manhood. “When you durst do it, then you were a man,” she says, and you can just see Macbeth deflating. It’s brutal, and it’s brilliant.
And that speech! She literally asks the spirits to strip her of any soft, feminine pity so she can be cold enough to get the job done. She wants to be filled with pure, direct cruelty. It’s one of the most hardcore declarations of intent in all of literature. But here’s the thing about Shakespeare- he doesn’t let her off the hook. That suppressed femininity and humanity come back to haunt her in the most visceral way possible. She starts sleepwalking, trying to wash invisible blood from her hands, consumed by a guilt she never thought would touch her. She becomes a ghost of her former self, dying alone and broken. It’s like Shakespeare is saying, “Look at this incredible, powerful woman! Isn’t she terrifying? See what happens to her?” Her ambition is thrilling, but it’s also a warning label.
Now, let’s jump to Cersei. If Lady Macbeth is the master of the one-time, high-stakes manipulation, Cersei is the grandmaster of long-game political chess. Her world is bigger, messier, and fueled by a different kind of fire: family. And not just any family- a deeply complicated, tightly-knit one with her twin brother Jaime at the center. Her children are her ultimate weak spot and her greatest weapon, and everything she does is to protect their power (and by extension, her own). Her whole philosophy can be summed up in one iconic line she delivers to Littlefinger: “Power is power.” It’s not a theory to her; it’s a fact.
Cersei is smart, there’s no doubt about it. She plays the game better than most of the men around her. But her ambition is also her blind spot. She’s so paranoid, so convinced of her own cleverness, that she trusts no one and ends up creating most of her own enemies. We see her suffer immense losses- her children, her power, her dignity- and in those moments of grief, she becomes strangely human. We see the raw, maternal love underneath all the cruelty. But then she hardens again, choosing vengeance and power over everything else. Like Lady Macbeth, she uses her sexuality as a tool, but the narrative often frames it as part of her corruption. It’s fascinating, but it also feels like the story is sometimes judging her for it in a way it doesn’t for male characters.
So, why do we remember these two so vividly, centuries apart? I think it’s because they’re not just villains. They’re given real interiority. We see Lady Macbeth’s guilt and Cersei’s grief. They are complex, contradictory, and fully alive on the page. They refuse to be quiet, polite, or passive. They demand power and agency in worlds determined to deny it to them.
And that’s the heart of it, I think. Male authors like Shakespeare and Martin create these incredible, formidable women who are impossible to ignore. They’re written with a kind of awe, but their stories are almost always framed as cautionary tales. They are punished for their ambition, their cunning, and their refusal to play by the rules. It’s as if the authors are saying, “Look at this magnificent, dangerous creature. Admire her, but from a distance.” We’re left in a weird position- we can’t help but root for them a little, even as they do terrible things, because their will to power is so compelling. They are the complicated, brilliant, and terrifying women that men love to write, maybe because they represent a force they can’t quite understand, but can’t stop imagining.