Giant feels like Game of Thrones in slow motion—and Stray Kids make every movement matter

Some performances don’t need a stage. Stray Kids' Giant doesn’t beg for attention—it commands it from underground. In the music video, Hyunjin, Lee Know, and Han (though not only them, SKZ is 8) appear as survivors, architects, and warriors. Not dressed in glory, but in grief. They build something monstrous—something sacred, It might be a dragon egg or something far worse.

Disclaimer: This is not just opinion. It’s an informed perspective.

The interpretations and symbolic parallels presented in this piece are grounded in extensive study of audiovisual language, mythic structures, visual semiotics, and contemporary media theory—alongside years of close engagement with both Stray Kids’ evolving artistic identity and the narrative/lore frameworks of series like Game of Thrones. I have watched Giant, frame by frame, more than once. I know what’s there and, more importantly, what’s not.

If you saw One Piece in this performance, that’s not wrong—just different. References are fluid. Perception is built from experience. But this analysis wasn’t pulled from nowhere. It’s rooted in the weight of symbolism, cinematic language, and a specific emotional architecture.

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The camera never blinks. The light flickers like it’s afraid of them. The atmosphere feels industrial, ancient, and alien. They move in silence, collecting jeweled orbs, dragging them across cavernous space, fusing them into a biomechanical creature that breathes in shadows. There is no audience. Just consequence. No dialogue. Just movement. The kind that tells you something irreversible has already happened.

And then, in the final shot, another face appears.

Felix. Unmoving. Eyes glowing an icy, inhuman blue.

Not alive. Not dead. Not saved. A sentinel. A curse. A reminder.

It’s the kind of image that lingers—and chills.

It’s White Walker energy with high-fashion precision.

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A Game of Thrones, monsters, (pirates?), and crowns of ash?

Before the climax, they stand surrounded by relics of something long extinguished. The world above no longer matters. Here, below, they don’t seek fame or light. They seek function. Legacy. Vengeance. What they wear isn’t a costume—it’s a declaration. Black and white. Bone and soot. White is not purity. It’s ritual. A surrender made visible. The black isn’t menace—it’s resistance. Grief tailored into armor. Together, they don’t look like idols. They look like final witnesses to something holy that broke them.

Behind them, the egg looms—part alien, part dragon, fully threatening. It doesn't rest. It pulses. You don’t build something like that unless you’re either trying to resurrect power or contain it. Either way, it costs you.

And that’s the real threat: whatever they’re bringing to life, it’s already too late to stop it.

Hyunjin is fire contained. His gestures are sharp, desperate, restrained. His eyes carry both rage and betrayal. His body moves like a weapon trained to protect what no longer exists. Lee Know is the wall, the executioner of memory. His steps are not light—they land like verdicts. Every angle he holds is cold control, as if to say: “We can mourn later—right now, we endure.” And Han—Han is the fracture. The one who bleeds silently. He doesn’t look like he wants to win. He looks like he already lost something no one else knows about—and he’s dancing through the grief.

Together, they don’t act. They remember. Their bodies tell a story without needing a beat drop. And when the music crashes into them, they don’t dance—they burn.

Each movement is prayer and punishment. There is no salvation here.

Only movement. Only ritual. Only what's left after the crown has crumbled.

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Why some saw One Piece in Stray Kid's Giant—and others saw Fire and Blood (Game of Thrones)

It’s curious that some people watched Giant and saw One Piece.

Maybe they saw treasure. Found family. A journey.

But Giant isn’t looking for treasure. It’s burying what couldn’t be saved.

It’s not about where they’re going. It’s about what they’re becoming to survive.

But that’s the thing about references: they’re not just in what’s shown.

They live in what you bring with you. They’re a matter of perspective—and of pain.

Game of Thrones wasn’t just about war and dragons. It was about broken heirs, unwanted thrones, and loyalty that kills. It was about surviving your legacy and becoming your own kind of weapon. Giant is that. Not in armor—but in silence. Not in blood—but in breath.

There’s no Jon Snow. No Daenerys.

Just eight "boys" becoming giants to hold up a world that had once ignored them and now have no option but to crown them.

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A rebellion carved in metal

The sound design is as heavy as the choreography. Distorted bass. Echoes of machinery. The beat doesn't guide—it crushes. It sounds like walls collapsing in slow motion. Like chains snapping, not cleanly, but with resistance. The instrumental alone could score a dystopian film—but this isn’t fiction. This is choreography as survival.

There are no smiles. No fan service. No moment of softness to dilute the violence. Even in stillness, the pain hums. The repetition builds tension without relief. The silence between verses becomes sacred.

What Srtray KIds build in Giant isn’t just a structure.

It’s a version of themselves that might finally fight back.

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Game of Thrones or One Piece: GIANT is an uprising

In Game of Thrones, they say you win or you die.

In Stray Kids’ Giant? Well, eventually, we all die.

But not yet. Not today.

Stray Kids is known for explosive energy. But Giant doesn’t explode. It digs. It builds. It waits. And in that waiting, there is power. There is ritual. There is an army of eight.

They don’t give you catharsis. They give you aftermath.

This is how civilizations rise after collapse.

This is how ghosts rebuild temples.

This is how boys become myth.