The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon season 3 (trailer).
Spain. Land of tapas, sun-soaked beaches, and, apparently, mutated walkers with a taste for Manchego. Yes, The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon shuffles into its third season on 7th September 2025, and this time our favourite crossbow-toting survivalist and his equally unkillable bestie Carol are trading the gloom of post-apocalyptic France for the sun-drenched desolation of España.
After two surprisingly artful seasons of undead tourism across Europe, this six-episode leg of the Walking Dead franchise sees Daryl and Carol trekking across a ravaged Spain in search of survivors, salvation, and maybe—just maybe—a way back to the former land of baseball, Budweiser, and sensible apocalypse planning. Not that that ever worked out.
Following their heartfelt Normandy farewell in Season 2 (and a jaunt through the bioluminescent fever dream that was the Channel Tunnel—hallucinating bats, anyone?), the duo now find themselves in a country that’s just as broken as the rest, but with more jamón ibérico and less existential Catholic guilt. Though judging by the teaser trailer, there’s still plenty of doom, gloom, and slow-motion walker impalement to go around.
Daryl, still played with gravelly stoicism by Norman Reedus, continues to be the man of few words, many injuries, and a near-mythical ability to survive anything short of nuclear annihilation. Carol, portrayed once more by Melissa McBride with that special mix of grief, grit, and barely concealed emotional devastation, has found her way back to Daryl’s side—and no doubt plans to keep it that way, even if she has to machete a few cultists along the way.
Because let’s not kid ourselves: Daryl Dixon has never been about finding peace. It’s about trudging from one emotionally complicated, morally ambiguous pocket of humanity to another while a psychotic new warlord/prophet/mad scientist tries to unleash yet another variety of brain-munching death. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
This season’s backdrop—Spain in ruins—offers a new aesthetic twist. Expect cathedral strongholds, flamenco-dancing cults (well, we can dream), dusty border towns, and possibly a surreal confrontation on a bullfighting arena with a walker wearing a matador’s cape. Or maybe that’s just what we want. Either way, it’s a bold setting for a franchise that seems determined not to die, no matter how many times someone tries to shoot it in the head.
The plot, at least according to AMC’s muttered whispers, sees our duo facing down a fractured Europe full of factions, philosophies, and walkers that just won’t stay dead. As Daryl and Carol search for more survivors and a path back to the States, they inevitably stumble into places where ideology, violence, and desperation swirl like sangria at a particularly awkward apocalypse-themed hen do.
Returning creators David Zabel and Jason Richman have shown they’re not afraid to get weird with it—Season 2 gave us everything from Amper variants to Mona Lisa monologues—so don’t be surprised if Spain’s flavour of the undead brings its own twisted evolution into the mix. Could we see parkour zombies scaling the Alhambra? Flamenco walker flash mobs? A haunted paella pan? Only time (and budget) will tell.
What is certain is that the third season continues the character-driven storytelling that’s given Daryl Dixon its unique edge—less pew-pew, more brooding by candlelight. It’s still The Walking Dead, but with subtitles, subtext, and just enough soul to make you believe this long-running franchise might still have something fresh left in the tank. Or the wine cellar.
Here at SFcrowsnest, we’re ready to follow these two survivors wherever they roam—even if it’s through the dust-choked ruins of Granada or the bloodstained beaches of Costa da Morte. Because while the world burns, Daryl and Carol walk on. Tired. Wounded. Possibly hallucinating. But still fighting the good fight, one emotionally intense stare at a time.
Just don’t ask them about Rick. Or Sophia. Or anyone else. They’ve got enough emotional baggage to fill a cargo ship. Or at least, a rusty fishing boat pointed vaguely west.
