“Ah shoot, wait, give me a minute.” Jon stood with his forehead in his palm. “I’m sorry, I just can’t think of a Rickety. Unless? Wait? Do I have a brother named Rickerd? Maybe? Rickerd?”
“Yes, sure, fine, that’s me!” Rickety gave up. “And I’m desperately injured!”
“Oh brother, I am so sorry,” he said to Rickety.
“It’s okay, Jon. I won’t die if I receive proper medical attention.”
“My goodness, I will miss the boy so much when he is dead,” Jon lamented to the tears of those surrounding him.
“He was a good soul. He will indeed be so dearly missed,” Ser Boats whimpered.
“Everyone, I’ll be okay. I’m losing some blood, but if I receive medical attention soon, I’ll be okay! Or actually, Smellisandre, can’t you use the Fire Man’s help to revive people?” Rickety pleaded.
“Oh, um, sometimes. But I don’t know if I really want to bother Him with another favor, you know?” Smellisandre said, looking at her nails.
“You know what? I think I’ll actually be okay,” Rickety said, starting to stand up. “These wounds are mostly superficial—”
“I have to put the poor boy out of his misery,” Jon said with tears in his eyes.
“Wait, no, no, no—” Slash. Jon slit Rickety’s throat, as his men nodded in solemn approval. “Now let’s win this battle—for my late brother, Reuben! He was as good a man as any. CHARGE!”
Jon and his men charged toward Handsy’s cavalry. Oh, whoa, thought Jon. I guess shouting “charge” really works. Ser Boats led a flank that held back, because they hadn’t all tied their shoes yet. Handsy remained on his side of the battlefield with his archers, commanding them to shoot whenever he got bored or aroused.
Whoremund found Handsy’s second in command, Smalljon Bumbler, and each performed the standard pre-one-on-one battle routine of asking how each other’s family was doing. Then, after requesting that the other send his mother his best, they began the rough stuff, insulting each other’s mothers with the vilest jokes possible. Once they were both sufficiently offended, it was fighting time. Whoremund bit Bumbler’s ear.
“Oh, sorry, I meant to bite your neck,” Whoremund said.
“Oh no, don’t worry. You can try again,” Bumbler said and waited patiently, while Whoremund cocked his head backward and lunged for his neck.
“AHHHH!” Bumbler writhed in pain. “You piece of shit! That’s my other ear!”
Meanwhile, other Snark soldiers weren’t faring so well. Half of Jon’s soldiers had already been shot by arrows, and the other half had accidentally shot way too many of those arrows at their own men.
There was a mountain of dead soldiers piling up in the northeast corner of the battlefield. It looked sort of like an inactive volcano, if an inactive volcano had a mountain of dead men on it. At the foot of the mountain, dozens of Snark men were badly injured and on the brink of death, when all of a sudden, almost as if by a literary device known as deus ex machina, a group of horses stampeded over them, killing most.
Finally, the men in Ser Boats’s flank had tied their shoes, and they moved into the center of the battlefield, except for a handful who tripped over their shoddily tied laces.
Then, the rest of Handsy’s foot soldiers arrived, surrounding the Snark men in a circle and pointing spears toward the center.
“What a phenomenal strategic move,” Jon remarked. “I think what we’re going to do is try to break the line at this choke point and then attack horizontally from there.”
“Um, okay. I don’t know why you’re telling me this, but thank you,” one of Handsy’s commanders said. Jon tried to break the line at a specific choke point and attack horizontally from there, but it didn’t work.
The Boytoys moved in further, forcing the Snarks to make a human pyramid to avoid the spears. As the circle began closing in, Jon’s men stacked themselves five men high, then ten men high, then twenty, cheering and shaking their battle pom-poms the whole time. Finally, there was only room for one man to stand in the middle, which meant the pyramid could go on no longer, and the inevitable had come. Someone would have to stand in the middle, carrying all four hundred remaining soldiers on his shoulders in what was no longer a human pyramid but actually more of a human ladder.
As Jon climbed to the top of the four-hundred-person human ladder, panic set in. He knew his men could only balance like this for so long before the Boytoys formed their own human ladder that was even taller. Defeat was imminent. But then, from his position atop the human ladder, about twenty-five hundred feet in the air, Jon saw something over the horizon: an army of men marching toward them wearing backward helmets and retro throwback armor, chugging ale, banging drums, and chanting, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s goooooooo!” The Brodies of House Theta, a raucous group of young men led by the mischievous Littledingle, had come to Jon’s rescue. It was the most beautiful thing Jon had ever seen.
“We’re saved,” he said, shedding a tear.
“Scatter!” shouted the Boytoy commanders as soon as they saw the Brodie army. The Boytoys began to desert the field, fleeing in all directions, terrified for their lives.
The men from Theta House rode onto the battlefield howling their house words, “Don’t Be a Bitch,” and knocked Handsy’s army off their horses while also drunkenly falling off their own horses. They pelted glasses full of ale at the Boytoy men’s heads with perfect accuracy. They shoved hot sauce down their throats until they barfed. They duct-taped them to the bottom of their own horses naked. Within minutes, Handsy’s army was decimated.
“Thank goodness, we’ll all be okay,” a man now pretending to be on the Snark side said.
“Where are we blowing up tonight, lads?” the Theta House pledge master shouted.
“Where are we blowing up tonight, lads?” the Snark explosions expert said.
“…” a man whose vocal chords had been ripped out said excitedly.
With the help of Theta House, the battle was won, and Wintersmells would forevermore be both under the Snarks’ control and, like, super chill too. Jon chased Handsy to the castle of Wintersmells, but Handsy closed the castle gate just as Jon arrived. The door was far too heavy for Jon to open by himself. But then he remembered he had Wub Wub, a burly giant with door-breaking strength, who was an expert lock picker.
Wub Wub got the door open in thirty seconds flat. Jon’s men piled in, and Jon found Handsy in the corner inside the castle walls.
“I’ve reconsidered, Jon. I think a fish-cutting contest for control of Wintersmells sounds like a great idea,” Handsy said. “You know, that might not be fair actually, since you did just win this battle honorably and fairly—”
Smack. Jon struck Handsy.
“Enough of the games, Handsy! This one’s for Rickety!” Smack.
“And this one’s for my brother who just died, Reginald!” Smack.
“And this one’s ’cause I like punching!” Smack.
“And this one’s for my friend Ser Jacob, who also really likes punching!” Smack.
Handsy lay on the ground, bloody, bruised, and beaten. A couple of Jon’s footmen discarded the Boytoy House banner and hung up the Snark banner, while the Knights of Theta House hung up a banner with a picture of a smoking-hot naked lady on it. All was well in Wintersmells, except for the mountain of dead bodies outside. That took a pretty massive cleanup effort.
“Hello?” a weak voice could be heard coming from one of the many piles of dead bodies. “It’s me, Rickety Snark! I’m still alive!” whispered Rickety Snark, who had miraculously survived.
“Check it out!” said one of the footmen. “This dead body is pretending to be a fake Snark.”
“Eh? Throw it with the rest of them.” And so Rickety got tossed in a pile of corpses, still alive as ever.
“Peeon, I give you permission to torture Handsy Boytoy now that he’s our prisoner,” said Jon.
“Oh goodness, I could never lay a finger on him,” Peeon said.
“Peeon, I don’t really have a dog in the fight, but don’t you want to get your revenge? Handsy is an evil man. He did evil things to you.”
“Okay, I’ll do it, Jon. I’m so sorry. I will never disrespect you like that again, sir,” Peeon said, cowering from Jon.
“You really don’t have to—”
“No, I absolutely don’t have to, you’re right, sir,” Peeon whimpered.
“But you can if you want to.”
“Right, sir. I’ll go torture him for you,” Peeon said.
Peeon walked along the dirt path toward the chamber where Handsy was being held and stepped on a patch of grass.
“Oh Gods!” Peeon cried. “I killed it! I killed the grass!” Tears streamed down Peeon’s face. “Please forgive me! Oh, I’m a monster! I’m just a monster!”
After drying his tears and being consoled by Jon, Peeon entered the chamber of Handsy Boytoy.
“If it isn’t Ser Reekopolis III, MD,” Handsy said.
“It is, sir,” Peeon said. “Wonderful to see you again.”
“Well, come on, Ser Reekopolis! Punish me!” Handsy begged, licking his lips. Peeon wound up and struck Handsy in the thigh with the might of a feathery tap.
“Oh Gods, I’m so sorry, Lord Boytoy,” Peeon lamented. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Ew. Peeon? What in the seven hells is going on here?” asked Pantsa, entering the room. “Were you beating him? Could you really not see that he was getting sexual pleasure from that? Stop crying and get over here.”
“Yes, Lady Snark,” said Peeon wiping his tears. “Sorry for being a worthless piece of manure.”
“Peeon, don’t say things like that about yourself,” insisted Pantsa.
“You’re right, Lady Pantsa. I’m so stupid for saying that. Stupid, that’s what I am,” said Peeon, crying into her shoulder.
“Oh, Peeon, I hope I didn’t give you the impression that I wanted you to touch me. I find your tears very disgusting. Why don’t you go cry somewhere else?”
“Aw goodness, I’m so bad at crying,” wept Peeon on his way out.
Once she was alone, Pantsa began to enact her perfect revenge on her ex-husband.
“Let’s find out how loyal your hounds really are when I release them from their cages into your cell,” she said. Handsy just laughed.
“Oh, Pantsa. My dogs will never eat me. They are far too loyal,” Handsy mused.
“Oh?” remarked Pantsa. “But you said it yourself, Handsy. You’ve been starving them for six months. They’re terribly hungry.”
“Well, all of those hounds died in a tragic… starving accident. But I am sure these new hounds are just as loyal to me, a man they have never met.”
Pantsa flashed a wry smile. Handsy began to sweat nervously. Pantsa opened up the cages and got to safety. All twelve of the hounds immediately walked out of their cages, whimpered, and then fell over sideways, dying of starvation.
“What in the fuck?” Pantsa said, disappointed.
“Did I forget to mention that the dogs we bought were also starving, my dear?” Handsy cocked a smile again.
“This stuff always happens to me. I want to go back to the Strip, where they don’t have piles of gross dog corpses.” Pantsa began walking away from Handsy, leaving him chained up in his cell. “Jon!!!” she shouted. “I need you to cut off Handsy’s head for me! My dog thing didn’t work. Jon? I’m not going to cut off his head myself!”
“I am a bastard. When my family had feasts, I had to sit down there while the rest of my family got to eat at this dining table,” Jon said.
“You had that even bigger and more expensive dining table all to yourself?” Smellisandre asked.
“Yes. It was quite nice,” Jon said. “I have no idea why they let me have the better one.”
Suddenly, Ser Boats marched into the dining room and pegged a small trinket at Smellisandre’s head.
“What is this?” Smellisandre asked, rubbing the spot on her forehead where the trinket hit.
“You know damn well what that is!” Ser Boats bellowed. “It belonged to Stankass Boaratheon’s daughter—oh shoot, I think that’s the wrong one,” Ser Boats said, putting the first trinket back in his pocket and then launching a small wooden reindeer at Smellisandre’s head.
“That’s the Boaratheon girl’s toy!” Ser Boats screamed. “And you let her watch someone get burned at the stake!”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Yeah, no. I burned her at the stake.”
Ser Boats couldn’t contain his anger.
“You what?” Ser Boats seethed. “You monster! She was supposed to teach me how to read! And she only got to teach me words that start with the letter A. You wench! I will never be able to read the B words or even the damn W words! It was my lifelong dream to read the word ‘wall.’ And now I’ll never be able to! I can only read ‘apple.’ Fuck ‘apple’!”
Boats was furious. He looked around for a book, a scroll, any form of the written word to destroy, but the only books in the room were the ones he’d put in the fireplace earlier for warmth. He had to get his rage out somehow, so he just started speaking random strings of words and punching at the air in front of his mouth as he said them. It was enough to calm him down for the moment.
“I can probably teach you to read. I mean, I do have magical powers,” Smellisandre said.
“Oh, really? That would be great. Sorry for freaking out about that kid you killed. Jon, you wouldn’t mind pardoning her, would you?” Ser Boats requested.
But Jon knew he had to banish Smellisandre from Wintersmells or else have her hanged. Sure, there were other options, like not banishing Smellisandre and not having her hanged, or some lesser punishment like community service. Jon, though, was too honorable a man to let this pass.
“Smellisandre, you are to leave Wintersmells at once or otherwise be hanged as a murderer. You are never to come back,” Jon said sternly. “Unless you really want to, I guess. Then I’d probably let you come back.”
Ser Boats wept, but he understood. The Brodies of Theta House wept too, as the ratio in the castle got a little worse. And Peeon wept because he accidentally brushed Smellisandre’s shoulder on her way out.
“Please forgive me, madam,” Peeon cried.
As Smellisandre walked into the distance, she took off her necklace, dropped it on the ground, and instantly aged upward of ten, almost fifteen years.
“You mean to tell me,” uttered one of the Brodies, “that the hot babe who was here just now… was actually a MILF the whole time?”
“Why?!!!” cried another Brodie. “Why does this keep happening to us?!”
“Fuck you, Jon! Fuck you, man! Make her come back, bro,” a Brodie begged through tears between hyperventilated breaths.
But Jon would not sully his honor. Not even for a MILF.
The Mildlings, the Brodies of Theta House, and the houses of the North all gathered in the banquet hall of Wintersmells and started bickering.
“We’re all just a bunch of clashing groups with too dissimilar of backgrounds and customs to ever get along,” a voice in the crowd said. “We could never be unified by a common purpose or a common ruler!”
“Exactly! We all agree!” shouted everyone else in unison.
“My father used to say we find our true friends on the battlefield,” Jon said, finally breaking his silence. “Which is why my best friends are this rotting corpse to my left and Ser Trenton Prottlebottom, the rotting corpse to my right. But anyway, I need all of you here for when the White Wieners come. I know we all have our differences. But we just have to realize that all of you are wrong and have dumb beliefs. I’m the only person here who has good beliefs.” The room devolved into more bickering.
“Jon,” Lord Manweewee, one of the most respected lords in the room, spoke. “I didn’t fight alongside you on the battlefield at the Rootin’ Tootin’ Bastard Shootin’. And I will regret that until my dying day, at which point I’ll probably f
eel pretty good about that decision.”
“I never thought we’d find another true king in my lifetime,” Lord Blubber, another senior lord, jumped in. “And we haven’t. But Jon, you seem like a pretty decent guy, and if you want to be King in the North, I don’t feel like it’s really within my authority to stop you.”
“Jon Dough is the fucking man!” the Head Brodie of Theta House shouted. “Let’s get this guy domed the fuck up with a king’s crown!”
“King! King! King! King!” the Brodies of Theta House shouted in reference to Blake King, a member of Theta House, who was chugging a keg of beer.
“And Jon, we think you should be King in the North!” the Head Brodie bellowed.
“King in the North! King in the North! King in the North!” the crowd chanted euphorically. This time, it was in reference to Jon Dough. Or maybe it was still in reference to Blake King. The man chugged a lot of beer.
Bland
It was the dead of night. Blandon Snark arrived at Wintersmells after a thousand-mile journey down from north of the Trench. He’d walked the whole way on his hands, doing a handstand pushup every few steps. I’ve hardly even broken a sweat, he thought. In terms of upper body strength—Bland took a moment to call upon his Pink-Eyed Raven abilities and survey the entire world—I am the 238th strongest person in the world. He was right.
After vaulting himself over the gates, Bland made his way to the bedroom of Hamwell Tardy, the only man still awake in Wintersmells. Ham had himself only just returned to Wintersmells from Citadel State University, where he read books all day so that, one day, he might become a maester who was simply allowed to read books all day.
Thud-thud-thud. Bland knocked on the door with one hand while doing tricep dips on the other. A friendly round face opened the door. “Hamwell Tardy,” said Bland.
“How’d you know my name?” asked Ham. “Are you some sort of magical person with all-seeing and all-knowing powers? Some sort of raven-like being with some sort of conjunctivitis colloquially called ‘pinkeye’?”
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