Bland sighed as he switched from pull-ups to chin-ups.
“It means he has these visions called ‘wanks,’” said Pantsa, entering the room. “That’s how he introduces himself to everyone now, and he never gives any context or explanation. It’s really not that hard to explain, Bland. You have to stop doing this.”
“One hundred forty-five, one hundred forty-six, one hundred forty-seven,” said Bland, unable to be distracted.
“Malarya, it’s so good to have you back.” Pantsa opened her arms and motioned for Malarya to come and hug her.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Malarya. “Is Jon around?”
“Jon’s off to meet with Dennys Grandslam, the Dragon Queen. I’m the Lady of Wintersmells while he’s gone.”
“Oh,” said Malarya. Awkward, she thought. “Here’s the thing. Jon is sort of… my favorite? He’s most of the reason I came to Wintersmells instead of going to the Strip to kill Cervix. You guys are great, and I think it’s really awesome that you’re here and we’ve reunited and all, but Jon is Jon. I mean, I love Jon like a family member. Does that make sense?”
“Jon should be back very soon,” said Pantsa. “Until then, us three siblings can get reacquainted after all these years. What say we grab a drink and sing a round of ‘Fair Wintersmells’?”
“No, yeah,” said Malarya. “It’s just I was hoping Jon would be here… now? Like, right now? Cards on the table, I just don’t really know you two that well. Again, you seem great, but you’re sort of just, like, casual acquaintances to me.”
“Malarya,” said Bland, having just finished his workout. Oh great, thought Malarya. What does this one want? “I have a gift for you.”
“I have a gift for you,” mocked Malarya in an idiot voice. “Fellas, you can’t buy my affection with gifts. I’m just going to go wait outside until Jon shows up.” She began to head out.
Pantsa coughed loudly. “Bland, is there a gift… for me?” She was visibly upset.
Before Malarya could reach the door, Bland uncovered the gift: a dagger made of Ovarian steel. “The gift is a weapon?” she said, clearly deriving some sort of sexual pleasure from the mere notion of violence. Bland just moved waaay up in my favorite siblings rankings, she thought. New siblings ranking is as follows: 1. Jon; 2. The young one (What’s his name? Rikert? Jernt? Jomb? Is he alive? Unimportant); 3. Myself; 4. Bland; 5. Snobb (rest in peace); 6. My direwolf; 7. My dead dad; 8. Pantsa. “Where did you get a dagger like this, Bland?”
“Littledingle gave it to me,” he replied.
“Littledingle?” asked Malarya. What’s a little candy-ass namby-pamby like him doing in Wintersmells? she thought. He uses lies, deceit, and trickery to kill people. He wouldn’t be such a yellow-bellied pantywaist-milksop chicken-coward if he’d just use violence and weapons to do murders like I do.
“I know Littledingle’s facial hair is gross,” said Pantsa. “And I know he’s ugly too. And he’s not very rich. And he tripled the amount of forced marriages I’ve been subjected to. And he kisses me in a weird way sometimes. And he talks about mother quite frequently in a way that is disturbing. But, at the end of the day, Littledingle lies a lot and is untrustworthy.”
“So why is he here?” asked Malarya.
“Ah yes,” remembered Pantsa. “Littledingle pledged the Theta House army to us. And I guess he also gives away sweet daggers now,” she said, pointing to Bland.
“This dagger was intended to kill me,” said Bland, “back when I was recently crippled, with my skinny arms… before I became strong.” Bland kissed different muscle groups on his arms for fifteen seconds and then handed the dagger to his sister. “I want you to have it, Malarya. It might come in handy, you know, for stabbing.”
“But Bland, doesn’t that mean that Littledingle is the one who tried to have you killed all those years ago?” asked Malarya. “Could he be a force for evil who is out to get us? It would make sense, given all of his conniving and trickery, that this dagger is itself one more ploy—”
“Boooorrring!” interjected Pantsa. “You’re overthinking this. It’s a cool dagger. Hey, maybe you’ll save all of our lives with it in a huge important battle or something,” said Pantsa, sarcastically waving her hands and wiggling her fingers around. “I don’t know. Just take it. It looks expensive.”
Malarya shrugged and put the dagger on her belt. SHING. DING. POP. ZAP. Malarya heard the mouth-watering sound of swords clashing and went over to the window to see what kind of finger-licking violence was going on. It was Brian of Fart sparring with her squire, Godsdick. Brian was a far better fighter. Godsdick had fifteen local prostitutes behind him cheering him on with pom-poms.
“G-O-D-S-D-I-C-K! We all want to sleep with Godsdick to-day! (Hey!)”
Brian punched out all of Godsdick’s teeth. Still the prostitutes kept cheering.
“Godsdick, Godsdick, he’s our man! Fucking him after this fight is our plan!”
Godsdick was on the ground. As Brian got ready to kick him, he evacuated his bowels out of fear.
“‘Hard to describe’ is what we’ll declare when you ask why Godsdick is so good with his penis in there!”
Behind the fight, a crying old woman rolled around in a bale of hay yelling hysterically. “DEAD! They’re dead! Some monster has decapitated my boys!” Shut the actual fuck up, old lady, thought Malarya. I’m trying to watch a fight.
“Brian of Fart,” said Pantsa, looking along with her sister. “She swore an oath to mother that she’d protect us, and now she won’t leave me alone. Very annoying. Quite ugly, like you. Acts like a man, etc. You might actually like her, Malarya.” Pantsa looked around, but her sister was gone. “Malarya?” When she looked out the window again, she saw her sister standing with Brian of Fart.
“Lady Malarya, perhaps you’d be better suited to spar with my squire,” said Brian, pointing to Godsdick. But Godsdick was busy trying to break up a fight. The whores were once again arguing about who’d get to sleep with Godsdick that night, and things had turned violent. The ground was covered in torn wigs. Brian looked back to Malarya. “Well, I suppose I can spar with you while he’s occupied.”
Brian thrust her sword at Malarya, but the girl dodged it. “Pretty good,” said Brian. She lunged her sword at the girl again, and again she stepped out of the way.
Malarya cocked her eyebrows as if to say, I bet you thought this was going to be easy, huh? Brian kicked her to the ground. She was twice as tall and three times as heavy as Malarya. Brian realized this and promptly began to pound the shit out of Malarya.
“That’s quite a cute little sword you’ve got there,” said Brian, laughing at Noodle. “But can you actually do anything with it?” Malarya spun around, escaping Brian’s fists, and got to her feet. She grabbed a passing peasant carrying a pile of logs and slit his throat. “Touché,” said Brian, impressed. Malarya sheathed her sword and shook her opponent’s hand. “Who taught a girl like you to fight like that?”
Malarya chuckled to herself. “No one.”
Brian of Fart stood silent and confused.
“Just a joke for myself,” clarified Malarya. “It was these assassins called the Tasteless Men. They say that they strive to become ‘no one,’ so I thought it’d be funny to answer that way.”
Brian of Fart stood silent and clearly bored.
The next morning Littledingle awoke and went straight to the Wintersmells brothel. Waiting outside his room was Malarya, who’d been awake for three days so she could tail him in secret. Malarya didn’t like that Littledingle was in Wintersmells, and not just because she was really racist against people from his region.
When he got to the brothel, Littledingle didn’t solicit any sex but instead lectured the prostitutes on how to be better prostitutes. This is odd, but I suppose it’s kind of nice that he does this, thought Malarya, spying on him from around the corner. It’s sort of a public service he’s providing, I guess? The whores kept offering to have sex with Littledingle, but he just kept yell
ing at them about how they needed to get on top more if they wanted to get repeat customers. He’s being pretty intense about this, thought Malarya. Eventually, the prostitutes begged him to just have sex with them, even for free, if it meant he would stop lecturing about sex, but Littledingle would not budge. Okay, this is getting pretty weird now, thought Malarya as Littledingle screamed about the importance of foreplay until his face turned red. Uncomfortable watching any longer, Malarya left and instead decided to wait outside Littledingle’s room to see what she could learn.
Two hours later, Littledingle returned to his room holding a stack of several books about the male G-spot. Outside his door the maester met him with a small scroll.
“You’re sure this is the only copy?” asked Littledingle. The maester nodded and handed it to him. “Fantastic,” said Littledingle, looking around to see if anyone was watching. Malarya hid behind a wall just in time to escape his gaze. “I SURE HOPE NO ONE SEES THIS SECRET SCROLL!” he shouted. He walked into his room with the scroll, then shortly came back out empty-handed, locked the door, and left. I’ve got to read Littledingle’s secret message that he doesn’t want me to see, she thought.
Malarya studied the lock on Littledingle’s door. A bolted T-lock with three teeth per groove, she thought. I’ve dealt with these many a time before. Malarya busted down the door with one swift kick. She began to snoop around and noticed a basket on Littledingle’s desk labeled “Secret Scroll (Do Not Touch).” Malarya couldn’t help but laugh. What an amateur, she thought. Littledingle thought he could keep this scroll safe from me? Yeah, right. Certainly this is a message Littledingle does NOT want me to read.
Malarya opened the rolled up parchment and read it.
Dear Father (Deaddard Snark),
It’s me: your daughter Pantsa Snark. You are a traitor, and no one is forcing me to write this. Admit that King Jeffy is the real king. I also hate my sister Malarya because I’m a bitch. In the future, if Jon is ever bestowed the title of King in the North, I’m going to be jealous and secretly try to undermine his authority while he is away meeting with the Dragon Queen. These are all my original thoughts, and this scroll has not been doctored. I secretly think Littledingle is cute.
Love,
Pantsa Snark
It’s a very good thing that I found this letter and wholeheartedly believe it, thought Malarya. She took the note and scrawled in her blood on the back, “Pantsa—I’m going to kill you and do treason because of this.—Malarya,” and walked to Pantsa’s room to leave it on her bed.
Pantsa sprinted to Malarya’s room as soon as she read the note. She was furious. “Malarya! Your stinking note got blood on my bed! That is so gross and not okay!” she shouted, banging on the door. “Also the threats you made against my life and Wintersmells were bad as well,” she said, deciding to enter the room. Malarya, however, was not there. How curious.
Pantsa looked around. She saw knives and swords and blades and knives, but what caught her attention was a bag sticking out from under the bed. She opened it up and found countless faces stacked on top of each other, all with labels attached to them: a messed up face labeled “Dad,” an extremely fat boy’s face labeled “Pie Bitch,” dozens of faces labeled “Fuck Family Faces,” a ginger face labeled “Internationally Renowned Singer-Songwriter Ed Sheeran,” hundreds of faces labeled “Random Vagrant,” a face that was just a label by itself that said “The Faceless Man,” a face from a horse, a face from a bartender, and a face that was long.
“Gross,” said Pantsa.
“Gross, indeed, m’lady,” said Littledingle, suddenly appearing and pressing his lips to Pantsa’s ear so she could hear his secret whispers. “Perhaps even, too gross.” He quickly flicked his tongue into her ear.
“Oh. Hi, Littledingle,” said Pantsa, wiping his saliva from her ear like usual. “What do you think is going on with Malarya?”
Littledingle began to massage her shoulders. “Sometimes, when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game. I come up with any reason possible to justify that they are guilty of a crime, no matter how far-fetched the reason is. Then I ask myself, ‘Can I convince other people of this, despite how far-fetched it is?’”
“Doesn’t that seem unfair?” asked Pantsa, applying a repulsive perfume that she carried around for when Littledingle was touching her.
“Perhaps,” said Littledingle. “But if we use the logic on your sister, would she be innocent… or guilty?”
“I suppose guilty.”
“Exactly. Now what do you say we go to my room and play pretend, eh? I’ll be king of Westopolis and you’ll be my queen.”
“No, that’s okay. You should do that without me.”
As the two exited the room, Littledingle kept trying to convince her to play pretend with him. No matter how fun and educational he said it would be, Pantsa still refused and then lied about being late for a meeting and having to go.
“But I schedule all your meetings!” said Littledingle.
“You pretzel all my beefings? Sorry, can’t hear you clearly, gotta go,” said Pantsa, two feet away from Littledingle. She darted out to the courtyard. Littledingle hung his head and meandered around Wintersmells whistling tunes of sad country songs about heartache.
Phew, thought Malarya, dropping down to the floor. I’m glad I leapt up and clung to the ceiling just as I heard Pantsa about to walk in, all the while holding an assortment of loose fruit. For a second there, I was sure I was going to drop a few kiwis onto Littledingle and give myself up, but luckily I stuck my foot out at the perfect moment to catch them. Man, oh man. And no way did I think I could balance that pineapple on the back of my head while it had three oranges resting on top of it. But I made it work. And when I started sweating and it all collected on the tip of my nose and it was about to drop onto Pantsa? I thought that was game over for sure, but then I was able to sort of snort it into my nose and not have them hear me because of that crow that squawked outside. Boy, oh boy, are my arms tired.
The Wintersmells Great Hall was abuzz with hundreds of spectators. At the head table sat Pantsa and Bland looking somber. Two soldiers escorted Malarya into the room.
“We are gathered here today,” began Pantsa, “to kill someone who is a threat to the North.” Littledingle couldn’t help but smile as he looked at Malarya Snark. His plan had worked. With one little forged note, he was able to turn the Snark girls against each other. Pantsa stood up and faced Malarya. “You stand accused of treason, murder, and attempted murder”—she abruptly shifted to face Littledingle—“Lord Balehead.”
“Huh?” said Littledingle.
“Look at your face!” exclaimed Malarya. “Everyone look at his face. Look at how bad we got him. That face! You got GOT!” She began to do a mocking high-pitched squeak. “‘Oooh, I’m Littledingle, and my plan worked and now they’re going to kill Malarya.’ IDIOT!” The room erupted in laughter. “Me and Pantsa met up and figured all this stuff out,” said Malarya. “We just didn’t include it in the book so there’d be a twist when we actually reveal that this is a trial for you.”
“I, ummmm, I, uhhh.” Littledingle’s face was priceless. He really did look like a fucking idiot.
“You didn’t just pit me and Malarya against each other. You betrayed our father, Deaddard Snark, and assisted in his killing,” said Pantsa. “Do you deny it?”
“Of course I deny it!” shouted Littledingle, his voice cracking. “None of you were there, so I’m innocent.”
Bland rolled his eyes back as they turned pink and crusted over. Suddenly he could see the past, and he was there. “You told him he was ol’ ‘Iron Neck’ Snark,” said Bland. The room fell silent.
Littledingle froze and clammed up like a frozen clam.
Bland continued. “You told our father that he was ol’ ‘Iron Neck’ Snark and that there was nothing a sword could ever do to harm him.”
“Pantsa,” said Littledingle, “you must believe me.”
“You knew he did
not have an iron neck,” said Bland. “But you still convinced him to go in front of the sword because you wanted him dead. You conspired with the Bangsisters to have him killed, and then you had him present his own neck for decapitation. And the whole time he thought his neck was too strong to be cut… all because of you.”
“Pantsa, please,” whispered Littledingle. “Forgive me.”
Malarya approached him with a knife. “Don’t worry, Littledingle. You’re ol’ ‘Copper Throat,’” she joked. “This here dagger won’t hurt you.” Malarya cut his throat with a surprising level of difficulty. Damn, he may really be ol’ “Copper Throat,” she thought.
Littledingle held his neck shut with his hands to try to stop the bleeding. “Pantsa, please. I’m sorry.” This fool won’t die fast enough, thought Malarya. She plunged her sword through his heart. Try to keep talking after that.
“Pantsa, forgive me,” said Littledingle, standing right back up. “I really thought he was ol’ ‘Iron Neck,’ okay? This is a huge misunderstanding.”
You just don’t know how to stay down, do you? thought Malarya. She cut a rope that dropped an anvil hung in the rafters right onto Littledingle’s head. It squashed him straight into the floor. Crushed underneath the anvil lay his mangled body, his brain splattered on both sides.
“Pantsa, pleeeeease,” said a muffled voice from underneath the anvil. “I think we can really work this out if we just have a mature conversation. Can I speak to you one-on-one about this? Again, I’m so very sorry.”
So that’s how it’s going to be, eh? thought Malarya. Good luck speaking with no mouth, head, throat, lungs, or voice box! She cut each of the parts out of his body and diced them into bits with her sword. My work is done here.
Littledingle’s hand shot up and began to make spastic signs. “It’s sign language,” said the maester from the crowd. “He says, ‘Pantsa, I beg for your forgiveness. Stop. Let’s just sit down like grown adults and work this out. Stop. I’m sorry. Stop. Please. Stop. I’m sorry. Stop. Sorry. Stop. Sincerely, Littledingle. Full Stop.’”
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