-1-

Encyclopedia GRRuMbliana

-2-

The first and only complete compendium of all, that is known of the Gurm continent. Collected by our field scientists: Oliveira8 Jjh Porkins Slynt SilentMajority Scorpiknox Krafus Iblis Sweetmartin Myrddin Spannerx Vonlent Annan Curiousorange Valardoheris The Adequate Jon Kehn r. r. nonymous Mir8212 Montage Darkgreen Flodros Aussiechris Lori Petty Geshtar Darkies22 Darkgreen Wulfred Rex Graff Revolvery Paslaugh Atrasicarius Job Fish

In the Year 15 of the new Gurm calender Anno 2011

-3-

Content:
Content: ...................................................................................................................................... 4 History ....................................................................................................................................... 6 The Funding Of The Brave Companions............................................................................. 6 Recent Events......................................................................................................................... 8 The Trial: The People vs. George R. R. Martin ............................................................ 8 Prophesies............................................................................................................................ 19 Population ................................................................................................................................ 24 GRRiMlins ......................................................................................................................... 24 Captain Hodor Caput Hodoreus ...................................................................................... 24 RetortGaiman-Rex RespondeoGaiman-Rex .................................................................. 25 Sircle Jerk (alt. spelling: Sercle Jerk) Sircularium jerkus ........................................... 26 The Holy Reader Librus Sanctus ................................................................................... 27 Parrot Proxy Repeatus Prolificus ................................................................................. 28 Wildcard GRRlemming Sycophanta Grrmartinus Enthusiasticus ................................ 29 Patient Martyr (common: Wait Watcher) Capacitus Sactimonia .................................... 31 The Blame Runner Cursor Culpa .................................................................................. 34 The Pencil of Late-Afternoon Post Meridiem Pencillus ............................................... 36 Poser Wannabes Speakmany bullshitus ......................................................................... 38 Eager Host Invitus ad nauseum...................................................................................... 39 Pseudo Scientist HocusPocus Dyscalculus.................................................................... 40 The Madden Martin Sports- it's in the blog ................................................................... 43 Know It All Knowitallus Annoyicus .............................................................................. 45 The Opinion Zombie ........................................................................................................ 46 The Lemming annoyus furryus ....................................................................................... 48 The Cruddlers Vomitus bootlickidus................................................................................ 49 Progeny Braggart Sffmoniker Inflictus ........................................................................ 50 GRRuMblers ...................................................................................................................... 51 Scorpiknox ....................................................................................................................... 51 Paslaugh .......................................................................................................................... 51 Moose ............................................................................................................................... 51 Slynt ................................................................................................................................ 52 Kael Edin ......................................................................................................................... 52 Robotosaur ....................................................................................................................... 52 Flodros............................................................................................................................. 52 RolandOFGilead............................................................................................................. 53 scottishtroy ........................................................................................................................ 53 silentmajority .................................................................................................................... 53 Annan ............................................................................................................................... 54 Graff ................................................................................................................................. 54 kehnonymous .................................................................................................................... 54 jjh ...................................................................................................................................... 55 aussiechris ........................................................................................................................ 55 morandir ........................................................................................................................... 55 saucerhead ......................................................................................................................... 56 darkgreen .......................................................................................................................... 56 -4-

Geshtar ............................................................................................................................. 57 Rex ................................................................................................................................... 57 Darkies22......................................................................................................................... 58 Wulfred............................................................................................................................. 58 Culture and Art ........................................................................................................................ 59 Novels .................................................................................................................................. 59 A Feast For Trolls ......................................................................................................... 60 A Dance With Detractors............................................................................................... 150 Newspapers and Periodicals ............................................................................................. 182 Poetry................................................................................................................................. 184 Christmas Carols ........................................................................................................... 184 Haikus ............................................................................................................................ 190 Everything Else .............................................................................................................. 199 Graphic Art and Paintings................................................................................................. 200 Movies ................................................................................................................................ 222 Language................................................................................................................................ 223 GRRM/GRRiMlin - to - English Translator .............................................................. 223 Currency ................................................................................................................................. 231 The Food................................................................................................................................ 232 Leo Tyrell: Stuffed Roast Pork with Plum Sauce .......................................................... 232 Robotosaur Hot Spiced Wine ......................................................................................... 233 Cersei: Herb-crusted Pike ................................................................................................. 234 Arianne Martell: Stuffed Grape Leaves ............................................................................ 235 Daenerys: Honeyed Duck with Orange Peppers ............................................................... 237 Jon: Mutton Stew ............................................................................................................. 239 Arya: Pumpkin Soup ........................................................................................................ 240 Sansa: Salad, Snails and Clay-baked Trout ................................................................... 241 Jjh - Sansa: Lemon Cakes ............................................................................................... 243 Jon: Roast Lamb Rack With A Crust Of Herbs ............................................................. 244 Tyrion: Oxtail Soup, Summer Greens Salad, Crab Pie, Sqash and Butter Quails..... 245 Tyrion: Goose Stuffed ... With Mulberry Sauce and ... ................................................... 248 Bran: A Feast At Winterfell, Part I: Venison Pie ......................................................... 249 Bran: A Feast At Winterfell, Part II: Honeyed Mutton Chops .................................... 250 Bran: A Feast At Winterfell, Part III: Roast Pigeon ................................................. 251 Geshtar - Generic Westeros Stew for the Smallfolk ........................................................ 252 Renly's Tourney, Part I: Tiny Fish in Salt Crust ........................................................ 253 Renly's Tourney, Part II: Venison stewed in Beer ........................................................ 254 Arya: Mutton With Mushrooms ........................................................................................ 255 Tyrion: Gammon Steaks ................................................................................................... 256 Tyrion: Something Dornish with Onion, Cheese and Eggs ............................................. 257 Tyrion: Pork Tenderloin in Puff Pastry ......................................................................... 258 Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course I: Creamy Soup of Mushrooms and Buttered Snails................................................................................................................................. 259 Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course II: Pastry Coffin with Pork, Egg and Pine Nuts ............................................................................................................................................ 260 Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course III: Intermezzo ................................................... 261 Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course IV: Almond Crusted Trout .................................. 263 Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course V: Roast Heron .................................................... 264 -5-

History
The Funding Of The Brave Companions
Recorded by silentmajority
This is the first part of what I hope will eventually become: "The History of IsWinterComing" , or an IsWinterComing Wiki. Granted it won't be on Wikipedia, but maybe it can get it's own special place here, or at the very least, I'll give it its own page over at GRRuMblers. My thought is that if everyone explains how they got here we can piece together a pretty accurate "History of" post. I can't do this myself because my memory isn't that good, so I'm going to rely on many of you for help. This request also goes out to all the lurkers here, some of whom have been reading since the very beginning. Set aside your "lurking" label for at least one day, and tell us how you found this forum. __________

I came late to the "GRRM-Wait-A-Thon". I had finished A Storm of Swords about a month before A Feast for Crow was released, and when it was, I purchased it immediately. When I buy a book, I always leaf through it first, and read the dedications, acknowledgments and stuff of that nature, and because of that, I immediately discovered George's "disclaimer" in the back. My expectations for the book changed because of that discovery, so I probably enjoyed the book more so than others. Shawn Speakman has went on record saying that people "dislike" Feast because it lacked everyones favorite characters, but I disagree. When I first picked up A Game of Thrones I had no favorite characters, but I still enjoyed the novel because it had interesting characters and an intriguing story. In Feast we get new characters and new POV's; however, I didn't find these characters interesting. If those characters were in a brand new series, separate from ASoIaF, I'd still find them uninteresting. So no matter how you spin it, even though Feast is still better than most fantasy published today, there was still a large drop off in quality compared to what George had published before. I still think his little "disclaimer" should have been on one of the first pages in the book. Regardless we were only one year removed from the publication of A Dance with Dragons. My wait was just beginning, but for many others it must have felt like it never ended. After all they had already waited 5-years for their favorite characters, rushed out for Feast only to discover that they weren't in the book at all. Only a promise saying, "I'm almost done, just wait a little longer". This was also the time that George's Not-a-blog went online. You can read my summary in all it's bloated glory here, or my preferred edited version over at GRRuMblers. Up until this point, I had only followed Robert Jordan's blog, but now I checked George's "Not A" blog every day, eagerly anticipating his announcement. I wasn't always disgruntled, and I've never actually "hated" George, but after a couple years I did grow frustrated with him. Seriously, you would think that after being tardy for several years, he could at the very least, post a "small update" every once and a while. February 2009, after having read George's To My Detractors speech, I sat down and

-6-

wrote an analogy about the wait. I was planning on posting it over at Westeros, or another forum that I frequented, but I decided not to because even then dissent wasn't welcome. Instead of posting it, I decided just to store it on my computer. It was written, more or less just for me anyways. Along the way, I stumbled upon Finish the Book George, that was a true discovery, and I have either Adam or Pat to thank for that because they were the ones who linked to FTBG. Until then, it had never occurred to me that there was a growing sense of frustration out there. From there on out, I would visit the NAB, FTBG, and The Slothenly Author. On January 25, 2010, KrKeuk posted this on his blog:

Quote:
FTBG reader Slynt has created a message board for people to discuss George's tardy writing. I'll probably join up here sometime soon when I get a chance. Check it out: http://slynt.proboards.com/index.cgi

You'll notice that the URL is different, and that's because this is the second forum. Originally, the forum was known as the Forum of the Brave Companions. From here on out, I'll refer to the old board as the Slynt Boards. To be 100% honest, the Slynt boards in the beginning, were closer to the "Something Awful" thread than what your probably used to reading here. Now the reason for that I think, is because before the Slynt boards there was really no place to go to express your frustration. Blogs aren't the ideal place to have conversations, and all the fantasy forums shunned, and sometimes banned people who expressed frustration. One of my first memories was that Slynt was really, really mad. Why you may ask, and what happened to the old Slynt boards? That, my friends, is a story for others to tell. I dug up that old analogy, that had been sitting on my computer for close to a year, and revised it a little. I was somewhat reluctant to post it because of the courser nature of the forum, I wasn't sure how it would be received. After all it seemed a little out of place next to thread titles such as, "Does Ty Suck George's Dick?". A lot of the people who posted back then no longer post here...that too is a story for others to tell. I decided that if I was ever going to post my analogy this was the only place to post it. I feel like I'm good at naming my articles, but I've never been able to come up with a good one for this post. You can read Imagine if ASoIaF was a restaurant at GRRuMblers. I still can't decide if it should be "was a restaurant" or "were a restaurant", either way I still think this is one of the better articles that I've written. I remember that Oliveira was the first to respond with this: (Click on the Thumbnail) Despite what many people say about this forum, it is a pretty tight-knit and polite community. Some people will scoff at that for sure, and point to the Shawn Speakman, GRRM threads as proof of our intolerance. The truth is that we police ourselves, we like to debate, but we don't harass. Aside from the one person that we had to ban, there really has never been a flamewar on this site. On the old Slynt boards we probably had the most polite discussion about whether God did or did not exist. Why was that? Perhaps it was because there was a certain amount of respect for each member of the forum. I think that about says it all about the people here.

Read more:

-7-

Recent Events
The Trial: The People vs. George R. R. Martin
A Decade has gone by and theres no end in sight a compilation of all evidence that Not-An-Author has other priorities than ASoIaF. Slynt: in comment of To My Detractors: (If you are not one of my detractors, this is not about you. Thanks for your support).I have to admit, the rising tide of venom about the lateness of A DANCE WITH DRAGONS has gotten pretty discouraging. Emails, message boards, blogs, LJ comments, everywhere I look (and lots of places where I don't), people seem to be attacking me, defending me, using me as a bad example of something or other, whatever. Evidence: He knows that people are (over)eager about "ADWD" yet he seldom gives any updates, and if he does, they are annoyingly vague. I can and do avoid most of the online discussions, although I do regularly get emails from people eager to point out the latest URL where DANCE and I are being hashed over. I can do that, and I can screen the trollish comments here on LJ, but there's no avoiding the emails. Evidence: Shows no interest in an honest discussion, which if he was honestly working as best as he could, wouldn't be a problem. Some of you are angry about the miniatures, the swords, the resin busts, the games. You don't want me "wasting time" on those, or talking about them here. Evidence: He admits he knows it is a problem yet he continues to flog his merch. Some of you are angry that I watch football during the fall. You don't want me "wasting time" on the NFL, or talking about it here. Some of you hate my other projects. You don't want me co-editing WARRIORS or the Vance anthology or STAR-CROSSED LOVERS or any of the other projects I'm doing with my old friend Gardner Dozois, and you get angry when I post about them here. For reasons I don't quite comprehend, the people who hate those projects seem to hate WILD CARDS even more. You really don't want me working on that, "wasting time" on that, and posting about it here. Evidence: He admits to not comprehending why Wild Cards is his most hated project. Which I take as him having no fucking clue as to what that particular series of books actually have become: A symbol of the decline of his relationship with his fans. Some of you don't want me attending conventions, teaching workshops, touring and doing promo, or visiting places like Spain and Portugal (last year) or Finland (this year). More wasting time, when I should be home working on A DANCE WITH DRAGONS. Evidence: GRRM believes fans don't want him to do his "other stuff" while the point is fans want him to prioritize ADWD before his other stuff. After all, as some of you like to point out in your emails, I am sixty years old and fat, and you don't want me to "pull a Robert Jordan" on you and deny you your book.

-8-

Okay, I've got the message. You don't want me doing anything except A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE. Ever. (Well, maybe it's okay if I take a leak once in a while?) Evidence: Considering all that has followed since this post, GRRM has NOT gotten the message.

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=433#ixz z1C3jhsiLE

-9-

Fish From 1996-2010 Quotes and Other Facts In the beginning, there was a small boy (GRRM)(4) porkins dug out that one ... alas, can't find the thread so the link above is to the original site. It has a little tear there somewhere ... 1996, November 21st: About The Finishing Date of ASoIaF - the complete series Quote:
If I stay on schedule, I ought to finsish A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE by the end of 1998

1999, March 18th: The complete number of books ASoIaF shall have Quote:
I have changed twice. Once from three to four, then four to six. But IT ENDS THERE! SIX! SIX! SIX!

2001: Interview and Travel-Plans Quote:

George's future plans include appearing at the Boskone (Mass.) conference in February, and he will also be at Worldcon in Philadelphia come Labor Day. See the links to both on his website. He is currently working on A DANCE WITH DRAGONS, book four in the SONG OF ICE AND FIRE series.

2001, April 11th: The Night Is Dark And Full Of Terrors Quote:
And sorry, book No. 4, "The Dance with Dragons" is only a few months along. Devotees of his mythical world will just have to wait.

2001, November 30th(2) Quote:

Book four is now titled A FEAST FOR CROWS. It should be out in fall, 2002. A DANCE FOR DRAGONS will be book five.

2002, September 22nd(2) Quote:

I'M SORRY. IT'S NOT DONE YET.

2002, September 27th(2) The Dance With Detractors begins ... Quote:
Book four is now titled A FEAST FOR CROWS. I am still writing it. I don't know when it will be out, and neither does anyone else. Please stop emailing me to ask. The very minute the book is done and delivered, I will announce it here.

2003, February 12th(2) Quote:

STILL SORRY. STILL NOT DONE YET.

2003, December 27th(2) Quote:

YES, I'M STILL WORKING ON IT. HONEST.

- 10 -

Please note that the first page on the archives dates as of 20031227 - the date in the post, however is January 2004. So, he has occasionally been editing the date ... 2004, June 16th: On The Progress ... of AFfC Quote:
MORE PAGES. STILL NOT DONE. ALAS, ALAS.

2005, May 29th: Miracles Quote:

It's Done!!!

- make sure you click on the link named '*sort of'.

Quote:
As for me, I am getting back to work. There's good news on that front too -- A DANCE WITH DRAGONS is half-done!!!

A New Age begins and we get more insight on what HE is actually (not) doing: 2005-2009 Meanwhile, on NAB 2006, October 17th Quote:
I have half a dozen different projects on my plate, but the big one is A DANCE WITH DRAGONS, and I am going to be pushing hard on that in the weeks and months to come, in hopes of wrapping it up by the end of the year

There is more - read this thread carefully. 2002-2010, His Dark Conventions and Holidays In this thread Lori Petty has kept a journal of HIS (dis)appearences. thejewgernaut made a summary ... to be continued. Year 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 Events 7 8 5 7 3 7 Days 37 25 15 28 53 36
(3)

2007, March 7th to 2010, July 22nd - His Watergate Affair Ever wondered what all this 'waterlogged' merchandise jokes are about? valardohaeris summed it up ... 2009, February 19th - Name The Child: Detractor Quote:

- 11 -

I have to admit, the rising tide of venom about the lateness of A DANCE WITH DRAGONS has gotten pretty discouraging

2009, Febuary 20th - The Bear and The Maiden Fair(1) Quote:
More than four hundred comments on the DWD posting, and more every time I glance at it. I can hardly keep up with the unscreening.

2010, Five Years After ... AFfC 5 years is a long time ... want to know what we've been doing? We have a real live, you know? 2010, HIS Online Reservations(1) Slynt summarised all the entries of NAB that actually have to do with ADWD. This covers 2010.

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=433#ixz z1C3kkPTlL

- 12 -

Geshtar - The 2008 Pizza Crawl Event Do a content search (Cltrl F) with the word pizza and you'll get there. George began by musing about a "pizza crawl" on his blog, inviting one and all, and even stating "the more the merrier." However, logistics quickly spiraled out of control and delegation was in order. This ordeal is a classic example of how George treats his fans. Pimp this whole deal out, then dump the planning on the locals, then call out some poor dude by name and make him be in charge of the clusterfuck, then bail out of it? As a former fraternity vice president, this brings back a lot of bad memories. Guys would show up to events like this unannounced, w/ girlfriends/random people, not pay their share, and leave the last poor sod at the end of the bill (usually me) hanging in the wind and having to cover their asses while dealing with an angry waitress/manager. And George's idea of everyone paying equal in part to the total sum is so brilliant and amazing I got to give him props. (People are weasels. Someone would order a whole pie then duck out to bring it home "Oh yeah, just in to say hi, gotta bring dinner back to the fam," some would just simply get out of line and not pay, maybe someone ordered three pints of 6$ Guiness on draft, etc.) Yeah, george, some of us have to live in the real world. I know you haven't lived there for a long time so you can't be arsed to do something like, I dunno, set up the event you started yourself instead of letting us poor peons do it for you. I think he straight up lied about being sick. He simply realized he stepped in a huge steaming pile of dog shit of his own creation and said fuck it, let the peasant folk deal. If you can stomach the disgusting ass-kissing in the comments, there are a few gems. here's one from Parris: this is Parris I don't have an LJ account, so please bear with me if I violate any rules of posting. I'd like to apologize for the cancellation of the pizza crawl, but George is just too dang sick to travel today, let alone indulge in the greasy goodness of many slices. He tried to get up and prepare for travel this morning, but he's just too weak. He feels very guilty that there's so many folks who were looking forward to this evening and he's been felled by a mere virus. If he doesn't get notably better by this afternoon, don't worry, I will have the hotel send a doctor up to check him out. I promise the next time he's in this part of the country he'll do his best to re-organize the Pizza Crawl. If you have any contact information for other people who were planning on coming to the crawl, please let them know immediately of the cancellation. I know there were people coming from far and wide, and I would hate for them to get to New Haven and find no other GRRM/pizza fans waiting outside the Modern or whatever. We were both looking forward to meeting more friends, and enjoying many slices of great pizza, and send our apologies and regrets to all. Parris Isn't that big of them, having the peons contact the peons and letting them know the event is now off, and that they're "sad" and feel "guilty."

- 13 -

And one from the peasant George appointed as the M.C. of the pizza crawl: CANCELLATION: e-mail and pizza I've sent out an e-mail to as many people as I could (hopefully). I still plan to leave my place at 2:30 and head to Pepe's and Modern to make sure that people know the bad news.

-Zen Blade (Dennis)

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=433#ixz z1C3nNOROx

- 14 -

Revolvery (and Job) Missed Predictions

This compilation was done by user "Job" over at the Brooks forum, who only made two posts. But this is a very effective documentation of George's missed predictions dating back to 2005. Fish's recent digging around could probably supplement this with pre-2005 predictions. It all began with back in May 2005 with Its Done *sort of http://www.georgerrmartin.com/done.html Feast had grown to big, and GRRM had decided to split it in 2 by POVs. We would get Feast, and -- A DANCE WITH DRAGONS is half-done!!! This was later followed up with his, now infamous, prologue in AFFC promising ADWD next year. So we are waiting for ADWD in 2006. Book done: 2006 New update in January 2006. Some interesting facts here, including the number of pages already done and his intentions of picking up some of the character from Feast. http://web.archive.org/web/20060325212236/www.georgerrmartin.com/nextbook.html Book done: 2006. No more info is forthcoming and his loyal fans soon realize that a 2006 release is out of the question. 2006 is coming to its end, and we are still waiting. In October GRRM decides to update us again. I have half a dozen different projects on my plate, but the big one is A DANCE WITH DRAGONS, and I am going to be pushing hard on that in the weeks and months to come, in hopes of wrapping it up by the end of the year. http://grrm.livejournal.com/2006/10/17/ Book done: by end of 2006 In October we also got a new official update. http://web.archive.org/web/20061231003241/www.georgerrmartin.com/if-update.html Albeit a little bit careful with his wording, GRRM still believe he may make it before years end. That is actually only 2 months. He MUST be very close. Everybody rejoices, even if the book is already delayed. Done by end of 2006 As we all know, GRRM didnt finish it by the end of the year. His fans are kept waiting with baited breath. Remember how close he was before Christmas. In February 2007 we get a new official release, one and a half month later than promised. http://web.archive.org/web/20070601185012/www.georgerrmartin.com/if-update.html This is the George we know and love. It seems like George have learned, as we dont get a new deadline. On the other hand, we dont get a ____ off this will take years attitude, so the fans are kept relative optimistic. As a fun fact I found a prediction from Werthead, the webs greatest GRRM expert and apologizer, from March 2007: Optimistic Mood: October/November 2007 (UK/US release) Cynical Mood: March/April 2008 Book done: Soon The fans are hoping he will be done before going to Japan. In June we get this: http://grrm.livejournal.com/2007/06/25/ The writing is not going as fast as he hoped for, and he may have to skip Worldcon. At this point he wasn't positive that he would have to skip Worldcon, so we were all thinking that even if he missed Worldcon he would definitely be done by the end of the year.

- 15 -

2007 goes by. While GRRM mentions ADWD now and then on his NAB, we dont get any new estimates. In January 2008, we finally get a new official update (which also is his last): http://georgerrmartin.com/if-update.html Book done : Before leaving on the European trip (end of June) GRRM is still confident he can do it by end of June. That is just 3 months http://grrm.livejournal.com/2008/03/17/ Book done : End of June,2008 And a new post, confirming the end of June 2008 date http://grrm.livejournal.com/2008/04/13/ Just a few months left. This must be it. June 25th,2008. Our hopes are dashed. No, I didn't finish the novel, though not for want of trying. Nothing to be done about that but push on when I return. http://grrm.livejournal.com/48068.html No new estimate, but he was sooo close. February 2009. Time for a new done by June post. GRRM is not happy. It seems some people are sending him nasty e-mails. What is Ty doing, anyway ? http://grrm.livejournal.com/74995.html Book done : June 2009. June 2009 "In an interview with Finnish website Helsingin Sanomat, GRRM has said he hopes now to finish ADWD by the end of the year and to complete The Winds of Winter in three years. Book done : End of 2009. In 2010 the buzz is stronger than ever. GRRM post optimistic posts on NAB, his editors is excepting the manuscript soon. Wert spreads a rumour that GRRM was "disappointed not to have finished the book before attending Clarion". As we now know, he didn't finish before his World Tours. Now it's 5 chapters left and finish before end of year. Have we heard this before ? I'm pretty sure he will miss this dead-line also

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=433#ixz z1C3o4Af3l

- 16 -

Graff All His Side Projects Editor: Wild Cards: Death Draws Five (2006) Wild Cards: Inside Straight (2008) Wild Cards: Busted Flush (2008) Wild Cards: Suicide Kings (2009) Songs of Love and Death (2010) Wild Cards: Fort Freak (upcoming) Editor & Contributor: Songs of the Dying Earth (2009) Warriors (2010) Down These Strange Streets (upcoming) Contributor: Hunter's Run (2007) Suvudu Cage Match (2010) Television Credits (story, creator, producer, audition-tape reviewer): A Game of Thrones (2009-present) The Skin Trade (upcoming) Television Credits (teleplay): A Game of Thrones pilot (filmed 2009 & 2010) A Game of Thrones Episode 8 (filmed 2010) The Skin Trade (upcoming) ---I don't know how involved Martin is with the following. Typically these are done "in collaboration with George RR Martin" or somesuch but I suppose that could mean anything from daily phone calls to merely signing off on the project when it's done. Reissues: The Ice Dragon (2006) Dreamsongs (2006 & 2007) Wild Cards I (2010) Comic Adaptations: The Adventures of Dune & Egg II: The Sworn Sword (2009) Wild Cards: The Hard Call (2010) Fevre Dream (2010) Doorways (upcoming) RPGs: Wild Cards Campaign Setting (2008) SIFRP Quick-Start by Green Ronin (2008) Wild Cards: All-In (2009?) SIFRP rulebook (2009) Peril at King's Landing (2009) Wedding Knight (2009) A Song of Ice and Fire Campaign Guide (2010) Wild Cards: Aces and Jokers (2010) ASoIaF Chronicle Starter (upcoming) Computer Games: A Game of Thrones RTS (upcoming) A Game of Thrones RPG (upcoming)

- 17 -

Miniatures: Testor Ruby Ford diorama 2006 Valyrian Resin busts/statues (2007-present) Dark Sword Miniatures (2007-present) Replica Valyrian Valyrian Valyrian Valyrian Swords: Steel Longclaw (2008) Steel Needle (2010) Steel Damascus SE Longclaw (2010) Steel Ice (upcoming)

ETA: Calendars: Ice and Fire 2009 Calendar (2008) Ice and Fire 2011 Calendar (2010) Ice and Fire 2012 Calendar (upcoming) Coffee Table Books: World of Ice and Fire (upcoming, largely done before AFfC IIRC)

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=433#ixz z1C3pqh6GY

- 18 -

Prophesies
(submitted by jjh)
ADWD Completion Date Predictions SUMMARY IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER (as of January 24, 2011)

--------------------------------------- 2010 ----------------------------------------

curveball21 -> July 31, 2010

lazaegal -> August 12, 2010 Lori Petty -> "one week from today" i.e., August 15, 2010 jjh -> August 27, 2010 marktheshark -> August 29, 2010

iblis -> September 23, 2010 Annan -> September 28, 2010

scorp -> October 10, 2010 roland -> October 15, 2010 mordan -> October 31, 2010

Rex -> November 8, 2010 moose -> November 19, 2010

Rex -> December 9, 2010

silentmajority -> December 12, 2010 belwasballs -> December 21, 2010

- 19 -

james -> December 23, 2010 flowered -> before or around the time Slynt finishes his 10th reread (December 2010) logan -> before January 1, 2011

------------------------------------- 2011 -------------------------------------darkgreen -> January 1, 2011 robotosaur -> winter 2010-11 (heart)

moose -> February 2011 (2) weniusa -> February 2, 2011 blueknight -> within 3 weeks (i.e., by Feb. 10) chart123 -> February 14, 2011 Rex -> February 14, 2011 (6) krafus -> February 19, 2011 The Adequate Jon -> February 27, 2011 robotosaur -> February 28, 2011

aussiechris -> March 2011 serlardmartin -> March 2011 (2) Lori Petty -> half of split book done March 1, 2011 (4) jjh -> March 6, 2011 unless Suvudu has another "Cage Match"(2) moose -> March 9, 2011 (3) fatandlazy -> March 22, 2011 flodros -> March 26, 2011 fish -> March 31, 2011

Lori Petty -> April 2011 fetfnask -> April 1, 2011 splitter -> April 1, 2011 jjh ->April 6 2011 if Suvudu has another "Cage Match" (2)

- 20 -

paslaugh/Enjoys Having Written -> April 15, 2011

(HBO Premiere, April 17, 2011) scorp -> probably timed to coincide with the HBO premier (2) peepin -> in time for a release coinciding with the HBO premier

silentmajority -> May 1, 2011 (2) serkenneth -> May 12, 2011

Amazon.com -> in time for an October 14, 2011 release (Note: So estimated completion announcement would be around June.?)

curiousorange -> June 4, 2011 scorp -> June 6, 2011 (3) sofakingdone -> June 16-19, 2011 Lori Petty -> June 30, 2011 (2)

Rex -> his birthday (July 1, 2011 ?)

Altraum -> October 7, 2011

Lori Petty -> November 20, 2011 (3)

saucerhead -> late 2011 or early 2012

------------------------------------ 2012 -------------------------------------

darkies22 -> 2012 KrKreuk -> 2012 missedgreyjoy -> 2012

- 21 -

graff -> sometime in 2012 during his not-yet-begun reread of AFfC

serlardmartin -> July 1, 2012

Amazon.com -> in time for a December 25, 2012 release (2) (Note: So estimated completion announcement around August)

grrmismyidol -> December 5, 2012 shafty -> December 21, 2012 mordan -> December 21, 2012 (2) brnmajik -> December 21, 2012 (all these Dec. 21 guesses should probably be in the wiseass category, but I never did study that Mayan stuff very carefully, so who am I to judge) darkies22 -> December 24, 2012

------------------------------------- beyond/never/wiseass -------------------------------------

Rex -> tonight oliveira8 -> "tonights the night"

job -> (((SOON))) jjh ->(((soon)))

scorp -> February 14, 2016

Lori Petty - April 1, 2020

Rex -> June 1, 2031

Barnes & Noble -> in time for a 2035 release

- 22 -

scorp -> 2525

belwasballs -> a month after George drops dead

silentmajority -> timed to coincide with the premier of the fifth season of the HBO show

roland -> when the Chiefs win the Super Bowl (2)

somewhat -> 30 minutes before the nuclear holocaust

jaquelecaque -> when Hell freezes over

scorp -> as soon as all detractor web sites close (3)

darkgreen -> likely never robotosaur -> maybe never (brain) KrKreuk -> possibly never Slynt -> never chuckels -> never

------------------------------- wtf/Speakman Calendar ---------------------------------------kehnon -> September 31, 2010 SC -> February 6, 2009 SC (2) Doug Piranha -> February 29, 2011 SC

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=251&pa ge=10#ixzz1C2vtcxvX

- 23 -

Population
GRRiMlins
Description of the species of GRRiMlins

Captain Hodor Caput Hodoreus

By Oliveira8

This GRRiMlin will see patterns and hidden messages whenever Martin updates his blog. 99% of the time there is no pattern or hidden message. As you know, some characters in the books believe that Hodor is actually saying something important, and not just some random name/word/noise. Hence why this specie is called Captain Hodor. Based off the famous Captain Obvious, this GRRiMlin states the Hodor, by trying to find hints of intelligence behind Martins random blog updates. Sometimes this GRRiMlin will take the extra mile and distort Martin's words and start a chain reaction that will fool people caught unaware.

Field Reports: Martin: "The Meereenese Knot....may be fraying, just a little." GRRiMlin: "I wonders if the play is on words. Is there a Fray in the knot, or is there a Frey in the knot? After re-reading Feist methinks the Ironborn are the cause of the knot and not the Freys. So, instead of a Fray perhaps it's a Steel knot which would require a torch...would a dragon do?"

How can I find this GRRiMlin? This GRRiMlin can usually be found on Not a Blog, most of the time you can see them lurking around updates about ADwD. You can spot them by their own ridiculous and sometimes you will see Martin calling them out.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? The Captain Hodor is quite the elusive GRRiMlin. You know his talk is bullshit, but after so long without a book you might find mentally weak. The best way to fend off the Captain Hodor is to replace all of his text with the word "Hodor" and then compare the Hodor text with the non-Hodor text. If both texts make sense, then you have a Captain Hodor in your hands. Ignore him or preform a facepalm, but whatever you do, walk away.

- 24 -

RetortGaimanRetortGaiman-Rex RespondeoGaimanRespondeoGaiman-Rex
By Oliveira8

This GRRiMlin will use Neil Gaiman's "witty" line "GRRM is not your bitch" every time an opportunity appears. It's usually also followed by incoherent babbling cause their tiny skulls can only contain such knowledge, and that line used all the storage available, hence why their speaking/typing skills leave much to desire. An ensemble of MiT scientists and 2 Asgard volunteers, have decided that the babbling that follows up the line is actually gloating, as the poor GRRiMlin thinks he has won the argument. Little does he know that soon the common detractor will have the proper defence, to such silly remarks.

Field Report: Random detractor: "Man Martin is taking forever with his book! Wish he would hurry up!" GRRiMlin: "GRRM is not your bitch! Nha Nha Nha Nha Nha Nha!"

How can I find this GRRiMlin? Sadly this GRRiMlin is EVERYWHERE! Like roaches they can survive in the most hostile environments, and do show up in the most annoying times. They also usually the first or second post in "When will ADwD be released?" threads. It's very sad and causes bad vibe.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? It's quite simple in the matter of fact. Even though the line itself may cause many detractors to flinch, the RetortGaiman-Rex is simply not very smart and most of the time they will back off with the right answer. Use one of the following: "GRRM may not be our bitch, but neither are we his" "GRRM may not be our bitch, but apparently you are his." "Neil Gaiman also said you can bail work to go paint your house and you won't be fired at all. I suggest you try it one of these days."

If you have other "I trumped your "IWIN" card go back from where you came from" line please do inform us.

- 25 -

Sircle Jerk (alt. spelling: Sercle Jerk) Sircularium jerkus

By jjh

A subspecies of GRRiMlin who seizes every opportunity to refer to Martin as Sir. Or Ser.

Field Reports: (All reports taken from NaB) 1)Martin:" Ive still got the creeping crud." GRRiMlin: "Get well soon sir! "

*** 2)Martin:" I hit page 1311 yesterday. No, not done yet." GRRiMlin: "Rock on good Ser! "

How can I find this GRRiMlin? Found exclusively on NAB, either praising something GRRM has posted, or providing encouragement and moral support.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? Sircle Jerks tend to keep their NAB posts mercifully brief, as they have nothing of value to say. Rapid scrolling generally will suffice for those wishing to avoid their posts.

- 26 -

The Holy Reader Librus Sanctus

By The Adequate Jon

The Holy Reader has a holier-than-thou attitude. He tells you to go read something else instead of complaining about GRRM. He may also say that there are plenty of other books out there. His point is that he is better than you because he is more patient and more well-read than you.

Field Report: You:" I would sure love to read ADWD, but GRRM seems to be taking an awfully long time." GRRMlin: "Instead of spending your time complaining on an internet forum, why don't you go read something else?"

How can I find this GRRiMlin? This GRRMlin can be found almost anywhere discussions of GRRM take place. The notable exceptions would be NAB (because critical posts will be deleted, thus there is no need for the Holy Reader to strike) and westeros.org (because controversial discussions about ADWD are forbidden).

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? The defence for this GRRMlin is quite simple: Instead of complaining about my complaining, why aren't you reading something else?

- 27 -

Parrot Proxy Repeatus Prolificus

By scorpiknox

This GRRiMlin often comes into the end of a heated debate and repeats everything that was said by other, often far more articulate GRRiMlins earlier on in the thread. They can easily be spotted by their obvious failure to read anything but the post directly above theirs. They often display poor writing skills and a complete lack of original thought. They make use of the most clichd arguments and their posts can often be boiled down to a simple "Yeah, what he said!" What makes them truly annoying is the fact that they are oblivious to just how useless they are to either side. Field Report: (This excerpt was taken from Pat's Fantasy Hotlist after about 70 posts had gone back and forth.) GRRiMlin: "[...]The author is not your employee. A closer but still excessive analogy would be a freelancer you once hired to do a job; a job that was done very well (you loved the book) and which you happily handed over money for (you bought the book). After the job you informally agreed s/he'd work for you again in a year or two and know s/he's saying that they're not available for now. So you grouch a bit and hire someone else (read other books). You may also choose not to hire the freelancer again once s/he is available (sequel is out) because you want more reliability. Then again you might do the reverse because his/her work was so good before. If you find out that s/he wasn't available for what in your view was no good reason, you might reasonably be annoyed. [...]" How can I find this GRRiMlin? Just go toward the end of most epic GRRM discussion pages and you will encounter the Parrot Proxy.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? Since they are relatively stupid and harmless, it is best to just ignore them, although a snarky response like this:

"You must be a newb GRRiMlin. Next time, before you repeat (poorly) what no less than 7 people have already said on this thread, perhaps you should peruse the comments and form some semblance of an original thought."

Can be very cathartic if you're up to a possible flame war. The upshot of a flame war is that they are usually too stupid to get the better of you.

- 28 -

Wildcard GRRlemming Sycophanta Grrmartinus Enthusiasticus

By kehnonymous

This GRRiMlin is endlessly fascinated by George R. R. Martin's side projects. Be it Wild Cards, miniatures, or anthologies, it leeches onto these like parasites and endlessly showers praise and questions upon Martin about his latest diversionary project, perhaps in the hopes of establishing an imagined rapport.

Field Reports: 1)"Anyway, I opened the comments under this post for a specific reason. I recently finnished the latest Wild Cards triad and I have to say... Wicked Cool! This was my first visit to the world of Aces and Jokers (and nats and deuces... I wont forget the little guys) and I have fallen in love. Not only that but it was my first experience with shared world books. At the very real risk of ass kissing I have to say it wouldn't work without the editing genious that weaved the tales together... please forgive the brown nose, it was only my enthusiasm that raised it. The fact that each character is written by a different author gives them their own voice in a very real way that Im sure couldnt be duplicated by a single author. Anyway...my question...where can I get them all?!? I must read the story from start to finish. All the referances to events and persons past has me fiending like a junkie for more. Please help, I need a Wild Cards fix."

http://grrm.livejournal.com/135085.html?thread=8878509#t8878509

*** 2)"The only problem that I have with Tom Meier's sculpts is that I feel like I'm taking a can of Krylon to Michelangelo's masterpieces whenever I consider painting them..."

http://grrm.livejournal.com/130981.html?thread=8548517#t8548517
How can I find this GRRiMlin? This GRRMlin often shares similar characteristics with other local fauna, but is most often found immediately after George R. R. Martin blogs about a non-ADwD project. As such it is a very commonly observed subspecies. It is possible than the GRRlemming may not be a distinct species, but may instead represent a larval phase of the GRRMlin family that is induced whenever Martin blogs about non-ADwD projects.

The GRRlemming's most distinguishing trait is its brown nose, not to mention its sudden and complete enthusiasm for any news about non-ADwD projects. Scientists speculate that the GRRlemming's enthusiasm is a way of buttering up George R. R. Martin in order to get the scoop on its true love - A Dance With Dragons. It is commonly hypothesized

- 29 -

that GRRlemmings' oft-documented enthusiasm about miniatures and Wild Cards would pale in comparison to any substantial news concerning A Dance With Dragons. However scientists have so far been unable to test this theory, primarily because the requisite stimuli has not been observed in nature or been able to be duplicated in any laboratory.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? Although overall unassuming and harmless, this parasitic species' zeal for its host organism can make it a fierce enemy. Most field manuals suggest reasoning with it and bribing it with replicas of Needle and other ASoIaF merchandise. However the likely presence of the more virulent species of GRRMlins make this difficult at best. In this case it is advised to imitate the feral Starkus Aryas and stick 'em with the pointy end.

- 30 -

Patient Martyr (common: Wait Watcher) Capacitus Capacitus Sactimonia

By scorpiknox

We all know this GRRiMlin too well. They are still posting on NaB for GRRM to take as long as he wants to finish A Dance with Dragons. They reassure even as they proclaim their blind allegiance and act as if there is a special place in hell for any fan of ASoIaF who wants to know what is taking so long.

You can spot them by their blatant disregard for the fact that George is not a young man, and by the fact that their posts often read like they believe that GRRM is going to lead them to the Hale-Bopp comet alien ship.

Field Reports: All quotes taken from NaB:

1)"Honestly, id rather you take your time and make it come out exactly as you wish it to... rather than be rushed along by all of us soul-less creatures who simply buy the books and demand more. Some of us actually see the human being behind the books. Somewhere.

So. Quit yer rushin'." --mooingtricycle Mar. 6th, 2010 05:44 am

2)"George, Who cares about the people who demand DANCE now... Those people are just TROLLS! I may be in the minority or not, but I don't care how long it takes to produce the the book. I feel for you, my friend, I truly do. It makes me pissed off when people say "When is DANCE gonna be done?"

To the trolls I say; Get over yourselves, it will be done when it is done, your negativity helps nothing...Just go get a hobby if your so obsessed. I suggest golf, that will stoke your frustration." --neffscape Mar. 8th, 2010 05:10 pm

***

- 31 -

3)"I created this account strictly to say one thing.

I am in the midst of reading the series through for the nth time, and I felt that I needed to add my voice.

[...] Let me say that I look forward with great excitement to the arrival of the DANCE, and the following novels. Even if they each take another 5 years." --thebaxterian : Mar. 6th, 2010 07:27 pm

*** 4)"Honestly, I first stumbled upon your not a blog, through your website to check about ADWD. I stayed though, because your posts are interesting, often amusing and it annoys me as well to see the trolls just demand the book. I also found names of authors I had never read, through your blog. I really don't care how long the book takes. It takes as long as it needs to for it to be right. I have enjoy rereading the other books in the series, plus books from many other authors. Take as long as you need! Your books are rich in detail, and I cannot imagine the level of work it takes to create such lands, worlds and people in it as you do." --intothenite Mar. 6th, 2010 01:07 pm

Where can I find this GRRiMlin? Everywhere. They are legion on NaB, eager masses hoping to get a scrap from the master's table: some response to acknowledge their utter devotion to a man who could give a shit about them. You'll also find them on any fantasy forum having something to do with GRRM. (Save one.)

How do I defend against the Patient Martyr? Usually they aren't going to come right out and attack you, but instead try to guilt you into feeling grateful that GRRM has even bothered to write the first 4 books. This is a powerful, passive aggressive attack and can be countered several ways:

1. Often times, the Patient Martyr is a relative newb to the series. As a result you can easily draw them into admitting that they've only just read the series last summer. After that, you've already won the argument because their opinion is no longer valid.

- 32 -

2. If the Patient Martyr has been waiting for Dance lo these 10 years along with the rest of us, then you might be in trouble because you have a FUCKING NUTCASE on your hands. The best thing to do is stick to your guns and don't allow yourself to come off like a thug, as you'll lose the moral high-ground quickly against this sanctimonious beast.

3. If you lose the high-ground and are starting to get sucked into a "how dare you!" vortex, just go for broke and make fat jokes. You might lose the argument, but you'll piss them off and in the end that is just as fun as better than a victory.

- 33 -

The Blame Runner Cursor Culpa

By Oliveira8

The Blame Runner is one of the most annoying GRRiMlins in the GRRiMlin sphere and a close sibling to Patient Martyr, the worst is that they often engage in incest breeding and create something completely unholy, something so unnatural that would make Cthulhu turn mad. We lost 4 scientists so far in trying to crack this spawn of annoying. Anyway The whole function of this creature is to make everyone who would like to read the book at some point in their life, feel bad. Feel ashamed of wanting to read the book, for wondering if it ever is coming out, for even thinking about the book. And he will remember you that Martin has already gave you 4 excellent books, and you should feel blessed to be touched by his Holiness. As you can see it's painful to read the crap that The Blame Runner spits out. But like Gandalf said "The defences have to hold!" and hold they shall.

Field Report: (This portion of a comment was taken from a discussion in IMDB)

"[...]If he never finishes Dance he will still have given us 4 great books. Which is better than 3 great books, which is better even still than 2.. and 1 which he didn't even have to give us.[...] [...]I would rather a late release date than a rushed book. Would you want a Dance at all if it sucked? No. So allow him to perfect the story, as it is, "his" story, and no one Else's. " --Sai-Capricious (Wed Jan 20 2010 08:19:34)

How can I find this GRRiMlin? They roam everywhere ADwD is discussed, even when it's not about it's release date. If you been around in this dance for more than 2 minutes, it's most likely that you have crossed paths with one or two.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? The Blame Runner is quite hard to back off. There is no best solution to deal with it. The best option is to just ignore him and move on. A good way to deal them is to use the the same tactic as the RetortGaiman-Rex and pull:

- 34 -

"GRRM may not be our bitch, but apparently you are his."

This will cause flamewars, but considering you are discussing ADwD lateness you are in one already so take the most of it.

- 35 -

The Pencil of LateLate-Afternoon Post Meridiem Pencillus

By Oliveira8

The result of Blame Runner and Patient Martyr, love making. The most gawdafull GRRiMlin you can run into...the one who says "Authors can do what they want, he is a person and you and every fan can't ask nothing in return!" If you ever run into one these, you know what I'm talking about. This GRRiMlin reached the conclusion that the writer is a human being(Took him some time) so we should cut him a break. Fair enough. But it not stops there, The Pencil of Late-Afternoon will put the writer in such high pedestal that, he believes and will force you to believe too, that the writer is conjuring up something that will change humanity...FOREVER! Thus creating a God Writer that his immune to criticism and his farts smell like rainbows and unicorns.

This GRRiMlin will wait patiently forever for the book, will try to blame you for treating Martin bad and hurt is feelings, and to top it off he will tell you that Martin reached the creative wall and can't write any more thus causing 5 years of no-writing. And of course we must feel bad for Martin. And if he(Martin) pleases so he can stop writing and nothing in the world can stop him. It's his stuff and we fans are nothing but dirt, including The Pencil of Late-Afternoon, and deserve to be treated like dirt. Just like his dad/mom the Blame Runner, all fans should feel graced that they wasted their hard earned money on this series. Even if if it never is complete we should blessed for being in our living rooms.

As Einstein once said "Fuck.That.Noise.". (He totally said that) What The Pencil of Late-Afternoon forgets is that writing like plumbing is a fucking job. You deal with the problem head on, not stand around picking your nose for yonks waiting for the answer to fall from the sky. Getting sidetracked also doesn't help. And that fans are the most important part of a bloody franchise if it wants any success in the long run.

Just like Ser Arthur Dayne, The Sword of Morning was the best swordsman in Westeros of all time(!!11!1!), The Pencil of Late Afternoon is the most annoying GRRiMlin of them all.

Field Report: (Taken from IMDB) "Look, you can't force art. It just doesn't happen.[...]. " --Brude_Storm *** (Translated from Portuguese)

- 36 -

"I don't see you or any other fan the right to criticise Martin.[...] He writes when HE wants. Not when YOU want. If he wants to stop the cash cow he will.[...]He is not your slave, he works when he wants too in what he wants too[...] If he doesn't want to write the series, it's in his right. It's his series, not yours(or the fans)." ---Hic

How can I find this GRRiMlin? In every topic that has a "When is ADwD complete?" you can bet there is one.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? To fend off this fiend you can count on Stephen King to drop some juicy knowledge. The worlds best paid writer can't fail and usually shuts up this a-hole.

The best ones to remind The Pencil of Late Afternoon are these: "If you want to write, then write. But don't forget that it's also work." "Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work. " "Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work."

Stress the "work" word. This will remind this GRRiMlin that an author actually has to do some heavy work in the novel he is stuck in. PlagiarizingEditing Wild Cards won't get the answer of the Meereensee knot cause he isn't thinking of the meereensee knot!

And then proceed into dumping this pearl into his lap: "An author who is taking 7 years to write a novel is not thinking Deep Thoughts. He's just dicking about"

Finally smack the poor guy to remind him that if it weren't for fans Martin wouldn't have a career.

Also "There is no such thing as Writers Block." helps too.

- 37 -

Poser Wannabes Speakmany bullshitus

By mir8212

This GRRiMlin has once written (or attempted to write) a third-rate, unpublished novel and probably made a half-hearted unsuccessful attempt to sell it. This unique experience gives them insider knowledge of the publishing process and they understand the writing process in a way that we petty mortals cannot hope to grasp.

Field reports: "You have my complete and utter sympathy, sir. I know exactly whereof you speak except that I don't have a million and one people getting upset when the book runs late." --michael_b_lee Feb. 20th, 2009 02:10 am (UTC) "All the best with this! I'm waiting for DWD with a great deal of anticipation, but also with patience. I know how difficult it is to deal with the ebb and flow of creativity, and no, art is definitely not a democracy. You have to take what you can get and run with it when it comes to you. It might sound snobby but it's true - non-creative types will never understand how difficult it can be." --jojo_kun Feb. 20th, 2009 02:19 am (UTC) "The manuscript I thought I'd have finished by last May at the latest is only on page 210. Sometimes Life gets in the way." --firerosearien Feb. 20th, 2009 02:03 am (UTC)

How can I find this GRRiMlin? This GRRiMlin is often found on the NAB offering sympathy and (unasked for) advice after GRRM sobs his little heart out about how people are big meanies to him. Of course the most conspicuous member of this species and the genus-namer is most often found on his very own blog spouting too much eyesore to post here.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? Dont bother. Seriously. They are all sad, delusional little people who will never be convinced by anything you say because youre not a creative writer like them. Even if you are.

- 38 -

Eager Host Invitus ad nauseum

By jjh

Note: this species was initially identified by aussiechris

The Eager Host attempts to persuade GRRM to make an appearance in its city/state. Unsatisfied with sucking up to GRRM in the Comments section of the NAB, this species seeks to ramp up its sycophantry to the up-close-and-personal level. Unfortunately, should it succeed in luring GRRM to its locality, the Eager Host will only worsen the ADWD delay, since GRRM does not write on the road. (It is known.)

Field Report: GRRM: I will be in Chicago next month. Eager Host: i live nowhere neat Chicago (sic).... you should include san luis obispo california on one of your tours...

How can I find this GRRiMlin? The Eager Host GRRiMlin can be found in comments attached to GRRM NAB appearances posts.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? Direct reference to the travel/delay correlation is likely to result in a ban-hammer NAB response. If the GRRiMlin lives in a tiny boring town, no further action is necessary. Otherwise, start a rumour that there are no pizza restaurants in the locality in question.

- 39 -

Pseudo Scientist HocusPocus Dyscalculus

By jjh, The Adequate Jon and compiled by oliveira8

The Pseudo Scientist does not accept that ADWD is late. Instead, this species attempts to prove, using complicated and ever-changing calculations based on book length, word count, elapsed time between ASOIAF instalments, GRRM pronouncements, and an imagined time-space-rewrite discontinuity into which 18 months of actual time vanished VANISHED!!, that ADWD is in fact going to be released within an acceptable time frame, just like AFFC.

Field Reports: Random Suvudu Poster: I still think it's fair to say that Dragons is overdue. GRRiMlin: Those 18 months he wrote after Storm where he had to change his mind and begin anew really can't be counted in my mind; and If you look at the series, it takes George 3 - 3 1/2 years to write a book in the series. Feast was right on schedule once he figured out not to accelerate the future of the storyline.

http://www.suvudu.com/2009/01/in-defense-of-george-r-r-marti.html

How can I find this GRRiMlin? This rarely observed yet tenaciously prolific GRRiMlin inhabits any thread about Martin in Suvudu and Westeros boards.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? Method 1 - Publishing Dates: This is where the argument usually starts. The Pseudo Scientist then looks at the numbers and doesn't like what he sees, so he claims that you know nothing about the publishing industry and tries to make one of the other two arguments below. Actually, you can make the numbers look even worse for the Pseudo Scientist if you subtract the 2 years GRRM spent in Hollywood after he had started AGOT.

1/1/1991 AGOT writing started (I don't know the exact date he started) AGOT: 8/1/1996 5 years 214 days ACOK: 2/2/1999 2 years 185 days ASOS: 10/31/2000 1 year 272 days Average: 3 years 102 days AFFC: 11/8/2005 5 years 9 days

- 40 -

ADWD: 3/25/2010 4 years 138 days Average: 4 years 256 days (so far)

Method 2 - Writing time (including "percolating time"): This argument is used when trying to make the AGOT writing time longer by saying that even though GRRM was in Hollywood for two years after he had started writing, you still have to count that time because he was still thinking about the novel or "percolating" (Pseudo Scientist #1's word). Notice that I didn't even subtract that time off in the above analysis. However, if you are going to count those two years in Hollywood, you also have to count the wasted 18 months of writing for AFFC/ADWD. Also, this argument is used to try to add time to the writing of ACOK and ASOS. This is done by saying that one third to two thirds of ACOK was already written when AGOT was published because GRRM hadn't realized he'd written too much for one novel and had to split the book. The same thing happened with ASOS although not as much. This line of reasoning doesn't do very much because the average time for the first 3 books changes very little (it actually decreases). Also, you can add time onto AFFC because he must have written something of AFFC between the time he finished with ASOS and ASOS was published. Additionally, you can add a ton of time to the writing of ADWD because we know he was working on that at the same time he was working on AFFC. Here, I've assumed that half of ACOK was written when AGOT was published, one forth of ASOS was written when ACOK was published, and ASOS was published 6 months after he finished writing it. I've also added those 6 months to the writing time of AFFC and moved 500 days from AFFC to ADWD due to GRRM working on both of them at the same time.

1/1/1991 Started writing AGOT AGOT: 5/1/1995 4 years 121 days ACOK: 8/26/1998 3 years 118 days ASOS: 5/4/2000 1 years 251 days Average: 3 years 42 days AFFC: 6/26/2004 4 years 54 days ADWD: 3/25/2010 5 years 273 days Average: 4 years 346 days (so far)

Method 3 - Writing time (not including "percolating time"): This is the argument used when they want to subtract the 18 months worth of writing on AFFC/ADWD that was scrapped when GRRM realized it wasn't working. If they can just ignore those 18 months, then we can ignore the 2 years that GRRM spent in Hollywood when he actually wasn't working on AGOT.

- 41 -

The numbers used here are simply the Method-2 numbers with the two years in Hollywood and 18 months of wasted writing ignored. I even subtracted 6 months from ADWD for GRRM's AFFC book tour.

AGOT: 2 years 121 days ACOK: 3 years 118 days ASOS: 1 years 251 days Average: 2 years 164 days AFFC: 2 years 237 days ADWD: 5 years 91 days Average: 3 years 346 days (so far)

The Pseudo Scientist will try to take the writing time for the first 3 books from method 1 or 2, the writing time for AFFC from method 3 and the writing time for ADWD from method 1. You just need to pin them down on which method they want to use and make them be consistent. No matter which method you use, the average writing time for AFFC and ADWD is at least a year longer than the average writing time for the first three books.

- 42 -

The Madden Martin SportsSports- it's in the blog

By oliveira8(kudos for jjh to dig this one up)

The Madden, as the name indicates unless you don't care about the NFL, loves the NFL. But we not talking about those loonies, no we talking about the ones that don't watch NFL, don't know shit about the NFL and never heard of the NFL before Martin started to blog about the NFL, but still loves to read about it, and secretly wishes that Martin would get a full time job as a sport writer/commentator. The only thing worse it's the people who go to discuss the NFL to Martin's blog...Actually never mind this one is also about the tossers that go to NaB to talk about the NFL....

Field Report: GRRiMlin:"Sorry to hear about your team, sir, but I don't know much about football, haha, lol! (SIR!)" *** "Huzzah! I finally broke down and got an LJ account so I could comment on the games this past weekend. All went as I wished. Four wins for me, as far as I'm concerned." --typotx Jan. 18th, 2010 03:41 pm (UTC) *** "nfl It always gladdens my heart to see you so happy over sport, I think you missed your calling to be a commentator, so I say GO TEAM to whoever it is you support even if I am a brit and don't know the first thing about what you Americans' so laughingly refer to as football.

P.S. Glad you became an author instead!" --evilnioj Jan. 18th, 2010 04:47 pm (UTC)

How can I find this GRRiMlin? In the NFL NaB posts, granted that your eyes didn't melt while reading Martin's analyse.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin?

- 43 -

Why would you want to talk to this GRRiMlin in the first place?

- 44 -

Know It All Knowitallus Annoyicus

By aussiechris

The Know It All is under the mistaken belief that it knows everything about something. Be that A Song of Ice and Fire, writing or simply everything. There are 3 subspecies of this GRRiMlin. The hippoiathanatoi, this interesting creature masks its true intentions behind largely meaningless words. It is believed that there is no male of the species as its distinctive long black plumage makes it look rather feminine. It appears harmless, but will bring out its banhammer on Westeros once your back is turned. The Werthead, this is a particularly virulent GRRiMlin. It is not generally dangerous, but will attempt to bore you into submission with a dazzling array of meaningless facts and figures that prove its point. The Speakman, this is a rather sad GRRiMlin that many think may be both blind and deaf, it can be easily identified by its call of haha. Its mostly harmless, but like the hippoiathanatoi will bring out its banhammer on its home ground of Terry Brooks if you disagree with it.

Field Report: Too numerous(and to painful) to attempt to catalogue. If you a long time detractor you probably have encountered one(if not all), if you a new detractor soon you will make contact with this strange creature. How soon? LOOK BEHIND YOU!

How can I find this GRRiMlin? The hippoithanatoi inhabits the NaB and its home ground of Westeros mostly, although it does rarely occur elsewhere. The Werthead is extremely common and ranges widely, to attract one simply mention that its about time A Dance with Dragons was published. The Speakman is found mostly on its home grounds of Terry Brooks and at that of its sponsor Suvudu.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? There seems to be little defence against the banhammer of the hippoiathanatoi and this is random as it is a paranoid creature and particularly fond of using its one offensive weapon. If you can prove the Werthead has made a mistake about anything it will simply retreat and never bother you again. Theres no defence needed against the Speakman and its such a sad pathetic creature that you feel sorry for it.

- 45 -

The Opinion Zombie

Mortuous opinio

The opinion zombie, is completely braindead. Whatever Martin says or commands this GRRiMlin will follow. No matter how stupid, batshit crazy Martin's comment is, the Opinion Zombie will agree and worst, if given it the time it will try spread it. Like a disease. The US of A, Russia and Liechtenstein have operatives on the field to determine if Martin is a dictator and if his amassing a army of brain dead followers. The secret agents from Liechtenstein say yes.

Field reports: (After Martin writing fanfiction about Jaime vs Cthulhu) "Well 'I used to think' that Cthulu would beat Jaime', but you've convinced me.'" --materpenitentia Mar. 23rd, 2010 09:44 pm (UTC) *** "I used to think X, but you've convinced me.'

I was one of the ones who agreed with you wholeheartedly on the healthcare bill, but if it's any consolation, ASOIAF was definitely one of the things you wrote that greatly changed my worldview. I honestly used to think of the world/society/etc. as being somewhat benevolent and good natured (our real, non-fictional world we live in), and now I see it as it is, I believe: much more sinister. But I think the revelation has made me more streetwise, rather than depressed. And this is all from reading a FANTASY series, which is truly remarkable." --bungeebot Mar. 24th, 2010 03:55 pm (UTC)

Researcher thoughts: WHAT THE FUCK? *** Martin:"People who express their political opinions by throwing bricks through windows are no better than nazis. Google "Kristallnacht" for a scary sense of deja vu." GRRiMlin: "My grandfather had to endure the holocaust as well. As one of those people who was lead off to camps to die just because they were Jewish. He was torn from his family, starved, tortured, and left to die as a madman who shared his nationality lead his

- 46 -

country down a path of evil. He was nearly forced into that man's gas chambers, knowing he would die for a religion he believed in.

And I applaud Mr. Martin for making that comparison.[...]" --sparkliedragon Mar. 25th, 2010 10:25 pm (UTC)

How can I find this GRRiMlin? Comment section of NaB usually under political rants or when Martin wants you to vote for his stuff/pals.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? You don't. You back off...slowly. That or take the Silentmajority approach. You call them stupid and leave them into their own ruin.

- 47 -

The Lemming annoyus furryus

By valardohaeris

This GRRiMlin is particularly brainless and stupid in nature. In an attempt to silence its opponents, it will threaten delay of ADWD or even destruction of favourite characters. A particularly annoying subgenus of the species will display the well-known and utterly ludicrous 'Every time you ask about the next book, GRRM kills a Stark' icon, even when not being threatened.

Field reports: "What he should do is announce that for every email and comment he gets from people whining about the book not being finished/released yet, he will push back his intended release date 1 day.

That'd shut them up." --Upsurge 16 Feb 2010, 3:14PM

"Every time you ask when the next book will come out, G.R.R.M. kills a Stark!" --verbranden 03 Apr 2009 18:55

"...and when you ask why he killed that one, he kills another one. --Palantyre (in reply to verbranden, above) " 03 Apr 2009 19:15

How can I find this GRRiMlin? Much like their counterparts in the natural world, these GRRiMlins are numerous and often seen following each other in blind and slightly panicked devotion.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? These GRRiMlins are annoying but essentially harmless, requiring little in the way of countermeasures. You might want to look where you put your feet, though, if you want to avoid treading on one.

- 48 -

The Cruddlers Vomitus bootlickidus bootlickidus

By Montage

This subspecies can be argued to be the most nauseating of the GRRiMlins. GRRM habitually suffers from a malady known as 'Creeping Crud' and rather than sucking it up and dealing with it like the rest of society, is compelled to inform his legion of arselicking worshippers that he has the Crud. These worshippers attempt to make Captain Crud feel better through offerings of virtual cuddles and chicken soup and often recommend home remedies for George such as hot toddies and saunas. (Now that's an image I can do without!)

Field Report:

"Feel better really soon, petal " --sermelt May. 14th, 2009 08:26 am (UTC)

"*makes you some soup* ^-^ Hope you feel better soon!" --michie3 May. 14th, 2009 07:03 pm (UTC)

"Get well soon, George! Remember, you're nobody's bitch - that includes nasty viruses. " --alyeska2112 May. 14th, 2009 04:00 pm (UTC)

How can I find this GRRiMlin? This GRRiMlin is found exclusively on the NAB forum whenever GRRM is feeling particularly cruddish.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? This species is gentle and does not require any defence strategies. However research strongly recommends to have an emesis bag at the ready as some of their comments can make even the strongest stomach curdle.

- 49 -

Progeny Braggart Sffmoniker Sffmoniker Inflictus

By jjh

This species is so into ASOIAF that it names its children after the characters. But that alone is not sufficient to identify it as a GRRiMlin. That line is crossed when it attempts to curry favour with GRRM by blabbing about its ASOIAF-named children in the NAB.

Field Report Perfect casting Couldn't agree more - perfect casting. Arya has been my favourite since day 1. My second daughter is named after her (my wife insisted on spelling it Aria). Her twin brother is Asher - albeit spelling and gender different to my second favourite character! George, last time we met (OK, the only time!) my first set of twins were only 15 months old. That was during Danse Macabre in Melbourne - Roger Weddall (the Chair) was my best man. Now Aria and Asher are 3 years old and she would love a Needle of her own to get back at her brother! --asms26 Apr. 9th, 2010 03:32 am (UTC)

How can I find this GRRiMlin? Mostly on the NAB. Mercifully rare.

How can I defend myself against this GRRiMlin? Be careful who you sleep with. Failing that, invoke your right of baby-name veto power.

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=16#ixzz 1C39jcQvI

- 50 -

GRRuMblers
Scorpiknox
Well, as Liotta and Pesci over at FtBG have pointed out, it has been five years since the release of Feast. If you haven't been over there in a while, stop in and say hello. So. Five years. It's a long time for most folks, unless you're a Trueblood. What has transpired in your life since the release of Feast? What things have you done to pass the time during the second half of the long wait for A Dance with Dragons, a book that was promised ten years ago? For my part, I (in chronological order): Got a promotion. Moved in with my girlfriend. Started a band. Got engaged. Bought a car. Recorded an album. Gone back to school. Got married. Moved again. Got a scholarship to a better school. Quit my job. Quit my band. Moved across the country. Became addicted to an internet forum making fun of George RR Martin. Joined a new band. Had a few glasses of vino. Honestly, it doesn't seem like much when I sum it all up like that, in one measly paragraph. Hot damn, life is short. Finish the book, George.

Paslaugh
Since I last read a Jon, Dany, or Tyrion chapter... Ran in the State track meet, broke 4:30 in the mile, graduated high school, moved out of my parent's house, started undergrad, transferred to a better school, drank 4 straight years through a BigTen school, graduated from a top 10 business school with a double major in finance and accounting, moved to Chicago, became gainfully employed with a Big 4 accounting firm, audited my first hedge fund, moved in with my girlfriend, got a promotion, finished the CPA exam, hiked the Inca trail to Machu Picchu, cycled 200+ miles in New Zealand, hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro, travelled to 12 countries on 4 continents, went bungy jumping, went skydiving, qualified for and ran the Boston Marathon, ran the Chicago Marathon four straight years, ran a marathon on another continent Finish the book, George

Moose
Unlike most people, I hate Jon and Daenerys chapters. Then again, I hate the ones in AFFC too, barring Jaime. I don't know why I'm here sometimes. Also, I'm probably as bad as George. I've done just about nothing for 5 years. I played WoW? Drank more box wine than any human should in 5 lifetimes? Yeah, maybe I'm worse.

- 51 -

Slynt
Five years, eh. I remember it vividly. Getting my hands on that coveted copy of "A Feast for Crows", a few days before publication date, taking a picture of myself with it and sending it to other fans still waiting with baited breath; delving right into it and from the first page getting a strange vibe of 'everything is not as it should be'; five fucking years.

Kael Edin
A whole chapter of one's life. (No, five chapters) I've moved to a new house, sold my old car/bought a new one, got promoted. I've had two girlfriends and now I'm with my special lady and a son almost a year old. What scares me is the thought that in a similar thread concerning tWoW I'll mention "My son started reading ASoIaF"...

Robotosaur
Since this time in 2005, I: Reached legal drinking age, graduated college, moved back to the States, went through two apartments, adopted a pair of elderly and enormous cats, had two major break-ups and one minor one, started dating my boyfriend, moved in with him, got engaged, managed a restaurant, worked at a law firm, got a job at an international organization, passed the Foreign Service Officer Test, appeared on Jeopardy.

Flodros
Got promoted, bought a motorbike, got hit by a bus while on said motorbike, met my GF, moved in with my GF, both moved out to live with my dad (cheaper), bought a flat with my GF (last thursday), went to ikea (I hate ikea), singly handedly supported the british cider industry (hard cider for those across the water). And I've just realised, today is my 4 year anniversary with my GF. Shit. Need to get some flowers.

- 52 -

RolandOFGilead
Since last reading a Jon/Dany/Tyrion chapter: Went to my daughter's two graduations from college, junior college and university. Saw her get married. Helped her move three times. Lost one job, was unemployed for six months, found another job. Started playing tennis and/or pickleball twice per week for the past six years. Bowled in a league for nine months. Read approximately SEVEN HUNDRED other books (for those clowns who say, read something else) Moved from a duplex to a house. Started playing on-line chess for past six years. Finish the book, George.

scottishtroy
I've had two kids, and read about 200 books.

silentmajority
In the past five years: I designed a kitchen for the owners second restaurant. Opened the restaurant, and managed both kitchens. Wrote 10 different menus between both of them. Broke up with a couple girlfriends. Started recycling. Realized that I was an alcoholic. Stopped recycling. Stopped smoking. Stopped drinking. Started working out. In five years I went from being unable to run 1 city block to being able to run an entire marathon (about 26 miles). Read 7 new novels by Michael Connelly, and 6 new novels by Vince Flynn, and 8 new novels by Brandon Sanderson, two of which were co-written by the now deceased Robert Jordan. Hey take your time George...no rush...we waited 5 years for that masterpiece known as A Feast for Crows we can wait 5 more years for its equivalent!

- 53 -

Annan
I've done basically nothing, but here goes: Graduated high school. Got my drivers licence. Quit the same job three times in one year. Started university and lived in a dorm. Reconciled with my father. Switched majors. Moved. Ah, the life of a teenager. Fascinating stuff.

Graff
The last five years for me are the far more boring part of the last ten. Anyway, since AFfC arrived from the UK I: Lost my job. Traveled abroad for the first time (Canada not included). Moved back to the Midwest from New York. Got banned from westeros.org. Got a new job. Played World of WarCraft for two years. Moved in with my grandmother for a year to take care of her following major surgery. Moved out. Three-starred all the Special Ops missions but one Read somewhere between 100 and 200 fantasy and on CoD: MW2 with my bro. science-fiction novels. Taught myself enough computer programming to write a fullyfeatured Tetris clone and begin a turn-based RPG project. Spent days complaining about GRRM. In the five years between the book containing the last published Jon, Dany, and Tyrion chapters and the most recent ASoIaF book I: Turned legal drinking age. Got dumped with my "pants down" when "high school sweetheart" of three years decided she was going to marry the guy her mother wanted her to (chalk it up to a cultural mismatch). Got dumped by another girlfriend of the next three-years. Graduated from college, got hired to work on Wall St. Made a lot of money. Lost a lot of money. Was told I was going to be a daddy. Was told I wasn't. Was told it was actually somebody else's anyway. Dumped the third girlfriend. Attended "company meetings" in Las Vegas where I got to see/experience what men with "infinite money" and no morals do in a town with large amounts of drugs and hot, willing women readily available. Cheered the White Sox to a World Series championship. Discussed ASoIaF and frequently praised GRRM on Ran's forum.

kehnonymous
Oh geez, after reading all your entries, I really need to get a life. Since 2005: I have had the same girlfiend, house and haircut. My circle of friends has incrementally grown via the uniquely Columbus phenomenon of everyone being only literally one degree of separation from everyone else. I've changed my car and job once; in both cases it was because the old one sputtered and died due to shoddy American business practices. I also played a lotta WoW from 2006-2008 and have rediscovered the joys of cycling, but apparently not as much as paslaugh has.

- 54 -

I went to Europe for the first time ever to visit Barcelona on a family vacation and now want to rob a bank so I can afford to go back, while making an extended detour to Stockholm - a place that's always fascinated me. I've also read exactly one new ASoIaF book.

jjh
The accomplishments and dramas of my youth are way, way behind me (as is my youth, actually), and as I pondered the last 5 years of my life, I realized that Ive accomplished very little that is tangible. Produced mountains of ignored/forgotten reports and presentations, often while rolling my eyes at the subject matter, and paid thousands of dollars of taxes to 3 levels of government. Raised 3 kids into the teen/tween stage. Cheered them on while watching countless hockey, baseball, softball and soccer games, track meets, musical theatre productions, and dance and music recitals. Organized and did gruntwork fundraising for the above childrens activities, not to mention Girl Guides, Boy Scouts, nursery co-op, school band and library. With my husband, substantively renovated our house oh yes, were solid: we can renovate together. Stood by friends through deaths, job losses, health scares, and other life problems. Kept myself fit, healthy and reasonably fashionable. Read a bunch of books. I have nothing but respect for someone like Joe Abercrombie who is raising a young family while turning out excellent and creative books and maintaining a friendly and humorous online presence.

aussiechris
In the last 5 years I've gotten engaged and married, I'm still at the same company, but I have changed jobs, my mother has passed away, I've sold 2 houses and bought another one and sold and bought 2 cars. I can't even factor in how many books I've read. I read roughly 50 books a year (although this years tally is beyond 70), so in 5 years I would have gone through 250 books that aren't ASoIaF. That's a lot of reading something else.

morandir
Let's see, I've: 1) Graduated college 2) Had my third child (who will be 4 in January). 3) Moved onto my second job since graduation - been at it two years as of October 1st. 4) Had 4 wedding anniversaries (of 13). 5) Had friend get married, move to Canada, get divorced, and move back to the States. 6) Have seen Brandon Sanderson publish 11 novels, with a good shot of making it 14 before George gets ADWD complete.

- 55 -

7) Have seen Joe Abercrombie publish 5 novels, all very good. 8) Have read dozens of other books by differing fantasy authors who managed to get their books done on time. 9) Lost 50 pounds Finish the Book, George.

saucerhead
Bugger all really. Finished off a Masters degree. Had two kids. Same house, job, wife, etc.

darkgreen
Got a new job Got engaged Bought a house Got married Grew an 8 inch long beard Shaved beard At least 20 camping trips Hiked at least 350 miles Cross country skied and snow shoed at least 100 miles At least 50 days of kayaking Watched my wife run 5 marathons and at least 40 other shorter races My last two grandparents died My first nephew is born (and now almost a year old) One of my dogs dies of leukemia Inherit another dog from relative Trained dog to flush birds and retrieve Grew a progressively bigger garden every year for the past 4 years Amongst other things, watched the entire MASH, Band of Brothers, Millennium, and XFiles series with wife At least 700 hours of playing various computer games

- 56 -

Gained 10 pounds Went to four Packers games Watched Brett Favre retire 3 times

Geshtar
Married my girlfriend with whom I was living, started my aquarium hobby (first a ten gallon, then a 2nd ten gallon, then a 55 gallon, etc.), got picked up by a literary agent, got a greyhound, moved out of our tiny 1 bedroom place and bought a house in a cheaper, redneck area, stayed with my agent when he jumped ship to start his own agency, ultimately dropped contract after a year of being ignored by agent, bought my first ever brand new car, got an article published in a fish magazine, bought 180 gallon tank and my dream fish-a freshwater ray, had a son, lost my job due to the economy, got a new job, lost our 11 year old greyhound to pancreatitis, off again/on again trying to self publish a fantasy trilogy (ha I have that in common George at least, laziness when it comes to others reading our fiction). What a ride.

Rex
I'm only 23 now but let's see... Finished School. Moved to Brighton. Did two years at Music College. Had around 4 girlfriends, one of whom moved in with me/future was planned with (stupidly). Moved to Germany. Joined a Theatre Group. Auditioned at three German and one Austrian theatre schools, almost getting into the top Berlin school. Moved BACK to Brighton. Started a year at different college. Preparing audition speeches for London theatre schools. There's so much more...

- 57 -

Darkies22
Stuff that happened since my last Tyrion chapter: - got my Master's degree in Physics - got a job - moved to a new appartment - got married - got promoted - joined this little part of the internet - started my own fantasy series (though not far yet) - readying to start my own company (software) - making fun of GRRiMlins - read/watched/played a gazillion books/series/games

fuck, life is moving fast :S

Wulfred
Wish I could remember when I finished it. I think I got it when it went paperback sooo -Went from Newlywed to 5 year anniversary -Had and have 2 wonderful kids and subsequently became sole breadwinner -gone through 3 cars as needs changed (yes, we are now a minivan family) -Been at same company but have had inumerable projects -Caught up to the latest Jim Butcher Dresden novels (no danger that he won't put one out) -Read and decided that I hated Joe Abercrombie's third book (ending of his trilogy) after loving the first two. Great writing but so unrealistically pestimistic that I couldn't even get on board with the "Finally, a realistic ending" bandwagon. -Hit my mid 40s -Decided that if George never publishes another ASOIF, I may just not care. AFFC for crows was so disappointing, that the bloom of anticipation of finishing the series is far outweighed by realizing it may never be finished or it might just be really bad. American Tolkein, my butt...

- 58 -

Culture and Art

Novels

- 59 -

A Feast For Trolls

A FEAST FOR TROLLS

by THE BRAVE R. R. COMPANIONS

Cover Art by Scorpiknox

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=17#ixzz 1C2Ybhl00 - 60 -

CRITICAL PRAISE FOR "A FEAST FOR TROLLS"

"...where George RR Martin's personal habits, sexual predilictions and character, and those of his family, friends and fans, are repeatedly used as a source of alleged humour... - Werthead

"If you've lost patience with GRRM, move on to something else. Don't create what amounts to a hate site, where you can all pat each other on the virtual back for your failed attempts at wit and humour. It's disgusting (literally), pathetic (for the reasons I just described), and really just sad" - EvilAgent @ sffworld.com

What you people do is intentionally hurtful. Why people feel the need to do this, to consciously bring someone down, is just beyond me. I guess it is just a mindset that you need to have, to not care about other people. - Darkbane @ sffworld.com

- 61 -

PROLOGUE
(submitted by kehnonymous)

He strode across the rain-slicked causeway towards the Tower of the Hand. Hed studied and won his apprentices commendation at the Terry Brooks forums and forged his maesters chain link by link beneath the shadow of that hallowed tower. After twelve years of faithful service, he knew well the austere granite path and rugged stone stairs that led to the maesters solar. Inside the solar, the others had already been assembled. Ser Elio, newly styling himself as Lord Ran, and his companion Lady Linda of Westeros. Werthead the Vigilant, and many other familiar faces. And yes - his former apprentice - Shawn of House Speakman, newly styling himself as overlord of Suduvu and a published author. Roland made a note to remind Shawn that there were still five publishing houses who hadnt yet rejected The Dark Thorn. Lastly, a dark lithe man whom he did not recognize - British by the look greeted him with a wry smirk. Oh, but this is more than odd. The counsels summons isnt until fifth bell, and yet theyve gathered here without me. Werthead rose from his mahogany throne at the head of the table. Roland of Gilead. Phrased as a greeting, but spoken as an accusation. Ah, so this is the game. Undeterred, he spread his arms wide and spoke the customary greeting. In the name of the British and American Tolkiens, I greet the council and am privileged to share in their wisdom and that which has come before. I am Roland of Gilead and I bear the moderators seal. That, purred Speakman remains to be seen. Ah yes, Werthead looked uncomfortable. It has come to light that youve publicly questioned if Ser Martin will be able to complete A Dance With Dragons on time. Yes, well... in light of George R... Ser Martin, corrected Linda. In light of Ser Martins latest proclamation that he hopes to have Dance complete within the next fortnight, how can this be done when hes also announced plans to visit C2E2 next week to treat with the smallfolk? It is said that A Dance With Dragons will be done when it is done and promises to be the most sacred text ever to grace Westeros.org. smiled Ran. It is known, chanted the rest of the table. Yes, yes, protested Roland. It is eagerly anticipated by all of us. Which make it all the more... The dark British stranger rose. Youve been asking a lot of questions, ser. Too many questions, all with one answer. George R. R. Martin is not your bitch. Roland regarded the stranger with narrowed eye. Ive not had the privilege, ser. Ser Neil of Gaiman, and Im your replacement on the council.

- 62 -

Then, if that is how it is to be, Ser Neil, I wish you good fortune in explaining to the smallfolk what Ser Martins been up to these past five... George R. R. Martin is not your bitch. And, Roland continued, undeterred, then you can also explain why Ser Martins increased tariffs on Wild Car.. George R. R. Martin is not your bitch. Speakman this time. And lastly, protested Roland why have we not heard from Ser Martin these past... This time the whole table stood as one, a unified cacophony that drowned out his pleas for reason. George R. R. Martin is not your bitch! George R. R. Martin is not your bitch!

- 63 -

SLYNT
(submitted by Iblis) Early 2009: It all began with a sigh. A simple exhalation of impatient breath. How had it come to this? No, best not think on that. He was bitter enough without adding to his burden. He could easily recall the final straw. The moment the once strong and resolute wall holding back the impatience, now cracked and weathered, suddenly caved in and the deluge of angry sentiment covered his world. Feb. 19th, 2009 at 7:00 PM. It was this day Slynts heart was shattered. Never mind the constant drivel about the NFL and its inner workings, never mind the blatant peddling of merchandise no sane person would ever buy, never mind the constant trips and breaks. These were mostly understandable. After all, Martin wasnt his bitch. But after perusing this post, Slynt certainly could see Martin was acting like one. He had successfully waited for Feast, and gorged on it until he could read no longer. A novel of middling quality from George R.R. Martin? He wouldnt have believed it if he hadnt seen it himself. Five years waiting for this... monstrosity. Unthinkable. He sought pleasure in many forms to distract himself until Dance would come out. Teenage girls, playing MMORPGs, posting on Star Wars forums, looking down on the new trilogy, and the occasional head-thrashing session listening to heavy metal. But at the end of the day, despite numerous promises to the contrary, Martin failed to deliver, again and again. And now Slynt was desperate. All his favorite sixteen year olds had grown up, he had beaten every single MMORPG(a feat he didnt think possible), and had even tired of rocking out. Such was his agony. He glanced over at his liquor cabinet longingly, and before he knew it, he was making a beeline straight towards the nearest bottle of malt whiskey he could find. And with a final sigh, he tore open the bottle and began pouring the fiery liquid down his throat. And then the darkness came.

Early 2010:

Has it been almost a year?, the scruffy man in the ruined suit wondered. His mouth tasted of rot and tequila. He had lost all but three teeth. His harem of underage girls had vanished a year past. His hope for the fabled dance with dragons had slowly diminished in a whirl of alcohol and missing memories. But in that absence, something new had emerged: rage. A constant frothing of white-hot rage so powerful Richard Rahl would piss himself in fear now ruled him.

- 64 -

He stood, looking around at his ravaged domicile. Everything was gone, pawned off for more booze (including his child and girlfriend), except for a small laptop in the middle of the stained floor. Suddenly he was aware his right hand held a bottle of pure grain alcohol. Cursing, he threw it against the wall, soaking the ugly floral print wallpaper. He was hungry, thirsty, sleepy, and just possibly might be pissing himself, but none of that mattered at the moment. No more. he whispered, barely containing himself. No more of sitting on the sidelines. He would rally the downcast, the displaced mob that grew steadily day by day, and had no place to call home. He would organize them all in a defiant cry of, No more! against the fallen nerd god known as George Martin. He would sound the horn that would rally the masses. And I will call them The Brave Companions. Witness! And in a thousand different places across the globe, his soon-to-be Companions heard his cry. And they knew it for what it was: Slynt Rage.

- 65 -

GEORGE
(submitted by curiousorange)

He gazed through the fug of cheese dripping from his eyebrows at the blurred monitor before him. Ten years, ten years he had been gazing at those words. They swam through the murk and came into sharp focus. Oh Ser Barristan! Dany gasped, Tweak my nipples! Tweak them harder! Those words. Those dreaded words he had gazed upon at least once a month for the past decade. And they never appreciate it, do they? The never appreciate the sacrifices I make on their behalf. With gargantuan effort, he lifted his hand to the keyboard. His fingers, coated in chickengrease as they were, slid off the keys. He wiped them on his velvet-slashed vest and began to type. The first character was the hardest, quotes meant using the shift key. Ring finger on the shift key, index finger on the 2. Breath rasped through his chest with the effort. Had it always been this hard? Keeping his finger on the shift, He reached for the O key. Dam! He missed! He now had a capital letter P on his screen. He reached for the backspace key. Eventually he typed the entire sentence out again, and spent many long moments gazing at the results of his efforts. Oh Ser Barristan! Daenerys gasped, Tweak my nipples! Tweak them harder! He had done it. He had successfully changed the short form name Dany to the long form Daenerys. The sentence was so much better for it. This was how the book would be written. A chapter at a time, a page at a time, a word at a time. Doubt began to form in his mind. Was this the right decision? He would have to review this new sentence many times over the months and years to come. He cast his mind back to the day, many years ago, when he had first shortened it to Dany. He had changed his mind back and forth many times since then. Certainly he would change it again many more times before he was happy with it. He glanced at the clock. Almost ten minutes had passed. Had it been that long? The muse had been kind to him today, that was more work than he had completed in many a year. He turned off the computer and went to find some food. Only then did he realize that he had forgotten to hit save.

- 66 -

SHAWN
(submitted by kehnonymous)

A light rain was beginning to fall as the aspiring author completed his rounds meeting with the various publishing houses. Another round of rejections was hardly a surprise at this point, but theyd all been good rejections and good rejections were the currency by which aspiring authors bought hope. Ducking into a nearby coffeehouse, he was accosted by an old friend from Suvudu. Werthead! Id not thought to see you around these parts, haha. Aye, its been hard work, scouring all the forums. Werthead looked haggard. The detractors are out in force, Shawn and theyre not like to relent. Its all I can do to answer their inquisitions. Ive thought about hiring an Asshai mage to create mirror images of myself so I can reply to multiple forums at once. Its been five long years and we both know that A Dance will be late again this year. Without us to keep them in line, the smallfolk are on the verge of revolting. Shawn laughed the carefree laugh of an aspiring author. I dare say they are revolting, haha. Come, surely you can spare time for coffee with an old ally. They supped in silence over caramel lattes with frothy white cream, golden hued biscotti cakes for trenchers, and mint flavored honey biscuits. Werthead cleared his throat grimly. The wall of denial wont hold much longer, Shawn. Theyre not like to accept another years delay. Sooner or later the publishers will come calling and what then? Shawn smiled condescendingly A years delay? Haha. What if I explained to you that A Dance with Dragons isnt late at all, but right on schedule? Werthead looked up. Im listening.

- 67 -

RAN
(submitted by krispistofferson)

325 degrees for 20 minutes. Exactly He lowered his Casio calculator watch in triumph. He had never attempted such a gourmet feast before, and he had begun to foam at the mouth like a Flea Bottom cur. The ingredients were laid out thusly; A sackful of White Castle sliders had been laid out in a baking pan, covered in Funyons, and then smothered in medium-sized slabs of Velveeta. If this turns out as good as I think it will, I really must e-mail the recipe to George. Absent-mindedly, he fingered the small leather bag around his neck, the one that held his nipples, the nipples that George had tweaked until they fell off when he was just an adolescent. Are two nipples so great a sacrifice, when now I have my choice of almost any slightly overweight LARPer or cosplayer at any comic convention within the continental United States? I think not. He strolled past his card table that had been turned into Westeros, Resin miniatures, painstakingly painted with a fine brush, as well as Lego trees and castles completed the illusion. He looked past the wall of replica swords to his wardrobe. Its past time I dressed in something besides pajamas, theres mans work to be done. He went to the top dresser drawer and withdrew his finest raiment, a black t-shirt emblazoned with the symbol of his house: A shirtless wizard riding a polar bear on a field of lightning bolts and a full moon. Some black Wrangler jeans and his knee-high suede Legolas boots completed the ensemble. A silver ankh glimmered about his throat. This will go badly for the trolls, but the King abides, and so shall I. He sat in front of the computer, admiring his Highlander: The Series wallpaper. Logging on with the sacred words Valar Doharis he quickly went to Westeros Boards, I have been raised too high, George has entrusted me with too much, far beyond my meager beginnings The smell of the White Castle-role brewing in the oven had made him drool like a newborn babe onto his keyboard, but as suddenly as the lightning bolt from the staff of a shirtless wizard, his jaw clenched shut and his molars began to grind audibly. On the screen before him, two men had dared the unthinkable. Something troubles you, my lord? His girlfriend had just finished a Whopper with cheese and the glistening stretchmarks he normally found so alluring suddenly left him cold. Something must be done about this Pesci and Liotta.

- 68 -

TY
(submitted by Scorpiknox)

He had just finished folding his laundry; each dragon shirt neatly folded and placed one on top of another. He paused for a moment, admiring his sizable collection. Long ago, early in his childhood, he had made a pact with himself to buy as many shirts with dragons on the front as he could. Now that he was able to afford them, hed kept that promise. He sighed contentedly and began placing his freshly washed collection into his dresser. Darker colors go on the right, he thought, arranging his socks appropriately. Hmmm, has someone been in my drawers recently? He pondered this a while. No, probably not. Just then he felt a startling yet welcome sensation below his belt. His new iPhone was ringing, and the familiar melody of My Heart Will Go On complimented the pleasant vibrations exactly as he had planned when he bought the ringtone. The boss was calling. Sure, it was Tys day off, but that had never stopped George from calling before. So why should this day be any different? He let out a good natured sigh as he pressed the retrieve call button. Mustnt keep genius waiting. This is Ty. Is this Ty? Hello? The man on the other line sounded like his mouth was full of marbles. Yes George, its Ty, Ty was forced to project, using his stage voice. Mr. Martin refused to speak on anything but an old rotary telephone from the 1970s and the handset was showing its age. Oh, yes, Ty, it is you. I, um, I really need your help, George paused, his breath heavy. Ty perked up at this. Perhaps help with Dance. Of course, George. You name it, I will do it. Ty hoped he hadnt sounded as eager to George as he had just sounded to himself. Stay cool bro, stay cool. You can do this. Blood of the dragon... Wonderful Ty, wonderful! So listen: I have a craving for Dinty Moore Stew and a bucket of Popeyes. Now, well, you know Id normally take the van and get it myself, but the Hover-Round is broken and I cant be expected to walk all the way to the driveway... Georges voice had risen in pitch as he went on, each new word more shrill and plaintive than the last. By the end of his request he sounded like an out of breath steam-whistle. Please gasp Ty. I need Stew and Chicken. Ty was disappointed but not surprised. OK George, he responded cheerfully enough. See you in 20 minutes. Georges silence was actually quite noisy as he continued to gulp air into his lungs. Finally he spoke. Ty, you ser have my hearty thanks, a pause for breathing. There shall be a royal welcome when you arrive. Oh, and make it two cans of Dinty Moore and dont forget the biscuits and honey. There was a click and George was gone. Ty grabbed his keys and put on his flip-flops, locking the dead-bolt on his way out. George didnt pay him enough to live on the nice side of Santa Fe, and you could never be too careful with your valuables. On his way to the curb where his car was parked, Ty realized that hed forgotten to check the mail that day. Opening the jaws of his dragon shaped mailbox and reaching inside, he discovered that hed received a letter. Upon examination of the front of the envelope, Ty nearly fainted from shock.

- 69 -

It read: You may have won 10,000,000 dollars!!! Was it really addressed to him? Aye. Did it really have his name on it? Verily. He read it again and again, just to be sure his eyes were not deceiving him, and each time the letter said the exact same thing. I have just won ten million dollars. Im rich! Filthy stinking rich! To be safe, he folded the envelope up and put it in the cargo pocket of his cargo shorts, finding a pack of gum in the process. Oh cool, gum. This is turning out to be a pretty good day, he said out loud to no one in particular. He opened the passenger door of his Geo Metro and slid into the drivers seat. Now, should I get the stew or the chicken first? Ty felt a brief buzz on his leg. He took out his phone and read the text message: From GRRM: Get the stew first so the chicken is still hot when you get here. Ty drove off wondering how his boss had sent a text from a rotary phone.

- 70 -

PARRIS
(submitted by porkins)

She smoked her way across the narrow swath of garden.

The new crop of chiles was coming in nicely. Its nice, she reflected, to know that Ive grown something. Planted the seeds, nurtured the young plants, and then tending them until they bore fruit. It may seem a small thing to some, but she felt a hint of satisfaction from seeing through the project. Then a new thought troubled her. Thisll just lead to more calls for my chili con queso. And I suppose all Ill get for my troubles will be another condescending Thanks, Phipps! Thats not my name anymore. It was the term of endearment for a much younger woman. A different woman, even. The world had looked different then, too. Possibilities stretched out before her. Her man had shown promise and drive. The moderate success in Hollywood had left them comfortable, and that had been parlayed into further success. The books had been more well-received than either of them had hoped. But then...no, that just leads to more anguish. She stubbed out her Pall Mall in the rusty, overflowing coffee can. Have to get Ty to see to that. With a heavy sigh, she made her slow ascent of the porch stairs, her wracked and weary body protesting every tread. Years, she thought bitterly, decades even, spent as his assistant and partner. No one knows the toll its taken. Pretending to like stories about knockoff X-Men characters, the late-night excursions to the corner market to assuage his Hostess jones, the endless dusting of miniatures and knockoff swords. And now that damned library tower to look after, too. And himself seldom able to mount the stairs, much less anything else. She ambled walked through the kitchen to the hallway, noting the dribbled trail of Horsey sauce leading back to the office. George, she screeched, Wheres Ty? Why aint he here yet? The butt bucket needs emptyin agin. A muffled reply came down the hallway, sounding like a sloth being smothered by a pillow. Swalla first, I cant unnerstand you! I sent him out for some chicken and stew! I wanted a snack before dinner. The nasally sound of his voice worked its way through her body, making her shoulders hunch in and tying her own innards into knots. Even after all these years... Well, get im on the smoke bucket when hes back. We oughta get somethin fer his wages. I might need his help with the book, though. If only it were so. But false hopes draw true blood. Just get im on the bucket before he starts in on screenin yer blog. Aw Phipps...Ive told you its not really a blog. She ignored that last as she moved on to the living room and her own computer. He lies so well that he believes it himself. Checking her email, she finds several requests for conplanning advice, as well as inquiries after Mystic Spiral Trader t-shirts. No. Never again. Then, it caught her eye.

- 71 -

A post on a message board. Someone expressed doubt about him finishing the books. I have my own doubts, but you go too far, ser. She fought back her desire to lash out at he offender, but remembered that someone else would likely take care of the problem. Let Elio do it; Ive got to go wash under the rolls and folds anyway.

- 72 -

GEORGE
(submitted by scorpiknox)

Ty had taken his sweet fucking time getting here with the the Popeyes and Dinty Moore, but hed finally shown up with the food. George had wolfed down the chicken and biscuits, eating the skin first then putting the chicken and gravy in the bucket with the biscuits and honey, and mashing it all to a paste with his thick, powerful fingers. For dessert hed pried open the cans of stew and slurped out their contents at room temperature. Hed managed to get most of it down his throat, but a sizable amount had dribbled into his neckbeard. He left the mess; the droppings would make for a nice crispy snack later. For the moment, George was done feasting. He rolled his slashed velvet office chair along the wooden floor of his office, passing by his writing computer for the fifth time that afternoon. Saddling up to the internet machine, he opened up his itinerary for the upcoming trip to Chicago. Only his most trusted advisers knew the truth: C2E2 was but a means to an end. Of course he would graciously show up and sign autographs in between meals, but his true motivation for going was to at long last confront those who had lead the faction of traitors and turncoats that dared question him. Liotta and Pesci would be there. The day of reckoning would soon be at hand, and George planned on emerging from the impending battle victorious. Finish the book George indeed, he thought. It is you who will be finished when I am through eviscerating you with the power and fury of my eloquence. George smiled at this, and a small chunk of potato fell onto the keyboard. Like a striking cobra, his hand shot out and back to his mouth, placing the morsel between his front teeth. He slowly bit down, imagining that the potato was the head of Liotta squishing under the might of his wrath. A glimmer of motion coming from the window caught his attention. It was a beautiful day outside, warm and sunny with nary a cloud in the sky. Ty was in the yard leading his LARP group in their daily training exercises. As good a day as any for it. The twelve of them wore the white and gold foam and plastic amour of the GRRMsguard. Theyd sworn an oath to protect their Liege, and would pretend fight to the death to protect the honor of the man that sat in his office watching them. Duct tape and foam swords clashed under the sun, and George could hear the smack-smack-smack of nerd-battle through the double paned glass. George was not a reckless man. Should he fall in the battle of words, he would still have his GRRMsguard at his side. They would circle him and protect him from that which he did not want to hear by singing a rousing chorus of In the Air Tonight, Georges favorite song. Regardless of what may transpire, George would be safe from the dark voice of criticism. It is wise to plan for defeat, even when victory is assured, he thought. Ooh, that was good. I should write that down. I am a genius. He began typing, his otherwise clumsy fingers tapping with a precision borne of practice. Exactly, he typed. What he said. And can I at least take a few days off? This is my blog last time I checked. He was writing his legacy, and it was not A Dance with Dragons. He was writing his battle plan.

- 73 -

NEIL
(submitted by aussiechris)

The celebrated knight Ser Neil of Gaiman stepped out of the darkness of the keeps main building into the sun dappled courtyard. Neil still had a pleasant afterglow from what he and the other members of the GRRMsguard had done to Roland of Gilead. How had that knave had the temerity to question the Lord of all he surveyed, George of Martin? They certainly put him in his place. George is not your bitch thundered through Neils head. He was quite proud of being the man who had created that line from which there was no defense. Truth be told the GRRMsguard should have known that Roland was a traitor, even his name bespoke of an allegiance to another King. One from the faraway Kingdom of Maine, he was a hack who the small people liked and was incredibly wealthy, but unlike Ser Neil he had not been the champion of San Jose and Montreal and come away with the glittering prize of the Hugo. A shadow crossed the handsome knights face as he remembered that his own Lord, George of Martin had also not won a Hugo for his long fiction, but it was not something that any of the GRRMsguard dared mention in front of him. He became enraged and started shouting for the head of Queen Jo of Hogswart. It had been a good day, Neils work here was down and he was about to break his contract with the GRRMsguard and go home. He really wanted to paint his house. He was about to order two of his lackeys to run and get him a color card and some paint pots, he had to get the shade in his library just right, when a cloud scudded across the sun and darkness settled over the courtyard. Ser Neil looked up and striding towards him was a knight all armored in black. His helm was fashioned to resemble a snarling dog. How had he even gotten into the Keep of Broken Promises? Never mind that, he the great Ser Neil of Gaiman would handle the black knight. Before he could challenge the newcomer a gravelly voice issued from behind that fearsome helm Wheres that fat sack of suet you call a Lord? The arrogance of the man! Neil was taken aback for a moment, but then he rallied and boldly replied Im not your bitch! While Neil was still congratulating himself on his unmatchable wit the black armored knights shield smashed into his face, breaking his nose and shattering his teeth. Neil fell to the flagstones of the courtyard and stared up at the fearsome knight looming over him. Tell your obese, lazy master that the Brave Companions are coming. the black knight growled. Who are you? Neil whimpered through a mouthful of broken teeth. The name is Iblis...bitch.

- 74 -

BRIENNE MIR
(submitted by mir8182)

Mir was late for work again! She shoved a handful of papers into her bag and dashed out of the house not realizing that she had left her favorite pen on her desk. Her stomach started to complain on the long trip to work and she wiped the drool off her velvet slashed t-shirt as she dreamt of all the food she could be eating. Warm toast dripping with butter, cereal soaked with milk...coffee......Still, she decided it would probably not be a good idea to turn home. She kept her vows. And she needed her job. It was not until she arrived at her desk that Mir realised someone had stolen her favorite pen! Asshats! Mir vowed she would do no work until she had her pen back so she set off on a long and arduous search. Excuse me, ser, Mir addressed the tubby man behind the receptionist desk. The man had seen better days, his beard was unkempt and his shirt was stained with food. Possibly tomato sauce. He looked like an outlaw but Mir was not daunted. She kept her vows. Have you seen my pen? Its blue with a red lid. It may have been travelling with an eraser or perhaps a pencil. No, he grunted dismissively. Try the stationery cupboard. Mir declined to enter into his trap and resumed her search. She wandered all day up and down the long corridors. She was almost caught by her boss three times but each time she deviously ducked into the toilet and avoided capture. Will I never find my blue pen? She thought desolately to herself. Many times throughout the day, Mir nearly gave up her fruitless search but no, she had to keep her vows. She had to find her blue pen with the red lid. Finally, tired of avoiding work, Mir made her sad way home certain that her pen was lost. But when she arrived, what did she see? Her pen! And to think she had wasted all day and all your time in reading this piece of garbage when she was never going to find what she was looking for at work!

- 75 -

ARST4N
(submitted by kehnonymous)

The air in this mothers basement was redolent with the dank musty stench of mildewed raiments from Hot Topic and discarded porn. Arst4n Whitebeards piglike eyes glistened in the dim light as his stubby, lint-crusted fingers pried open another smallpurse of Cheetos. He mixed it together with pease and loudly devoured the pasty drab-colored gruel. A rat wandered across his desk. It looked at Arst4n, recoiled away in disgust and scurried back towards its hole. He was an ageless enigma to the few who knew him. If hed had any friends... but he did, once upon a time. For a time hed found common cause with The Brave Companions, a stalwart band of brothers. And then, hed learned, sisters too. And that led to the scandal with the pictures. Theyd shunned him, then. Hed begged for forgiveness, after all - he claimed - he was but a man not yet grown, a mere lad of three and ten whod spent the last ten years in his mothers basement. His pleas had fallen upon deaf ears and Slynt himself had put him to the banhammer. Tonight, all those worries took a backseat to 4chan.com. His fingers danced over the keyboard until he found a maiden slight of bosom and tight in the arse, with a crimson and gold cat costume. Yes, his lioness of Lannister. He dug under his breeches and dirty grey smallclothes and fumbled vainly for his little pink prick Fap, fap, fap... From the stairs above, the door opened and his mother peered down into the basement. Hey, you! His mother preferred to yell at him from the top of the stairs. Fap, fap, fap... Gods, lad, it smells awful down here! How long has it been since you last showered? Answer me, damnit! Are you there? Arst4n, he blurted. WHAT IN BLAZES ARE YOU DOING?!, his mother screamed. Arst4n Arst4n. Aaaaarst4n. Arst4n. Look, Im only going to say this once. Clean up this pigsty now and get a job. Arst4n? His mother slammed the door shut. Arst4n turned back to 4chan.com and imagined what it would be like to interact with real, actual women. Arst4nnnnnnn... His ardor suitably diverted, he thought once again of the Brave Companions and remembered that their fight was his fight too. He looked up his browsers old bookmarks and found George R. R. Martins Not-A-Blog. He worked long into the night and, by the gods, The Mountain that Didnt Write and his legion of sycophants would be in for a surprise the next morning.

- 76 -

GEORGE
(submitted by krafus)

On a dark night, George sat in his dark chair at his dark desk inside his dark library tower, hunched over his computer. Hed spent most of day posting venomous messages about the Republican Party on a dozen political message boards, then hed spent an hour replying to emails, then another hour putting the final touches to his plan to deal once and for all with Pesci and Liotta, then finally hed spent his usual five minutes of writing A Dance with Dragons. That last task had exhausted him mentally, also as usual, so hed prepared to turn off his computer. But then, on a whim, hed decided to go view the responses his latest brilliant posts had garnered. It was a very good thing he had. Again, he thought darkly. Again there was a seditious post among the comments. And not only was that stain in response one of the messages he truly cared about, those that stood a chance of directly earning him a profit, but he strongly suspected it had been implanted there by one of his new Enemies. Those who defied him, mocked him, and much worse, had probably prevented a number of sales of waterlogged RPG books and crappy miniatures. The Brave Companions. As if Pesci and Liotta werent enough! The message that had attracted his attention and then his ire read thus:

Quote:
slyntrage wrote: Apr 1, 2010, 00:00 am (UTC) Hello, Mr. Martin! Im so very glad that youve provided me and everyone else with the opportunity to buy the next exciting Wild Cards volume. Id be even more grateful if I also had the opportunity to buy A Dance with Dragons, though. Do you remember A Dance with Dragons? Your supposed number one priority? The 800-pound gorilla on your shoulders? I know I do. In fact, I know nearly everyone else who visits your billboar I mean blog does, too, because messages even tangentially related to ASOIAF receive about ten times as many responses as this one likely will. Had you noticed that? Anyway, I know this message doesnt have a snowballs chance in Hell of surviving your or your lackey Tys scrutiny, or myself of avoiding being hit by the banhammer, so I just wanted to drop by and wish you a happy All Fools Day. Because all fools must be what you think of the suckers who buy the stuff you peddle or still believe youll someday finish Dance. P.S: SLYNT RAGE!!!1!!

Infuriating. The all fools part was true as far as Georges opinion of the people who visited his blog went, but the whole thing was intolerable all the same. And, given that it was a certain someone elses task to prevent negative posts from ever being seen by Georgey pigeons who visited his website, inexcusable. George quickly deleted the offending post and banned slyntrage, an operation hed become more familiar with than programming his DVR to record all NFL-related programs (which took some doing) and that hed come to think of as hitting on the head with a hammer a filthy mole that had tunnelled into the pristine garden where his fair lady Parris grew pot. Banhammer, yes, I like that one. That task done, he straightened up and spun his massive chair around. TY!! he bellowed, his voice resonating throughout the dimly-lit tower. Often, George liked to think that if he shouted loudly enough, hed shake the places foundations. Get in here, you lazy good-for-nothing layabout! Quick footsteps echoed, coming closer and closer, then a middle-aged man came into the room, panting. A quick look into Georges fierce raptor eyes (or so he liked to think of

- 77 -

them) and frowning expression was all Ty needed to know he was in trouble again, and his gaze sought the safety of the polished floor. I found another defiant message which I strongly suspect come from those vermin who call themselves the Brave Companions, George intoned. Even worse, it was in my latest sales pitch, which means it could have cost me a few sales before I spotted it. Which means Ill have to deduct from your salary again. You cant like that, can you? No, Mr. Martin. Ty answered quickly in a tight, frightened voice, still refusing to meet his Lord and Masters gaze. Its your task to locate and root out that sort of filth before anyone else sees it. Why didnt you? Im- Im sorry, Mr. Martin. As I told you, I had an appointment with my ophthalmologist late this afternoon. When did you tell me that? Three times yesterday, Mr. Martin. And three more times the week before yesterday, when I thought I had won 10 million dollars. George didnt recall those conversations, but then again that wasnt surprising given he tended to pay real attention only to conversations about football, politics, nipple-twisting or possible profits. Over the years hed developed the ability of appearing to have every bit of his attention focused on the other person speaking to him, even though he was secretly thinking of more pleasant things and wished the annoying loser would just wander away. Or better yet, wander away after buying some bit of merchandise. At least then it partially made up having to pretend to care about their vapid conversation. Anyway, Ty wouldnt dare lie to him. Not after the punishment hed received the last time George had suspected him of doing so. George let the silence drag on several moments, until Ty began helplessly wringing his hands. Knowing from experience it meant his lackey was all but bursting with tense nervousness, he finally spoke up. Very well. Ill let it slide. This time. But youd better not slip up again like this anytime soon. Yes, Mr. Martin. The relief in Tys voice was palpable. No matter what their profession, Ty, all people who call themselves professionals must be able to finish their tasks and duties on time, no matter whether it was their bosses or they themselves who assigned that due date. Yes, Mr. Martin. Now that the danger was past, Ty finally dared look up and meet his employers eyes. Except when you become rich and popular, like me, George went on, a smile growing on his face. Then you can do whatever the hell you want and get away with it. You can ignore your fans, go on any number of vacations, focus on the activities that really matter to you, and as long as you give out the occasional breadcrumb of hope that theyll get what they want, the great majority of the idiots will do whatever you want them to, and even defend you tooth and nail against the minority of detractors who may have arisen in the meanwhile. His smile vanished, and he turned his chair to look at the computers darkened screen. Too bad they havent yet found a way to rid the Internet of the Brave Companions, but

- 78 -

Ill settle for them being contained to their little crummy website while I deal with Pesci and Liotta. You said their numbers were growing only slowly, correct? Yes, Mr. Martin! Ty answered eagerly, but then his tone grew hesitant. Although Georges head snapped around and his gaze impaled his assistants before it could flee again. Although what? I I havent had time yet to write a full report, Mr. Martin, but March 25 wasnt a good day for us due to an unfortunate confluence of events. The Toronto Star article linking to the Companions website, Ran allowing a link to that article to subsist on his website for several hours, and, ah, your posting duel with the prominent Companion Iblis all combined to boost the Companions guests numbers and new adherents to record levels. Those have tapered off since then, but theyve made definite gains. Damn it! I knew I should have banned that punk Iblis after his first post, but I couldnt help it! He was contradicting me and indirectly supporting the Republicans! I know, Mr. Martin, I know, Ty said in the most soothing voice he could muster. I assure you, even if they exceed all my projections, the Brave Companions will never be more than a thorn in your side. Im not so sure about that. They just got past you and maybe cost me a few sales didnt they? But Georges anger had passed, and this time there was no real vehemence in his voice. Ah, to hell with them. Bring me supper. This time I want an all-dressed extralarge pizza instead of stew and chicken. He didnt need to add that the pizza would be all for himself. Yes, Mr. Martin!

- 79 -

WERTHEAD
(submitted by montage)

The Watcher on the Web clicked on the reply icon and sat back in his chair pondering his next move on the sffworld forum. That should shut this GRRuMp up for a while he thought to himself with smug satisfaction as he snorted a line of coke. It all started with a promise a few years ago. Promise me Adam he could still hear Parriss voice pleading with him to stand vigilant against the darkness. In the early days it was easy to fend off the odd disgruntled fan by boring them out of their minds with long winded posts. But since the Uprising of the Brave Companions and the Others Pesci and Ray, the detractors were out in full force these days and his burden was getting heavier and their counter arguments harder for him to disprove. And as each year passed into another with no Dance the common folk were growing more and more restless

The night was still young but he still had another twenty two fantasy forums he needed to check on, post on the NAB about NFL and mollify his dealer yet again as hed blown the rest of his funds on water damaged Wildcards merchandise. He ground his teeth together. I really wish GRRM would provide me with an assistant so I dont need to resort to stimulants he sighed to himselfperhaps if I ask him again? I havent slept in over a week or changed my small clothes. He pondered on this possibility for a moment and thought better of it. Perhaps not, especially after what happened last time he shuddered to himself remembering being beaten by Ran and Linda with his own replica sword Needle until his arse cheeks were bloody and his cock turned black. Only the Master and Neil Gaiman were deemed worthy to have assistants...

Werthead knew he needed sleep desperately, hed even slipped up badly on Westeros lately and one night during a frenzy when hed snorted too much coke even dared to disagree with GRRM on his NAB. He wouldnt be surprised to receive a summons from the High Council soon and likely have his nipples twisted or worse, even torn off to add to the collection of dried up nipples adorning GRRMs bulging neck . His recent meeting with Shawn was also distracting to Wert and he couldnt stop thinking about their recent conversation. Although he loathed Shawn and would dearly love to throw him through the Moon Door he had to wonder whether ADWD was in fact on schedule. If this was true then his Watch could end for a few years or at least until the inevitable delay of the next instalment. He may even be able to realise his dream of starting a hobby farm and raise zorses and breed noble goats and chickens that are not chickens... He realised his drug addled thoughts were bordering on treachery and firmly chanted his mantra I am the Watcher on the Web, the shield that guards the purity of all things related to GRRM. I shall hold no lands, father no children, have no social life until all the detractors are dead or have been converted and seen the error of their ways. I pledge my utmost... The telephone rang, interrupting his rambling. Werthead tentatively answered hoping it was not his dealer, a rasping voice responded... I am coming.....bitch.

- 80 -

TY
(submitted by kehnonymous)

Hed been a mere lad of two and twenty when he first set foot in the library tower. And now Im a published author.. er, half-published. He allowed himself a little skip in his step as he strolled into the smallkitchen to sort his masters latest shipment of Dinty Moore Venison Stew. They were stacked twelve pallets wide and ten high and by Tys reckoning, this shipment would sate his masters appetites for a good fortnight. Parris sauntered in, cigarette in hand as always. She wore a verdant green Mystic Spiral tunic today with an embroidered silver dragon, the one hed preordered in bulk for himself, his parents and his Friday night LAN party gang. Well met, Parris, stammered Ty, affecting a courtly, if mawkish, half-bow. Oh yall LARPers are so cute with yer medieval thing, Parris absently puffed on her Pall Mall, expertly flicking ash onto a badly painted Jaime miniature. How fares milady on this vernal evening? Parris gave an amused chortle and sat down at the bar. I reckon theres trouble brewing from the Brave Companions, askin questions they got no business askin... PHIPPS! MY SHIRT IS STUCK TO MY BACK! came the roar from above. She rolled her eyes and continued. Ty, hon, this is serious as it gets. Aint seen anything like this mob and I know that Ran and his council will do what for, but George needs a right hand attendant, at this convention jig... especially this convention jig... needs someone to hear his yammerin - he gets so needy at times - and yall been great and I aint officially passed the torch but I think its time that... Of course, of course! I live to serve, he replied earnestly. Ty. Good ol reliable Ty, she tousled his thinning hair. Dyou ever wonder what George means when he talks about whacking away at the Mereenese knot? Well, you know thats not something he shares, even with me. Martin had always been free with his counsel regarding Fevre Dream or Wild Cards, but of A Dance with Dragons, not even Ty had heard a word. Silly, silly Ty, she favored him with a throaty chortle We all know hes got his limits in that department, but wake up and smell the reefer, boy. A Dance with Dragons aint the only thing he hasnt accomplished in the last five years, if ya follow my meaning. Dont care what that Speakman git says - you cant just let a garden go neglected. A meaningful glance, and then Parris turned away towards the side closet. Was she really...? Shes a passing fair sight still and not much worse than my wife Do you... require assistance untying your Mereenese knot, milady? Gods, George AND Parris both need me... Hope against hope... Parris laughter boomed across the hall. And who you nominating? You? A man full grown he calls you! Hah! Heard its been a long time since you last took the pink, so Ill thank yall to keep your council and keep it in your pants, amateur boy.

- 81 -

Tys cheeks burned. Parris laughed again, softer this time, at seeing his crestfallen expression. Oh come on, you silly. Turn that frown upside down. Parris fumbled in the closet for something, coughing out peals of laughter. But seriously, thanks for the laugh, you kewpie, I sure needed that, as she tousled his hair again. I aint cracked up so hard since I spiked my weed with catnip. Might even make the sponge bath bearable. She found the brush and sponge and was still giggling as she departed up the library tower. Ty silently resumed his chores. Parris chuckles echoed in his mind as he prepared the rest of the venison stew for his masters midnight feeding.

- 82 -

GEORGE
(submitted by krafus)

Lets see, George mused, going over Plan B2 once again as he sat at night in front of his computer in his library tower. I will lure Pesci and Liotta into a trap with the promise of an interview in some darkened building or alley, but I wont be there. Instead, Ill pick out the best combination of beauty and star-struck dumbness I can find among my female fans at that convention, and have fun with her nipples that night. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together will have to acknowledge that that is a much more preferable activity to being interviewed by two nerds, therefore providing me with a rocksolid alibi. Meanwhile, when Pesci and Liotta get there, theyll be set upon by my Faceless Men and dealt with. True, the Faceless Men were in fact a sub-sect of his fans much more prominent for their fanatical devotion to him than for their fighting skills, but even so, at ten-to-two odds, they should be able to overcome two more wimpy nerds like themselves. As to how the Faceless Men had come to know the location and hour of the interview so as to intercept Pesci and Liotta, why, they had bugged the two Others hotel room even before they arrived. That the suggestion to do so, along with directions to electronics stores that sold that kind of stuff, would have come from George would never be discovered. The emails would have been carefully deleted and erased (George had accumulated a lot of experience at deleting stuff over the years), and the Faceless Men would die before they betrayed him. George chortled. Another brilliant, perfect, foolproof plan! Now that the Brave Companions were making more and more of a nuisance of themselves, George had decided he needed more than one plan to deal with Pesci and Liotta. After all, he couldnt be sure exactly what would be the conditions when he got to the convention, so it was best to be prepared for all possible eventualities. And so, hed made the huge sacrifice of foregoing two daily hours of cruising NFL and political discussion forums in favor of creating a myriad of plans to deal with Pesci and Liotta. Hed created plans A1 to A10, was now in the process of finishing the B series, and had begun work on the C series. George had already decided that C4 would involve the explosive of the same name, though he had no idea where he could get his hairy hands on that kind of stuff. Ah well. Varietys why Im creating so many plans. And it was so much more fun than even pretending to write A Dance with Dragons Suddenly his dark study was illuminated as brightly as if a piece of the sun had appeared behind him. The blinding light lasted only a second, but it was enough to blind George as he heard the sound of wood ominously creaking under the weight of something tremendously heavy. He closed his eyes and instinctively raised his arms defensively in front of his face. Is someone in here? he called out, his voice tight with fear. We are, a male voice answered calmly. George was sure hed never heard it before, yet it was familiar all the same. His heart beating wildly in his heart, he pivoted his chair and stood up, preparing to flee. Sit down. We are not here to harm you, the voice said in a reassuring tone. Some invisible force took hold of George and gently but frimly sat him back down in his huge chair.

- 83 -

George, gripping the armrests tightly, his vision still blurry, was anything but reassured. What had the intruders just done to him? And what did they want with him? They couldnt be assassins sent by the Others or the Enemies, otherwise hed already be dead. Robbers like the one who had stolen one of his replica sword two years ago? That made more sense. But why take the risk of revealing themselves to him? To get him to admit where hed hidden some his stash of undeclared money? Could they be IRS agents? We are not here to steal your money or arrest you for tax evasion, George, the voice said. Georges heart leapt in his throat. They could read his mind! Yes, we can. Well, at least two of us can. I doubt the third member of our party can be bothered to do so There was a note of immense weariness in the voice. Georges vision finally cleared and he behold the three strangest beings hed ever seen. The middle one was a plump, bearded man in a stylish suit that seemed made of shining gold from head to feet, clothes and shoes included. The second was an incredibly, no, inhumanly fat, bearded man with huge food stains on his frumpy clothes sitting in the left corner of the room. George thought he could see the floor actually bending under the mans weight. Presumably this intruder had been the source of the creaking sound hed heard earlier. The third, most normal one, sitting in the right corner of the room, was another plump man in threadbare clothes right out of the seventies. As George watched him, the man gave a huge yawn and slumped back against the wall, looking as unconcerned as could be. With a start, George realized that all three men, in one distorted way or another, looked like him. So we do, the golden man agreed with a small nod. He was the one who had been speaking to George thus far, and now realized that his voice sounded somewhat like his own. We like to take forms at least a little familiar who those we seek out. Our true shapes would drive you instantly to madness. Who are you? George gasped fearfully. The golden man smiled, as did the grossly fat one. Even the slumped one seemed amused, in a detached sort of way. Why, George, Im almost offended, the golden man said. Dont you recognize us? Youve been one of our greatest disciples almost all your life. The golden man waved at himself. I am the Sin of Greed. He pointed to the impossibly fat one. This is Gluttony. He waved at the unconcerned, slumped man. And this is Sloth. Greeds smile widened. We are here to offer you incredible magical powers in return for certain things. Again Georges heart sped up, but this time it was in eagerness. Incredible magical powers? He could be a superhero like those in his beloved Wild Cards series! He would be able to smite the Others and the Enemies with righteous magical fury! But wait. Just what do you mean by certain things? he asked warily. As a veteran reader of fantasy fiction, hed read about far too many deals with evil supernatural beings that had been anything buy advantageous to the mortals who made those deals. Not much. Just the souls of a few hundreds of your fans. The GRRiMlins, I believe they are called in some quarters?

- 84 -

George frowned a little. Ty tells me thats what the Brave Companions call them. I prefer Martinis, it sounds more classy. Martinis, then. The souls of a hundred Martinis for each of us Sins. That would be one of the easiest bargains George had ever made. What did he care about three hundred losers hed probably never known and almost certainly never would have known in any case? As far as George was concerned, the vast majority of his fans were a thoroughly expendable, easily replaceable resource. Like Star Trek red shirts, he thought. A nice analogy, Greed said, his smile widening. So, do we have a deal? Was it Georges imagination, or was Greed glowing a little more brightly, Gluttony becoming a little fatter, and Sloth slumping even more? We do! George exclaimed with an enthusiastic nod. Incredible magical powers at that cheap a price? Hell yes! Excellent! Well begin collecting those souls tomorrow. Theyll keep on living, mind you, but theyll live unhappy, unfulfilling liv George frowned and gave a sharp wave of his right hand to interrupt Greed. I dont care about that. Tell me what powers Ill have instead. Very well. Some powers you will have or experience immediately, others will appear with the passage of time. Still, let it not be said that we Sins do not try to immediately satisfy those we make bargains with. Therefore, from me, you will now and forevermore have the power, by focusing your mind, to attract all loose, forgotten change that could be lying about within thirty feet of you as if you were magnetized! George blinked. What? From me, Gluttony said, his voice low and wavering, you now and forevermore have the power to locate and bring to yourself by levitation all leftover food within thirty feet that hasnt yet been put to trash. You can use this power by focusing your mind and thinking about free food. What?! George asked again, more loudly. Greed looked at Sloth, who yawned again, for a few instants, then back at George. Im afraid Sloth is too lazy to bother communicating with a puny mortal, so he asked me to pass on his message. From him, you now and forevermore have the power to, by touching someone else, make that person so lazy he or she wont do anything productive for a whole week. Once that week has passed, you can use the power again. What?! George asked a third time, nearly shouting. But those are all lame-ass powers! And Im already capable of not doing anything productive for months, what do I care about imparting that power to others for a week?! I want really useful or powerful ones, like flying or throwing lightning or becoming invulnerable! You should have bargained for powers like those before you accepted our deal, Greed said, the Sins smile turning mocking. Caveat emptor applies here, Im afraid, and in any case the price of such powers would have been much higher. Still, as I mentioned, you will gain other magical powers as time goes by. Who knows, perhaps in time youll acquire some you actually like. The Sins began to fade away.

- 85 -

Wait! George shouted desperately. We can make another deal! Take more of my fans souls! Take thousands of them! Tens, hundreds of thousands! But his entreaties were futile. A few instants later, the Sins were completely gone. The floor where Gluttony had been sitting creaked again as it returned to its original, intended shape. George just felt like weeping.

- 86 -

TAIRY
(submitted by silentmajority)

A blinding light swept over him along with a piercing noise that caused him to cradle his head into his arms. What was happening he wondered? As the light and noise receded Tairy raised his head and staggered forward, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. The room he had been sitting in a while ago was gone, replaced with ivory trees, a glistening rainbow that stretched across the horizon, and to his East he saw twelve leprechauns, six were sitting around a pot ogold pounding down pints of Guinness while the other six were dancing an Irish jig. To the North there was a huge tower that seemed to dwarf the rest of the world, and above that tower there was a flesh colored cratered moon that had a deep crack down the center, and shoved deep in that crack was a dark, dead thorn.... Ahh Shit! Tairy mumbled and looked towards the heavens. Whos the asshole who put me in a fantasy novel? I dont do fantasy you fuckers! Im a serious literary mind. Damn you...damn you all to hell!! Laughter was soon heard from behind the bushes, and Tairy instinctively groped his sword that wasnt there. He quickly reached towards the nearest ivory tree and broke off a limb and proclaimed it the Stick of Truth then marched forward towards the giggles. Who dares laugh at me? Catching a glimpse of one of those people hiding in the bushes Tairy had a hardy laugh himself. You might as well step out from the shadows, I know a GRRiMlin when I see one. Despite being strategically placed in a fantasy story he knew that all GRRiMlins dressed the same no matter where they were found. No shirt, no shoes, only chaps! Tairy leaned over and threw up as this reminded him of when Speakman was wearing his chaps on the dance floor dancing to the song, Pants on the Ground. Now that was truly disgusting he thought... The GRRiMlin leader moved forward. He was sitting high on a unicorn that wasnt a unicorn, but actually a dairy cow. He was wearing his ceremonial pink chaps and a feather headdress, he also had the body odor of someone unfamiliar with a shower. Behind him stepped seven other GRRiMlins they too were wearing nothing but chaps; however, theirs were yellow. Tairy noticed that they were armed with rolled up unpublishable Manuscripts that would drive anyone who read it insane. In comparison they were so bad that they made a Sword of Truth novel look....well not much better, but better. Tairy held out the Stick of Truth and pointed it menacingly at the leader. Where am I, and what are you doing here? I am James of the Speculating Horizon and these are my lands. I am the Soiled GRRiMlin Will you bow down and worship Georges Moon? I worship no man, GRRiMlin.... Tairy pushed the Stick of Truth further into James face. What are you doing? These leaves from your stick are tickling my nose... Haha. The Soiled GRRiMlin was about to have his men attack when out from the Stick of Truth shot a flock of birds that werent birds, but actually squirrels! The squirrels tore apart most of the GRRiMlins as they went for their jugular and the Achilles tendons. Blood sprayed over Tairys face who laughed at the sight he saw. It wasnt long before the field was covered with corpses. The Leprechauns were hooting and hollering as they were placing wagers on who would win the battle . The only GRRiMlin

- 87 -

left standing was James the Soiled GRRiMlin, besides having both his nipples gnawed off and one of his butt cheeks torn away James was unharmed. So there they stood facing each other. James reached down and grabbed another rolled unpublishable manuscript, so he now held one in each hand. Tairy plucked one leaf off of the Stick of Truth and set the stick aside, now only wielding a leaf for a weapon. You will bow down and worship Georges Moon or you will die stranger. With lightning quick speed Tairy moved on the offensive and disemboweled the Soiled GRRiMlin with one swipe of the leaf. Strangely he noticed how James smelled better now that he was disemboweled. However, without missing a beat he strangled the GRRiMlin with his own intestines. Having finished everyone off he grabbed his stick and headed over to the Leprechauns for a seat and a beer, and also to count all his lucky charms he won. So George is getting aggressive and trying to take over huh? He said to no one in particular. I need to organize and go on the offensive myself before he realizes Ive dispatched his men. Ill need help, but from whom? Neither the GRRiMlins, nor the GRRuMblers like me. Itll need to be a two prong attack, so Ill need someone I can trust. What about Bob? mentioned the cherry nosed leprechaun. Yes! Bob Stanek has an ax to grind with both GRRiMlins, and GRRuMblers alike. Ill need to recruit him. Tairy slammed down the last of his beer, as he felt a tightening in his Zebra colored Zubaz. He realized that it had been a while since he raped something. Reaching over he grabbed his stick by the shaft and shook it violently until a chicken that wasnt a chicken, but actually a chipmunk fell from the branches. The chipmunk tried to get away, it was fast, but not as fast as Tairy! As he was bearing down on the chipmunk a blinding light swept over him which was followed by the piecing noise. He tried to cover his ears, but couldnt because his hands were somehow restrained. Shaking his head he realized that his arms were crossing his body with both his sleeves tied behind his back. The wilderness was gone, and he was now back in his room that was padded on the floors and walls. A young nurse stepped through the open door with a tray. You must release me! NOW! The GRRiMlins are coming and only the Stick of Truth can save us! Release me now. Im a serious literary mind, and only I can save the world! OK Mr. Goodkind, but first you need to take your medication alright? the nurse then set the tray down and unzipped his trousers, so he could give Tairy his medicine. He gulped and swallowed. I need to get a hold of Bob hell know how to get me out of... That was Tairys last thought before everything went blank.

- 88 -

RAN
(submitted by kehnonymous)

A dusky chill settled around the Tower of the Hand, and Ran felt his mood darken along with the evening sky. He strode over to the fire and put on another log, hoping that the room wouldnt stay so damnably cold. One could never get too comfortable in the spartan quarters he shared with Linda. The price of being warden over his Lordships followers. So went his house words: But the King abides, and so shall I. Still, theyd done what they could to call the forboding tower home. The silk tapestries, purchased from the merchants of Mystic Spiral bore his house sigil - a shirtless wizard riding a polar bear on a field of lightning bolts and a full moon. Would that this wizard come riding on his polar bear now - we have need for one. Iblis assault on Ser Gaiman was unexpected, and an assault upon them all. Ran, sweetling, come play a MUSH game with me. Linda cooed, absently rearranging some Tyrell figurines in a defensive formation around their hand-painted Highgarden pewter replica. Damnit, woman, open your eyes! We are at war now. Real, bloody war, the kind fought at LARPS with foam swords and rubber shields. A miniature game when Ser Neil lies wounded under the septas care? I think not. He paused. Forgive me, lady, if I am wroth. Its beyond my power to ban these Companions from the forums, so I find myself at a loss. Linda came to him, and clasped his hands in hers. You are forgiven, but it is not my forgiveness you seek, it is Ser Martins. Gods, Ran, how could we have let things come to this? We have been charged with stewardship of his empire and with enforcing the loyalty of his subjects. And it has been our privilege to serve. Ser Neil spoke the words truly: George R. R. Martin is not our bitch. But we are his, and now we must prove it on the field. Send our legions to Chicago - and a thousand crowns to the man who brings back the heads of Liotta and Pesci Ran smiled. This was why he loved her, stretchmarks and all. Your will shall be done. No, Linda sweetly corrected. His will.

- 89 -

ARST4N
(submitted by silentmajority)

Little Jimmy awoke coated in sweat to his mother yelling at him from atop the stairs, Your late for work! Shacking his head, and rubbing his eyes he then glanced over at his calendar. Good he thought, I dont have to shower until next week. Swinging his feet onto the floor and sitting up he noticed that he wet the bed again. Damn he thought...oh well itll dry later. He stopped for a second to ponder his recurring dream. It had been a fun dream until this last time. Who was this Tairy guy he wondered? What was Georges Moon, and why did he instinctively want to lick and kiss it? He had a lot of questions, and no answers. Jimmmmmy, Grandmas waiting for you to bathe her! Hurry up! Just a second Ma! He reached over and unplugged his Betty blowup doll, and layed back and pondered some more. Except for the hissing of his deflating sex doll, Jimmy was surrounded by silence, and alone with his thoughts. Frustrated because of all his questions he got up and started to pick up all his cumshot photos until he came across one of his Grandfather. If only Grandpa Arst4n was here hed have the answers... He mumbled under his breath. James Arst4n never felt like he could live up to his Grandfathers name. He had a few friends online, but most of them didnt like his cumshot photos. He sighed. He tried to be a GRRuMbler, but they rejected him. He had to come to terms that he was just a lowly GRRiMlin. Not just any GRRiMlin though... I am the Soiled GRRiMlin he said to himself. I must get back to my lands! But first I must find out what the Tower and the flesh colored cratered moon with a dark dead thorn shoved in the crack is supposed to mean? James then hopped onto the naked lady machine and emailed The Big Guy in hopes that he could get some answers. Just then his Mom called back down the stairs reminding him that he still had to give his Grandma a sponge bath. Ill ask Grandma for a raise, and then fly to America to talk to Shawn! If George doesnt have the answers then surely Shawn will! With that James headed upstairs to begin his day of discovery.

- 90 -

GEORGE
(submitted by jaquelecaque)

George quickly finished typing about the NFL on his Not A Blog and hit submit. He had more to say on the subject but that would have to wait until his next entry. He had a more urgent matter to attend to. George had to pee. With much effort, he moved his bulk from his blogging chair onto his new Hoveround and headed towards the bathroom. As he passed his desk where he worked on A Dance With Dragons, he stopped. He looked at the computer and then slowly reached out and touched the keyboard. That counts. See you next month. He said aloud to the computer and then proceeded to the commode. George entered the tiny cramped bathroom. Actually, for anyone but George, the bathroom could be called spacious. He struggled to get off of the Hoveround and into the standing position. He did not need to unzip because he was undressed. Ty was making a run to Popeyes and Parris was shopping for a winged unicorn snowglobe. He had no one to dress him. He stepped to the commode and glanced down before his girth eclipsed the toilet. Hells! He roared. The toilet lid was down and on top of it was sitting an issue of Better Homes & Gardens. How could someone have forgotten to leave the lid up? He cursed Tys incompetence and Pariss negligence. He cursed his doctor for not installing the catheter and colostomy bag so he wouldnt have to suffer such nonsense as calls of nature. George made an attempt to reach the magazine and lid with his tubby arm. It was to far away. He would have to bend over. Very slowly he started to lean forward and as he did so, the fat on his back started shifting to the front threatening to unbalance him. This was not going to work. He gave up and reached under the rolls of his belly and grabbed hold of what he thought may be his penis. Even though he couldnt see his cock, he judged that he might have it aimed correctly at the toilet and then he let loose. First hitting the tank of the toilet he adjusted and a stream of piss hit the magazine and lid sending urine spatters all over the floor, toilet, toilet paper and his legs. Incompetent fools! George raged. Is something wrong, Master? George turned to see Ty standing in the hallway with two buckets of Popeyes and a sackful of Dinty Moore cans. Is something wrong? IS SOMETHING WRONG? Look! George screamed at Ty while pointing to the piss drenched toilet. Tys face paled as he saw that the lid was down. He could swore he left it up. Paris must have left it down. What was her reason? Ty grew worried. George continued to rail at him, Im much too busy and important to have to do something as trivial as lift a toilet seat! That is why I have you! You have failed me once again. I... Im sorry. Ty stammered. I didnt think to check it again before I left to get you chicken and stew.

- 91 -

Ill give you one last chance. Now... clean this mess up and throw that out. George said gesturing to the toilet and magazine. Ty took hold of the magazine and moved to throw it in the waste can. Wait. George said grabbing his arm. He reached under one of his breasts and produced a Sharpie. Hold it open. He ordered. Ty obeyed, holding open the issue of Better Homes & Gardens. Golden piss dripped from the magazine onto Tys new buckskin moccasin boots. Silently he cried to himself. Just another humiliation in a long list he has had and will suffer. George stretched his arm out, Sharpie in hand and signed the urine soaked magazine. Put that up for sale on my website. Six hundred dollars. Not a penny less. Ty frowned. Master, you havent even edited this. Do you think they will buy it for $600? George grimaced. It physically pained him to admit someone may be right, especially while they were there. Offer a Brienne miniature at a five percent discount to whomever purchases it. Ty knelt at Georges feet. The aroma of piss and cheese greeted him. Ty was reminded why he took this job. Thy will be done, Master.

- 92 -

TY
(submitted by loripetty)

Ty wasnt necessarily having the best day of his life; it just had the potential to be the best, which was, to him, just as good. He had already found two lucky pennies, and while not as many as his all time record of three, it made him confident. Maybe today would finally be the day when he would get a call back from that Nigerian prince about his $20,000 dollars. He adjusted the belt on his khaki shorts and lifted a bucket of miscellaneous filth to be dumped out over the fence into the neighbors backyard, as usual. He remained in a constant state of alertness as he descended the Library Tower steps. In that place, you had to develop acute senses to stay alive. The problem with the Library Tower stemmed from something George kept secret from everyone except Ty - he was running out of money. Ty, as Georges accountant - a temporary position, he had been assured - had noticed Georges accounts running dry, despite the annual $200 from the Wild Cards people, and the $50 from publishing anthologies. Because of these financial woes, the Library Tower was not actually finished. George had grand designs for the tower - including his very own Cinnabon stand inside but he kept changing his mind on what he wanted, and with each change, he lost more money that could have been used on more necessary things, such as insulation, actual load bearing walls, and a roof. The Tower had now taken on the qualities of a swamp, complete with water moccasins, carnivorous plantlife, and what legends called a Felhawk. Uneventfully, Ty reached the bottom of the sludge-filled fen known as the Library Tower. Before he could exit the Tower, however, he heard a cry for help from below the floorboards. He dropped the bucket and immediately searched for the source, finding a trap door. Inside the small basement was a bleach-blonde young woman wearing a velvet-slashed see-through evening gown (soiled velvet-slashed panties beneath) and a gold chain. She kept wailing, oblivious to Tys presence. From the cracked skin and bruises, Ty noticed that she had been abused, and for a very long time. Excuse me, hello! Ill help you! Whats your name? Ty asked, as he tried to find a key for the iron shackles. I...I dont know. What do you mean? He...he took my name. My real name. And now he calls me...Shae. Who? He had me cry out...my giant of Lannister! She wept, looking off into the distance beyond Ty. Ty got a closer look at her, his face frozen in a rictus of terror as realization flooded over him. How did I not find her sooner? Her gold chain was a pair of hands, crossed over.

- 93 -

RAY
(submitted by scorpiknox)

This new driver was really starting to piss him off. Liotta had hired him two weeks ago and still the man insisted on trying to start conversations with him. To be clear, Liotta had given him no reason to think that his overtures of familiarity were welcome. Even worse, the conversations were always about nothing even remotely interesting. Once, the idiot had even asked Liotta if he liked watching The Bachelor. What kind of a grown man watches The Bachelor? I miss Benny, Liotta muttered underneath his breath. Benny had been a quiet guy and a good worker. A good worker, but a shit soldier. Hed taken one to the chest over some bullshit that should have never gotten out of hand like it had. It was, as usual, all his older brothers fault, but what could he do, whack his own flesh and blood? Hey Ray, you know what I saw the other day on the news? There he went again. Talking. That was enough of that. Liotta leaned forward and put his hands on the drivers shoulders. His voice was low and sincere, and he was close enough to smell cheap aftershave. Listen, you motherfucker you. Your job is simple. Drive me to were I need to get to and keep your fucking mouth shut. I dont give a fuck if youre friends with my brother-inlaw. You want to talk, youre gonna be talking from the side of the road with a hole in your eye socket, lying in a fucking ditch. We clear? Liotta leaned back into his seat and caught the drivers terrified eyes in the rear view mirror. And dont you ever call me by my first name again or Ill put one in the back of your head at a stop light and make your buddy pay me for a new suit. Ray pulled out a cigarette, rolled the window down, and enjoyed the silence. Pesci had arranged to meet with him about some big news. Hed called Liotta last night sounding very excited, but he wouldnt say what it what about, not over the phone. At this point in the game, Ray was on his way more out of courtesy than anything else. I hate this half-assed cloak and dagger bullshit, he thought. Twenty minutes later they pulled up to Pescis club. Ray stepped out of the Lincoln, slamming the door behind him. After taking a deep, deliberate pull off of his cigarette, he bent down to look at his driver. OK, you just be back here in one hour. Not one hour and five minutes, not fifty five minutes, one hour. Ill call you if I need you. The man nodded emphatically, not saying a word. Whats a matter? Cat got your fucking tongue? Ray asked, laughing. OK, beat it you dumb mook. He slapped the man on the back of the head and the Lincoln screeched away. Ray took another puff, looked around at the dirty Chicago streets for a few moments, and headed inside. Night clubs were always depressing places when the sun was out, and The Sugar Baby was no exception. Joey had actually poured quite a bit of cash into the place, but daylight had a way of exposing things for what they really were, and, remodeled or not, the Sugar Baby was a dump. Rays shoes were tacky on the faded grey floors, the spilled booze from last nights revelry vaguely trying to hold him fast as he walked towards the bar.

- 94 -

He made eye contact with the bored looking bartender who promptly perked up at the sight of him and cocked his head towards the rear of the club. Mr. Pesci is waiting for you in his office, sir. Can I fix you something? Yeah, bring me a scotch, 3 cubes. Ill be in the back, Ray replied as he headed in towards Joeys office. How did his brother always find such good help? A sir and a scotch, very classy. Very fucking classy. Pesci was sitting at his desk. Two women on his computer screen were doing something to each other that Ray couldnt quite make out. A few clicks of a mouse and the screen went blank. Finally! Where the fuck you been? Youre breaking my balls over here, Joey spat out his words in continuous stream of anxious consciousness, I got this tub of shit downstairs sitting on a rusty traffic cone with three broken fingers, ten broken toes, along with a serious fucking attitude problem and you take your sweet goddamn time getting over here like I got all fucking day to wait for your sorry ass. Jesus, sorry Joey, whats so important it cant wait? Is this another one of your botched hijack jobs? How much you need this time? Ray had bailed his big brother out several times before. He always seemed to be in trouble, usually made worse by his volatile temper. Stuck in hot water caused by an even hotter head. No baby brother, it aint anything like that Ray was confused and Pescis tone became a near whisper, I fucking got one of them, He grinned as he said that last part. Ray had seen that grin before. The first time had been on Rays 12th birthday, right before Joey had stabbed their step-dad in the liver. Hed used pinking shears. Youve really got to want to kill someone one to stab them in the liver with a set of pinking shears. Ray knew all too well that the grin on his brothers face meant that someone close by was very severely and completely screwed. Got one of them? What are you talking about? One of them. They. The fucking thorns in our side for the last five years! Pesci was bubbling over like a bottle of toxic champagne. Wait, you caught a GR- A GRRiMlin! And not just any GRRiMlin, a god damned bona-fucking-fide GRRMsguard! Joey took a breath, I gotta calm down. Blood pressure, fuck, my hearts gonna burst. He pulled out a bottle of pills from his desk and stuffed a small dry handful down his throat. A world away, Liotta was reeling from the implications of what his brother had just told him. A GRRMsguard in their custody would open up a whole host of possibilities, if handled with the necessary care of course. His thoughts soured as he remembered Joeys peculiar dispositions and inclinations, snapping him back to the here and now. How bad is he? Ray asked. What do you mean? I already fucking told you. Four broken fingers and ten broken toes. Other than that I havent touched him, Pesci stood up from his desk, buttoning his pants. I thought you said it was three fingers. Ah, who gives a shit. Lets go downstairs and Ill introduce you

- 95 -

As they were leaving the office, the bartender brought Ray his scotch. Good, he made it a triple.

- 96 -

LISA
(submitted by silentmajority)

Shae watched as his dopey eyes grew in agony until Ty said, I gotta pee! He got up and walked out the door locking it behind him. Shae sighed and thought Well at the very least now I know what wouldve happened to Forrest Gump if hed been a pothead. The door hadnt been open long enough for her eyes to focus, so she still didnt know what kind of room she was in and what was in it. Next time she thought shed make sure to case out the room. She wasnt going to be stuck here any longer! Thankfully, she didnt have to wait much longer as she heard keys jiggling outside the door. Finally the knob began to turn, and the door creaked open. A small sliver of light appeared on the ground and started to grow as the door moved open. There stood a silhouette of a man holding a book, with a candle sitting on top of it, and a pen resting next to the candle. His shirt was illuminated, and on it was a red fire breathing dragon. He stepped forward. Brought the candle up to the side of his face and got really close to her. Will ya sign ma book? Ty asked. Shae glanced down and when she saw the cover memories flooded her mind. She remembered who she was, and why she came here in the first place. You must be Ty, now listen very closely I never wrote that book. Do you understand Ty? I never wrote Windhaven! Ty...George stole my name, so he could cheat on his taxes! Do you understand what Im saying? George isnt a good liberal, Ty! Hes a tax cheat! Thats why he had to steal my name and lock me up in here! You have to unlock my shackles and let me go, so I can warn everyone! Ty cocked his head to the left, and his eyes glazed over. He set the book and pen on the floor, and brought the candle up close to her face. She wasnt as young as he had originally thought. Do ya have any dragon shirts? I like tha ones with da hoods. Wha....what are you talking about? Didnt you hear what I said Ty? George isnt a good liberal! George is a... But before she could finish her sentence Ty interrupted her. ...but ah wanna dragon shirt! Tys arms were synchronized as he was pumping them up and down, all the while he was stomping one foot. AH WANNA NOTHA DRAGON SHIRT! He blew out the candle and stomped out of the room locking the door behind him. Again Lisa found herself in the cold darkness of the room. Where does he possibly find these people? she thought. However, all was not lost, the door had been open long enough that she had been able to scope out the room. Along with the Windhaven novel, and pen that Ty had left on the floor there were also several other items laying around that would aid her in her escape. A wooden hanger, a spool of thread, one Velcro tennis shoe, a broken down Dewalts drill but with no bit, a pack of D batteries, and a bent Valyrian sword. To most people this wasnt much, but for Lisa Tuttle this is all she needed. She had studiously watched every episode of MacGyver, and she knew every episode forward and backwards! She reached over and grabbed the thread and placed one strand in the keyhole, then she took the novel and tore pages out of it, wadded it up and placed that in the keyhole also. Trying her best to get as far away from the shackles as she could possibly get, she grabbed the Velcro shoe. Opening and closing the Velcro as fast as she could it only took a couple of minutes before a spark was produced and with it she lit the thread. She watched as the spark moved along the makeshift fuse towards her shackles. Once it got

- 97 -

to the Prologue of Windhaven it burst into flames. Never before has garbage burnt as bright and hot as it did at this time. *SNAP*CRACKLE*POP* The shackles fell off and she was free! Now Lisa was faced with two potential problems. One. If George was home surely hed be here soon looking for a bowl of Rice Krispies. Two. If he wasnt home how would she open the door? There was only one question left in her mind though: What would MacGyver do?

- 98 -

ALFRED THE GRRMLIN

(submitted by Krafus)

Sobbing, Alfred took another step. How did it come to this?! Alfred the Dread Lord wondered in bewildered anguish. One moment he and his band of stalwart fellow Martinis had been riding merrily along the path through the forest to meet a band of their fellow Martini LARPers for their usual monthly practice bout of medieval fighting and jousting. Then the next they found themselves under heavy fire coming from concealed positions in the trees to either side of the path, and began dying front, center and behind. Sobbing, Alfred took another step. True, they were being hit by nonlethal paintball gunfire, but under the strict Extreme LARPing Rules he and his companions were playing, it counted. And so, after the first seconds of incredulous surprise, Alfreds twenty men had no choice but to start falling to the ground, faking terrible wounds with loud moans and cries of pain or, more often, simulating death with gurgling, rasping death gasps. As his soldiers fell one after the other, Alfred had felt the fear of his first shameful TPK (or Total Party Kill) as Battle Commander overcome him. He turned his stallion around, put spurs to flanks, and galloped away. It wont be a TPK if I manage to get back to our camp. And someone has to warn the Tower of the Hand of what happened here. If we get wiped out, then under the Extreme Rules well have to remain silent for two weeks. Or so had been his thoughts as he fled and abandoned his men to their fates. Sobbing, Alfred took another step. Unfortunately, whoever had planned the ambush had anticipated that someone might try to flee. Alfred hadnt gone more than twenty meters before his steed took a paintball pellet to the center of the chest. The animal, well used to the noisy chaos of LARP battles and the occasional fake blow, had simply neighed and slowed a little. But it was dead according to the Rules, so Alfred had had no choice but to dismount and start running on his own. That had been nearly half an hour ago, and he was still running, if not nearly so quickly or vigorously as when hed started. If fact, by now it was outright torture. The thirtypound fake armor he was wearing didnt help any. Alfred had reluctantly discarded his shield, knowing as he did so that it meant forfeiting it to the attackers, but it was a lot less expensive than the armor. Sobbing, Alfred took another step. There was only one group Alfred could think of who would resort to such base treachery: the Brave Companions, or the Bloody Mummers, as the Martinis increasingly called them. The Enemies. The traitors who, not content to dis themselves by breaking their oath of loyalty to King George of House Martin, the First of His Name, King of the Game, the Clash, the Storm and the Feast, Hopefully-Soon-To-Be-King-of-the-Dance, had taken up arms against those who remained loyal to Crown and Council. He rounded another bend, and finally saw the forests end. At last! From there, it should not take more than ten minutes for him to reach the camp where his and his fellow Martinis wives, daughters and girlfriends were also LARPing, practicing a courtly event meant to take place at the Tower of the Hand in two months. Alfred shuddered at the thought of his wife and two daughters being captured by the Companions, no, the Mummers.

- 99 -

Invigorated by the sight of the cleared ground beyond the forest, Alfred sobbed and took another step. The paintball pellet hit him low on the left side of his chest. As he involuntarily slowed and gaped down in horror at the yellow paint, another quickly followed, hitting his left knee. No! No! No! Even if it could be argued that his armor had saved him from death, by the Rules he was at the very least crippled. There was no choice. Now weeping, Alfred let himself drop heavily on the paths earthen floor, the impact jarring and nearly stunning him. His attacker took a long moment to show himself. Alfred got his sobbing under control, and even started to breathe easier after he removed his paint-smeared helmet. No matter what, he had to act as befit a Battle Commander and Lord of Westeros in good standing with the Council, having been raised to those positions by High Lord Ran as a reward for valiant service and dubbed by King George himself at conventions. And you acted as befits a noble battle commander by running away? a voice asked mockingly in his head. Alfred shook his head, trying to silence it. Finally, his assailant came into view from behind him. He proved to be a man of average height and build, with dark hair and eyes, wearing military fatigues and a helmet with greenish forest camouflage. His face was daubed with green paint to further enhance the effect. In his right, gloved hand, he held a green, rapid-fire paintball rifle. His only real distinguishing feature was his smug smile. A smile Alfred had seen before. You! he tried to hiss accusingly, but his exhaustion made the word come out like a pathetic wheeze. Me, Krafus, formerly the Smiling Knight of the Kingdom of Westeros, replied. You dont look too happy to see me. I was right, it was the Bloody Mummers who ambushed us back there. You traitors. You betrayed all your oaths. Krafus shrugged unconcernedly. We Brave Companions are of the opinion that its King George who betrayed his vassals, with his greed and his general lack of commitment to his duties. How else to explain all the proclamations of the Crown that are nothing more than ads for whatever crappy goods the merchants in cahoots with him are selling, or that he takes so many vacations every year when the Dance is still unfinished and so late? That is his right! King George is not your bitch! Alfred replied with all the vehemence he could muster, which at the moment wasnt much. Still cant muster anything better than Sir Neil of Gaimans outdated and flawed defense, can you? Oh right, that would require you to have an original thought of your own. In any case, King George may not be our bitch, but you and the rest of the GRRiMlins have become his. Besides, these back-and-forth accusations mean nothing. Its the victors who will write history, and well make sure thats us. Krafuss cocky smile became wider. Well be the heroes who courageously stood up and cast King George the Unworthy down from his throne, while you GRRiMlins shall be remembered as the blindly, dumbly loyal vassals of a wretched and corrupt liege. That is, if were feeling generous. Alfred shuddered almost violently at the thought. Why did it have to come to this? What happened?... We were all part of one great host once. You fought for me, rode

- 100 -

at my side in half a dozen LARP battles We swept the Jordanites and then the Tairynites from the field The whole world of fantasy literature lay open before us, ripe for conquest What happened? Ill tell you what happened. King George took five years to come up with the Feast, and lets face it, it wasnt nearly as good as the Game, the Clash and the Storm, Krafus answered, his expression darkening and his voice growing angrier as he spoke. That was bad enough, but at least we could console ourselves with the thought that the Dance would follow within a year. Only, a year became two, then three, then four, and now it looks like itll be five years or even more. Meanwhile, King George issues royal proclamations about seemingly everything going on in his life except for what his subjects really want to hear about; writes or edits unrelated Tomes, and takes four to six vacations a year to schmooze with his fellow Writer Kings. For a year and a half, he issued no proclamation whatsover about the Dance, except for a tantrum against his detractors! Is that how a king who gives a damn about his subjects behaves, I ask you?! He is the King. It is for us to obey him... and he owes us nothing. We should all be grateful for what he has already provided us. Im sure hes doing everything he can to finish the Dance. Krafus shook his head sadly. And now we come back full circle. You GRRiMlins still trust King George implicitly, we GRRuMblers distrust him implicitly. Ah, well. He looked Alfred up and down, then his smile returned. At least thisll be a profitable day for us Companions. Take off your sword belt and armor, or maybe I should say our sword belt and armor, would you? I wonder how much your oh-so famous sword will be worth at the merchants Bay of E? Horror swept through Alfred. His Valyrian steel sword, Red Rain, was a unique functional replica of a sword in the Kingdom of Westeros and his most prized possession. Its crimson blade, which shone a bright, wondrous red when bared to light, never failed to attract admiration at LARP gatherings, and really everywhere Alfred took it. Red Rain had been a gift from High Lord Ran himself soon after Alfred the Dread Knight became Alfred the Dread Lord. For valiant service to king, council and country, the High Lord had said, smiling, as he bestowed the incredible gift upon the newly-raised lord. And Alfred had indeed performed much service. He had become part of the Top 10 Most Devoted Vassals, writing up no fewer than twenty thousand proclamations of his own at Rans Westerosi Tower of the Hand. He had ventured into other Writer Kings lands with Kings Georges banner held high, and held his ground against all challengers. Being very wealthy in real life, Alfred had also raised and equipped a large group of fellow Martinis with replica swords and armors, who fought under the banners of various Westerosi Houses in LARP events. He had also made it a point to buy at least 20 copies of all new Wild Cards Tomes, which according to Lord Werthead meant he represented approximately 95% of any individual Wild Cards books sales. Alfred had even performed other embarrassing activities under King Georges direct supervision, activities that to this day shamed him and that hed buried in the deepest corner of his mind. To Alfred the Dread Lord, Red Rain had become the symbol of all this, the material expression of his boundless devotion to King George and the Tower of the Hand, his rightful and even righteous reward for his unwavering, loyal service through times good and bad no, no, no dont think of the bad ones, they were just bad dreams about nipples stop, stop, stop. The thought of losing his sword was too much to bear. Fearful anger swept through him, and for the first time in his life, Alfred threw the sacrosanct LARP rules to the winds. With

- 101 -

a roar, he surged to his feet, drew his sword, and leapt at Krafus, right arm raised high for a mighty slash, blade flashing crimson under the sunlight. Red Rain was a very real sword with a very real edge, so it should cut down the smug bastard A gunshot rang through the forest, and a very real bullet hit Alfred in his leather-covered right wrist, tearing through flesh, muscle and bone to hit and be stopped with a muffled clang by the steel of the upper part of Alfreds gauntlet. Even as Alfred attacked, Krafus, his expression now hard and focused, had dropped his paintball rifle, drawn a pistol from a holster at his side, raised it, aimed, and fired, all in one smooth motion. AAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!! The blinding pain made Alfred let go of his prized sword, which dropped unceremoniously to the ground. He brought his wounded right hand back tightly against his chest and cradled it with his left one. A wave a painful nausea swept through him, and he sat down hard on the path, sending a bolt of pain up his right arm. His eyes closed tightly against the pain, Alfred rocked back and forth a few times. The pain seemed to subside, or at least grow no worse, after a moment, and he opened tearfilled eyes to look at Krafus. You you shot me, the Dread Lord said incredulously. No shit, Sherlock. The accursed Mummer had eased out of his firing stance, though he still held his pistol at his side. He grinned and held the gun sideways and up, as if for Alfreds inspection. Glock 18. I never leave home without it. Ill Ill call the police. Tell them you shot me without provocation. Oh, come now. Its not like you had a sudden fatal case of bolt-through-bowels like Tywin Lannister. Youll survive, and with a bit of luck maybe even regain full use of your hand someday. I have a bullet in in my wrist, you son of a bitch. And it hurt like hell, with pulses of pain running down his arm and spreading though the rest of him even as blood spread down his arm. Thats what the cops will see. Krafus sighed. You brought this on yourself, really. But as you insist He looked to his left and made a signal. Thatll be enough, Frank. Cut it off, he said, raising his voice. Another man dressed much like Krafus seemed to materialize out of the surrounding forest not far away. He grinned, gave a small wave, then turned his attention to what Alfred realized with dawning horror was a handheld camera pointed in his direction. The man touched a button, and a tiny blue light winked off. Krafus noticed his look. Yes, Alfred, he said in a friendly tone. Our whole pleasant chat has been recorded, with sound, in full HD glory. I intended to keep it as a souvenir, but who knows; copies of it might soon be delivered to the local police station and be posted on YouTube. The Mummers grin was back. Alfreds shoulders slumped. He was beaten, completely and inescapably. With this video, not even the best lawyers your money can buy will be able to spin this event into anything but what it was: you attempting to murder me, and me firing to defend myself, Krafus went on implacably. Youll get thrown out of every LARP group and professional association you might be a member of, and land right into jail. Im sure the inmates will love having your rich ass at hand when shower time comes around. Slowly, Alfred raised his head. The battle was lost beyond hope, so now he, like the good businessman he was in real life, had to focus on minimizing losses. Youre right, Krafus, it was my fault I got shot, he said in a small, defeated voice he didnt have to fake. And

- 102 -

as you pointed out, Im wealthy. So maybe I could pay a ransom. Or we can... make some other arrangement. The man once known as the Smiling Knight gave Alfred the full, white-teethed smile that had made him famous, and now infamous. Well, lets see. Our silence for your little bit of treachery wont come cheap. And according to your ridiculous Extreme LARP Rules, the losers of any engagement must forfeit arms and armors to the victors, no matter what the circumstances that led to their loss. Earlier today we took out the other group of GRRiMlins you meant to fight, so all that stuff you paid for is ours now. Ill keep Red Rain, for a certainty. Oh, and by the way, theres another group of us Companions who by now should have captured your staging camp, along with your lovely wife and daughters. All your base are belong to us! So, taking all this into account, our arrangement will be very, very expensive

- 103 -

PARRIS
(submitted by kehnonymous)

The sunlight was beginning to fade over the western mesa overlooking the Santa Fe airport. Parris and Ty sat at an airport bar, killing time until their flight to Chicago. Theyd left George at the gate on his hoverround with all their luggage. And no ones like to be carrying more baggage than I, she mused grimly. A cluster of empty cocktail glassed flanked their table. Parris supper of pease and chili was only half cold and she was already deep into her cups. Ive had a bit too much... much, she slurred, taking another drag from her cigarette. Ty was three sheets to the wind himself as he watched the evening commuters passing by Why do the people start to rush-rush?, he blurted. How does he fare on Dance?, Parris asked. ...Cant find a drink, oh man, Ty rambled to himself incoherently. Where are my keys? Ive lost my phone... They sat glumly in silence for awhile. Parris hated flying on the best of days. And this is anything but. She missed her cannabis garden already. Driving George to the airport had been ...Gods, woman, how did you let things come to this? she took another long drag on her cigarette, repressing that memory with a shudder. Hed wheezed and sniffled all the way to the airport. That was nothing new. But she wasnt looking forward to cleaning his splattered shit off the back seat when they returned home. She made a note to get a rental car with vinyl seats next time and to... she paused. Is Ty enough of a lickspittle clean off even that mess...? She looked across the table at Ty, and found his expression unreadable. Odd, because I can usually read that boy like a book. Has he found yet a new way to humiliate himself? Ty, hon, you got that look like youre trying to think. You know he hates when you git to doin that sorta thing. Well... he stammered its just all these rumors about the Brave Companions. Were flying into their home base, and it are not belong to us. I fear they set us up the bomb. Neil was only the beginning... Ty had a point. The night before, an anonymous poster had spammed Georges, as well as Rans, websites with pornographic images. Rumor had it that he didnt stop there. It wasnt anything Parris hadnt seen before in her hippie days and, truth be told, shed gotten a good laugh at Georges impotent tantrums when he saw the pornographic spam. Until he, no longer able to contain his rage, lost control of his bowels all over his high backed velvet chair. She sighed and finished off her cigarette pack. We done been through all this before. We go to Chicago and git er done. George will have the GRRMsguard, Ran will lead him, Wert will have his cocaine, and itll all work out fine. Yall gonna see. Rans not answering my calls. He never has. Ty looked crestfallen. Oh gods, not the wounded puppy look again. She patted his arm gently. Its because hes jealous of you, silly. You may not be much, but I reckon that youre Georges number 1 con-fi-dant, and he wouldnt be able to put his pants on witout yalls help.

- 104 -

Really? Ty beamed. Yes indeedy do, Parris lied. Ty downed another shot of whiskey. Wel, theres more, he mumbled. Parris frowned. Does he know about Shae/Lisa? Shed known about Georges incarcerated plaything for a long time - subtlety was not one of his stronger points - but tolerated the harlots presence well enough as it was time that the corpulent oaf spent out of her sight. Ty took a deep breath. Id been thinking that I was going to get some free money from the internet for the last week and move out of my apartment into, you know... a real place. And well, Id been waiting and waiting, but I finally was supposed to get some real money. It was a check for my publishers advance for that novel I co-wrote. I had them send it to Mr. Martins mailing address since well... Im at you guys place more often than my place. It wasnt much, but it wouldve been a start, yknow? And then... Ty stammered, unwilling to look Parris in the eye. I was reviewing Mr. Martins expenses for this week last night before we flew out and... well, there was an order for Twinkie cakes and Fudgebutter flapjacks that I didnt co-sign. And the amount paid was equal to the publishers advance that I never got. I dont know if I should be upset, since well... what are my talents compared to his? Parris whistled to herself. This was news. Never thought hed reach his breaking point well before I did. She was deciding between an honest answer or a patronizing one when a sharp noise crackled from overhead; it was the P.A. systems loudspeaker. Attention! Paging passengers Parris and Ty... They heard the grating screech of feedback as the microphone was wrested away from the P.A. announcer. Parris! Ty! Georges voice had that familiar wheedling tone. I need you both here immediately! The rightwing extremists at airline security are saying I... I! He paused to wheeze indignantly ...That I have to pay for two seats because I cant fit in one! I need you to straighten this out now - mood: annoyed! As if on cue, the airport concourses overhead monitor displayed a sad-face emoticon in petulant neon orange. Parris and Ty looked at each other. Oh gods, they both muttered.

- 105 -

SHAWN
(submitted by kehnonymous)

Shawn posed next to a glossy 3 X 5 copy of his novels cover art for the convention volunteer as she took a picture with her camera phone. Welcome to C2E2, Mr. Speakman, its very nice to meet you! Im Sue DeVeux and Ill be taking care of you during your stay here. How was your flight to Chicago? Very well, haha. A lot of the passengers were complaining about the delays during takeoff and disembarking making the flight run five-hours. However, as I explained to them in my article, you cant count the 2 hours the flight lost to the time zone change and to the stopover in Montreal, so it was actually a three-hour tour. A three hour tour? she wondered. A three hour tour. he confirmed. She shrugged. You know, I hadnt thought about it that way before, but... who am I to argue with a published author? Only if youre counting websites, haha. They walked through the convention hall as workers scurried about with the final stages of preparation. At one end was an animatronic Klingon locked in a synchronized death ballet with a life-like Harry Potter robot, batleh and phoenix feather wand slowly dueling in a precisely choreographed dance without dragons. George R. R. Martins booth was a grandiose affair, with silver and scarlet flags and bunting and a fully stocked refrigerator full of venison sausages, and well as four kegs full of buttered Cheez Wiz for Martin to drink. Overweight, pale men in fanny packs with C2E2 badges and oversized thermoses of Mountain Dew scoured the floor, furtively purloining discarded merchandise and signage while they debated which of them would be the first to strike up a conversation with any of the three, lone, bored-looking semi-attractive women working at the con. As they completed their circuit of the hall, Sue was tabulating some figures on her Palm Pilot. Ive been going through a list of your requested arrangements. Heres your booth where youll be able to sign the first chapter of The Dark Thorn. She gestured to a cramped booth, festooned with a sweeping azure-and-ermine banner that read Sean Spakemann, soon-to-be-published author and writer of In Defense of George R. R. Martin At Shawns bidding, Martins name had been considerably larger than his own, with respective font sizes equal to their weight in kilograms. Lets see, what else, Sue continued. Your friends Ran and Werthead arent returning my calls, so Im not sure if the round table Feast for Crows Q & A session youd planned for Friday night is happening or not. Of all the panelists, Shawn alone had not read Feast. Which is why they need me the most. Because my wisdom is my ignorance, haha. Hed have to write that down for future use. Sue continued breathlessly. ...Also, I know you requested an 18-foot replica of Stonehenge to be used as a backdrop, however, our supplier misread the order, so all we were able to find was this 18-inch replica here Shawns face fell. Ha... its rather... not what Id hoped for. Sue shrugged apologetically. With the right lighting, the shadows could look rather imposing. Anyways, the biggest issue were going to have here is security. Your security is top priority here. Youre to be accompanied at all times by a Klingon guard. We tried to

- 106 -

get Martins handlers to help us out on this one, but they said something about how itd take them five days instead of three days to mobilize their people. Her face had an odd look. Have you heard of the Brave Companions? Yes, haha, but that was just a rumor. Sue frowned. Youd better see this. She led him to the backstage area. There was some of the finest cocaine that had been flown in specifically for Wertheads consumption. I knew hed picked the wrong week to stop mainlining heroin, haha, mused Shawn. Next to the boxes of drugs was a discarded pile of thick, saw cut, concrete. This is the strongest stuff in town. Weve been working with some specialists to formline this concrete into a chair thatll actually support Mr. Martins weight. We had to special order it from a guy named Pesci. Shawn froze. Pesci? Sue nodded. Runs a family business down on the South Side. Foul-mouthed prick to do business with, if you ask me, but I liked how he took charge of things. She blushed faintly. Shawn examined the discarded concrete. One of the concrete blocks had two undersized, secondhand sneakers embedded partway through. Sewn onto the sneakers was a family crest that Shawn knew well. Oh, god. he whispered. A shadow fell over him. If only He worked on Sundays. A lean, sharklike man with a sharp face and steely dark eyes stood next to him. Shawn felt his bowels turn to water. He dropped his The Dark Thorn manuscripts and ran back towards the safety of the convention hall. KLINGONS! Help! Help!!!! Sue rolled her eyes and turned to greet her brother Jimmy. Hey, she jabbed him in the arm at seeing his smirking expression Theyre paying me to do this and I dont gotta spring for my convention badge. Got a problem with that? Jimmy shrugged and started reading one of the discarded manuscripts aloud: The rat glared with beady black eyes at the broken mans approach before scurrying away into the darkness, a lone vestige of life among the dusty bones of death... Talk to me, sis. You telling me that schmoes get paid to write this?

- 107 -

RAY
(submitted by scorpiknox)

If the upstairs of Joeys club was a depressing place, the basement of The Sugar Baby was where dreams went to die. Joey led the way down and Ray followed closely, not really knowing what to expect. It smelled of stagnant water on concrete and, as they reached the bottom of the stairs, the faint secondary aroma of sewage that so often inhabited the deep bowels of Chicagos older buildings announced itself. Pipes so old as to be ancient lined the walls of the basement and covered half of the ceiling. Ray had no doubt that, should he be so inclined, a well swung hammer would easily rupture most if not all of the rusty metal tubes. Probably a flip of the coin as to whether I got water or shit all over me, he thought. There, behind those, Joey said and pointed to a wall of boxes. They were stacked about three feet taller than seemed necessary or even safe, nearly touching some of the pipes. Most of the boxes innocently proclaimed their contents to be maraschino cherries and queen sized olives, but Ray knew better than that. Joey walked to the right of the tower of contraband and slid into a small opening along the pipes and bricks. Ray followed suit, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light as he emerged into the other side. The already underpowered lamps used in the main area of the cellar barely shone though from the top of the cardboard faade and, as a result, he was having trouble making out the person-sized shadowy mass in front of him. Ray flipped a switch and they were awash in the harsh light of a naked bulb hanging about eye height. Christ Joey, you nabbed a broad? The delicate figure slumped over in the chair was barefoot, though to be fair the toes were so swollen and mangled that shoes would have been out of the question. Leg-cuffs had worn their way through the skin of the GRRiMlins ankles and long feminine brown hair dangled over scraped and scabbed knees. Ray noticed that the chair itself was bolted to the concrete and that the prisoners hands had been manacled to its rear legs. He aint no broad, hes just got woman hair, Joey usually didnt hurt women, and Ray had been a bit taken aback at first glance of the man in the chair. Wake up you dumb fuck, time to start talking. The unfortunate soul in the chair looked up at Pesci, watery brown eyes gazing through the tangled mess. Whatwhat do you want to know? he whimpered, his hoarse voice betraying the fact that hed been crying. You asshole Joey, Ray said, smiling as he recognized their prisoner, You already broke the turd. What, you cant fucking save some for your poor old baby brother? He was only half kidding. He might not have a fraction of Joeys mean streak, but Ray would have loved to have gotten some fresh licks in on this particular piece of shit. Pesci ignored him, instead addressing the man in the chair, Christ. Didnt last too long now did you, you fucking little rat? He sounded annoyed that his job had been done with so little effort, I leave you to stew in your own piss for one night and you break on me like sweat on a Chinamans balls. What happened to all that Ill never talk? shit you were blabbin on about yesterday? Ray smacked the man in the mouth, hard. After allowing the man a brief recovery period highlighted by some professional grade whimpering, Joey asked again, Well, whats the fuckin deal there shit-stick? P-please, just dont hurt me anymore! I willIll tell you anything, anything you want to know, just, please God, dont kill me. The man was really sobbing now, and drool mixed with blood ran down his chin and onto his shirt.

- 108 -

Jeez, maybe he really is a broad, he sure cries like one. And to think I thought this was gonna take all night, Joey sounded a bit disgusted. Turning to Ray he asked, Well, you heard the lady, what we wanna know? It was time for Liotta to ask a few questions and the two men exchanged places, Joey yielding the floor to his younger brother. OK, first lets start with what you were doing snooping around this place? What are you doing in Chicago? I was sent to report your movements and habits, byby my bosses, The man was only able to get this out between sobs. What do you mean bosses? George is your boss, who else is there? Ray thought he already knew, but he wanted to here it from his mouth, to hear the embarrassment in his voice. Linda, OK? My wife Ray grinned at the shame he heard in the prisoners voice in making such a clear admission of subservience. So, George and his muscle are what, coming out here to stage some sort of a bullshit war against us? Pesci and Liotta had planned to confront Mr. Martin at the C2E2, but they werent aware that theyd been expected. Yes, sort ofBut I swear, it was just going to be an ambush if you guys tried anything at the convention. We would never attack you without provocation! Were the good guys! My ass, was all Pesci said. Ray scoffed, You fucking sycophants are all the same. You dont get that the man you work for is an evil, uncaring, tyrannical snake-oil salesman. I would feel sorry for you if you all werent so fucking goddamn loathsome. At this, the prisoners eyes flashed the faintest glimmer of defiance. Ray ignored it and continued, But you are, so I dont. Tell me then, how many was he bringing along with him? What was the plan? The plan was to embarrass you in front of the whole convention by defeating you in a duel of words. And when that failed? The man in the chair hesitated. And when that failed?! Ray repeated. I-If that failed, he was to have his GRRMsguard defend him to the pretend death. The two of you alone couldnt possibly hope to defeat all seven of them, not with Ty as their leader. Hes the finest Ive ever seen with Duct and Foam. Joey piped in at that, What, you arent in the GRRMsguard? You werent invited? The prisoners tone was defensive, I will have you know that I have other talents that demand I serve the master in, well, in other capacities! What like banning people from Westeros? Ray asked. The man was silent at that, Or maybe combing that pretty head of hair for your masters pleasure? Ray couldnt be sure, but he thought he saw a blush rise to the mans cheeks. All right, thats enough of this shit, Ray Im sick of looking at this fuck. Joey was always so impatient.

- 109 -

Just one more thing Joey and then we can go back up. Ray turned away from his brother and got close to the prisoner, staring hard into his watery brown eyes. You need to tell me that George RR Martin is, in fact, my bitch. Ray had to hand it to their prisoner. The man whod but a moment before seemed as broken as all ten of his toes sat up straight, returning a defiant gaze back at Liotta, his mouth tight, his brow resolute. Never, he said with finality. Say it, or youll never type again. Ray was still calm, and a half smile had crept onto his face. Never! I will never say that, not as long as I draw breath! The prisoners eyes had become crazed with what can only be described as religious fervor. Oh yes you will. In a strong and clear voice, you will say: Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci, George RR Martin is most definitely your bitch. You will say it, and say it now, or I will cut off your hair. At that, all pretense of bravado was dropped, the man in the chair becoming terrified once more. Ray pulled out a pair of shiny chrome scissors from his pocket and held them an inch from the prisoners face. Behind him, Pesci broke out laughing. That afternoon, deep in the basement of the Sugar Baby nightclub, Elio Garcia Jr.s hands trembled as he said in a clear, resonant voice: Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci, George RR Martin is most definitely your bitch.

- 110 -

KRAFUS
(submitted by krafus)

The silver 5 Series BMW drove sedately into Chicago, its driver taking care not to go over the speed limit. Getting pulled over with a stolen car and fake plate would be a problem, Krafus had explained to Frank, Dave and Amy when the other three GRRuMblers had urged him to put pedal to the metal and push the luxury car to its limits. Not because a lowly cop stood a chance against them, but because leaving a cops tasered, drugged body on a highway was sure to attract more attention than Krafus wanted to deal with right now. But the car did make for a good disposable transport to Chicago. Alfred had mustered enough energy to feebly protest when Krafus had added it to their arrangement the moment hed spotted it in the parking lot, but a sharp reminder of the consequences he faced had quickly silenced the GRRiMlin. Sitting in the front passenger seat, Amy looked outside at the illuminated streets and buildings of the Chicago night. A former Martin supporter like the rest of them, she was a striking brunette with a cheerful, innocent look to her. No one would expect her to be one of the most bloodthirsty of all the GRRuMblers, exceeded in sheer ferocity only by Slynt and his supernova-hot, world-consuming rage. But then she had good reason, having been stiffed repeatedly by George and his business partners, or more appropriately his partners-in-crime. The four RPG books shed ordered? Arrived with water damage. The dozen miniatures? Arrived in pieces. The half-dozen calendars? Never arrived, period. After that latest incident, Amy decided she wanted revenge. Her very effective scheme started by luring an individual GRRiMlin at a convention back to her hotel room, an easy feat given her beauty and many of them being hygiene- and socially-challenged nerds. Once in her room, the siren turned into a black widow, using a subtle, near-traceless powder in a drink to send the GRRiMlin into a day-long stupor with matching amnesia. Then shed undress her victim, dress him up in submissive bondage gear, cleaned up her room to make sure no evidence of her presence remained, and left them to be thoroughly humiliated when the cleaning staff showed up the next morning. On the chest of each victim was a note saying George R.R. Martin Is Not My Bitch, But You Are. Thanks to her proficiency at disguises, shed never been even suspected. Amy had already racked up six killings (as she liked to call them) before, while leaving the scene of her latest kill, bumping into Slynt as the man was forcefully interrogating a GRRiMlin in a dark alley. The Windy City, she mused aloud. Not bad. Third-biggest city in the US, Krafus informed her and the others. Always big on crime, particularly organized crime. Al Capone lived here. There were 974 murders in 74, and 943 in 92, though since 2003 they havent passed the 600 mark. Heh. We may not be planning a carnage like that, but I daresay well leave our mark in our own way. Especially among the citys GRRiMlins, Frank joked from the backseat. After he, Krafus and the rest of the GRRuMblers had received Alfreds money, the lean man had insisted on coming along to Chicago. His grievance with George was seeing his very first post summarily deleted and himself banned when making a polite inquiry on ADwDs progress on Georges blog, to the rude jeers of a number of GRRiMlins. Franks huge enthusiasm after just finishing reading Feast for the first time had turned to even larger hatred. The others chuckled darkly. To Krafus ears, the sound of the BMWs powerful engine was an eager rumble of agreement. The silvery car stalked through Chicagos brightly lit streets like a fearsome predator on the hunt, unerringly guided toward its prey by the sophisticated onboard GPS.

- 111 -

The day of reckoning for George and his ass-lickers had come. Suddenly, about fifteen minutes away from C2E2 by Krafus estimation, something in his left peripheral vision attracted his attention. He slowed the BMW a little as he looked at the sidewalk and the people walking on it There! He drew in a loud, reflexive hiss as he bared his teeth and slowed the car even more. What is it? Dave asked in his rumbling voice from right behind Krafus. The last member of their quartet was a big, strong man. Hed made the mistake of bringing a half-dozen books for George to sign at a long-ago signing, only to be haughtily informed by the greedy author that only the first signature was free, the second one would cost him $1.99 plus taxes, the third $2.99, and so on. Dave had just turned around and left, silently vowing to make George sign every one of his ASOIAF books with his own blood someday. Those books were now in Daves backpack in the trunk. The two fat guys walking side-by-side wearing white shirts. Look at whats written on them, Krafus answered. The others did so and their own exclamations of anger followed his. For written on the two mens shirts in an offensive fluorescent orange color that glittered in Chicagos night lights was Ser Neil of Gaimans infamous catchphrase, George R.R. Martin Is Not Your Bitch. I want to deal with them. Now, Amy growled, and Dave and Frank echoed her eagerly. Krafus was torn. The risk of a police investigation would be as great as if theyd had to taser a cop on the highway, and the tactician in him knew it was always bad to deviate from a plan that currently required stealth for what were essentially minor targets of opportunity but the very sight of the GRRiMlins, strolling fat, dumb and happy, made anger well up in him. Then an idea came to him. Fuck operational security, were doing it, Krafus snarled. Yes! Frank said loudly, his sound of approval quickly followed by Daves. Do you have a plan? Amy, the most forward-thinking of the three, asked. Oh, yes. Heres what were going to do Some ten minutes later, Krafus and Dave were waiting a few meters behind a darkened alleys mouth, hidden behind a couple of worn wooden boxes and a rusting trash container. The relatively few people who passed on the sidewalk never looked at the two hiding men, and even if they had, Krafus doubted they could have spotted them. Few people noticed how little far their night vision extended when it crossed from bright light into darkness. After about a minute of waiting, Amy crossed the alleys mouth from right to left. Just after shed disappeared behind the left wall, she spoke up in a very convincing, enthusiastic tone. Oh, youre George R.R. Martin fans! Im one, too! Are you two here for C2E2, like me? Ah Yes. Yes, we are, a surprised male voice answered. Thats great! Say, where did you get those shirts? Oh, Ser Neil of Gaiman was so right when he came up with his catchphrase, Amy gushed.

- 112 -

They came straight from the Tower of the Hand, sent by Lord Ran himself, another male voice put in eagerly, no doubt wanting to impress this beautiful woman who, wonder of wonders, was talking to them. From his hiding place, Krafus smiled darkly. Yes, were in good standing in Westeros and with the Tower of the Hand, and we never fail to challenge any and all detractors who dare question George on his blog. Weve been doing it for years, the first voice said proudly. Oh, thats so brave of you Internet about this group of theyre said to be up to are shudder even as she said that two! Especially nowadays. I keep seeing things on the dissenters, the Brave Companions. Some of the things horrifying. Krafus could envision Amy giving a delicate last sentence.

It would be more appropriate to call them the Bloody Mummers, my lady, for they show no more or courage than that band of brigands. And fear not, for under the firm guidance of King George and his stalwart Hand Lord Ran, they shall inevitably end up like their fictive counterparts hunted down and slain to the last like the rabid dogs they are, the second man said ringingly. Krafus just rolled his eyes. That particular loser must be a hardcore LARPer, he thought. I hope you are right, but this talk of the Companions, ah, Mummers has scared me a little, Amy said, her voice holding a distinct tremor of fear. Would you two fine and true men mind escorting me back to the conventions hotel? Yes! I mean, no, we wouldnt mind, not at all, the first man answered quickly. It would be a great honor for us to see as fair a lady as yourself to safety, the second man replied in what he no doubt thought was poetic grace. Thank you, thank you so much! Amy said gratefully. As Amy and her escorts passed in front of the alleys mouth, Amy made a fine performance of stumbling over her own feet and inadvertently throwing her handbag several meters into the alley so as to free her right arm to help catch her fall. As Krafus had planned, both GRRiMlins darted into the alley, each eager to be the one to retrieve and chivalrously return it to its owner. Krafus and Dave silently stepped out from behind their hiding places. The first clue the GRRiMlins, their eyes fixed on the handbag, had that they were not alone in the alley was when his and Daves right feet hit them squarely in their bulging bellies. The two fat men lost their breaths and folded as they collapsed to the dirty ground. Quickly, Krafus and Dave slapped chloroform-soaked rags over their noses. Neither GRRiMlin had a chance to recover, much less call for help, before sinking into deep unconsciousness. Dave and Krafus each picked up a GRRiMlin over his shoulder, the bigger man choosing the fatter GRRiMlin. He seemed to have no trouble with his burdens weight, but Krafus, though not physically unfit, staggered a little under his. Shit, are these assholes deliberately trying to match King Georges girth? Here, Ill help you, Amy said from behind Krafus, and suddenly his burden seemed to grow noticeably lighter. He turned his head, and saw that, her handbag once more hanging from her right shoulder, shed lifted his GRRiMlins torso. Thanks, he said. No problem.

- 113 -

Fortunately, they didnt have to go far. Frank was waiting with the BMW in a courtyard in the middle of dilapidated apartment buildings, some thirty meters away from the ambush site. His Glock was visibly in hand to warn off any onlookers. When he saw them arrive, he put his gun away and popped the trunk. Dave dumped his GRRiMlin on the ground near the opened trunk, and a moment latter Krafus and Amy did the same. The four GRRuMblers then looked at each other, grinning, then set to work, Amy drawing out her military knife. Cant we have a bit of fun before we leave em? Frank pleaded as they worked. Ive already told you, it would take too much time and complicate our schedule too much, Krafus answered patiently. Well get rid of them as soon as were done with them, then abandon the car unlocked someplace where itll be stolen in five minutes and most likely end up in the nearest chop shop. After that, well make our way to our contact and his cache, and pick up our full arsenal. If they werent lying to impress Amy about being in good standing with the Tower, they could have some useful info on the GRRiMlin leadership and important attendees, Dave put in. We dont need their info, Krafus countered, grunting as he lifted one of the GRRiMlins a little. This is the endgame, remember? We make sure each and every GRRiMlin we can find in and around C2E2 doesnt attend for one reason or another, while Ray, Liotta and their merry men deal with King George and his closest lackeys. Then we split and hightail out of Chicago. Once were all safe and sound, we find out the names of our victims, hopefully including King George, and then we celebrate, amen. There was a bit of grumbling from Frank and Dave, but no more. Amy said nothing, just focused on her work with bright, almost feverish eyes and a wide smile as her knife cut and cut. When dawn arrived, an early walker was attracted several meters beyond a certain alleys mouth by his dogs insistent barking. What he saw there made him stumble back in horror and reach for his cell phone to call the cops. Minutes later, the first police cruiser arrived with lights flashing and siren blaring. The walker was waiting for them, his face still pale. Behind the container, officers, he told the two policemen who quickly stepped out of their vehicle, pointing the way for them. Its Its not pretty. The two policemen had over twenty years experience between them, but they too recoiled at the sight that greeted them. Behind a rusting container two grossly fat men for whom hygiene was obviously not a first or even fourth priority lay in each others embrace. They were unconscious, but very much alive. Except for a white shirt each, they were disgustingly naked, and to the policemens growing horror, there was no sign of their clothes anywhere nearby. When the cops reluctantly shifted the man on top away from the other and turned him over, they saw that the two men shirts were in fact identical, with the same words printed on them in an orange, fluorescent color. Strangely, someone had deftly cut the shirts and removed some of the writing, leaving behind George R.R. Martin Is [probably a word missing] [definitely a letter missing]our Bitch.

- 114 -

CAT OF THE CONCIERGE

(submitted by loripetty)

...at which point, he will want his bathtub filled with chili con queso, with bits of fried catfish thrown to him while he wades through it, like some kind of flesh-colored walrus, the Kindly Hotel Manager droned on. Cats eyes started to droop with fatigue as she listened to the laundry list of needs during Mr. Martins stay. When you get back, I need to hear three new things youve learned today, the Kindly Manager calmly stated. He turned away and seemingly faded into the wallpaper, like a chameleon. Cat always thought it was creepy when he did that. After a few minutes of waiting patiently at the reception desk, Cat heard the buzz of a Rascal scooter coming around the corner carrying a sea captain of enormous girth. In tow, he had a dumpy woman who looked like she just left a renaissance fair (but smelled like she left a hippy commune - No, Cat thought. Same thing.), and a young man dressed as though he bought out the stock of a Ron Jon Surf Shop. The sea captain huffed and puffed as though he had ran from the airport to the hotel. The assistant took off his Oakleys and smiled at Cat. Im Mr. Martins assistant, Ty, and this is his...this is Parris, he said with a flourish. Cat smiled warmly. Its an honor, Mr. Martin. We have our presidential suite prepared for you. George looked up at Cat like a wounded animal. Mountain gasp Dew. Intravenous. Cat fought back nausea. Yes, Mr. Martin. Your room has all of the accommodations your assistant requested. Cat arranged for a bellboy to load up the partys considerable luggage - except Tys small suitcase, which he insisted on carrying himself - and headed towards the elevator. She exchanged a worried glance with the two Italians at the hotel bar. One of them flashed a lusty smirk-and-nod, and the other reviewed some papers while slamming down a mixed drink of some sort. After the elevator ride (which was rocky, despite the fact that engineers had bolstered the cable system to accommodate Mr. Martin), they arrived at the Penthouse. Cat got out the key while Mr. Martin idly sucked down Twizzlers, like a snake slurping the tail of a mouse. It was horrible what was inside that room. Mr. Martin roared out in agony, like a violent volcano erupting with Velveeta cheese, and Ty instinctively covered his masters eyes. The room was wallpapered with copies of the cover of A Dance With Dragons. In the center of the room, a bandaged Ser Neil of Gaiman sat tied up to a chair, with a sign resting in his lap - FINISH YOUR BITCH BOOK, GEORGE. --The Kindly Manager frowned at Cat when she returned to the office. I know you were complicit, the Manager said. I know they paid you a considerable sum to do that. Cat fidgeted. I didnt do it, sir. It was Kristin Kreuk. Hmm. I thought she was dead, he said, almost as a whisper. She is now, Cat said defiantly.

- 115 -

The Kindly Manager got up suddenly and strode to his bookshelf. I have a video for you to watch tonight. Mr. Martin provided it. I heard he filmed it himself, the Manager mused. When she awoke the next morning, she was blind.

- 116 -

PESCI
(submitted by kehnonymous)

Pesci and his cousin Vinny sauntered through the hotel lobby, nattily attired with matching pinstriped suits, tailored black shirts and violin cases. The get-up was a bit over the top, a little too conspicuously gangster, but Pesci remembered well his fathers admonition to always dress the part. Plus, most of the geeks at this convention would think they were here for some steampunk cosplay shit. They stopped at the reception desk. Above the desk was a flowing crimson and silver banner that read Welcome to Chicago Comic & Entertainment Expo! At the desk was a pretty young hotel clerk who greeted them with a professional smile. How you doin? Vinny greeted the clerk. Pesci winced, seeing his cousin accompany his greeting with the double pistol finger gesture. What could you do, the kid was only nineteen. Watch and learn, his dark expression told Vinny. Evening, signorina, he interjected, reaching out to shake her hand and casually kissing it. Could ya tell us where theyre having the opening reception for George R. R. Martins fans? Im sorry, the clerk asked politely. But do you have passes? Pesci fumbled around in his suit coat, produced two laminated badges and handed them with a smile to the clerk, hoping that she wouldnt notice the bloody smudges he and Liotta had tried to wash off. Mr. Garcia... and Mr. Gaiman! Very good, its up one floor and to the right. Enjoy your stay at C2E2! She handed Pesci the stolen entry badges, as well as a map of the hotel and convention center. As he headed up the escalator, with Vinny in tow, he noticed the pretty clerk had written her number on the map. A slightly unkempt man with skinny arms and a slight paunch greeted them at the reception booth. Are you here for the reception for the GRRMsguard and the Brotherhood without Banners? Who wants to know? answered Pesci. The unkempt man grinned smugly. Call me Werthead. And you two must be... Werthead removed his glasses and squinted at their entry badges. Neil Gaiman and... Ran? But... He looked at them in horrified recognition... you werent supposed to... you cant be...Pesci and Li...Liotta?, his voice quavered in a halting British accent, on the verge of breaking. Pesci hated limeys. Hated them with a raging passion, ever since an Englishman had swindled his favorite aunt out of half the family holdings. He and Liotta had exacted bloody revenge and left the limey and his gang as bullet-riddled flotsam clogging up the Chicago River, but there were some things that were a matter of principle. True, Billy Batts had been Irish, but it was only one fucking country away. At least now this was going to be really easy. Just Pesci, he snarled, as he and Vinny reached into their coats and drew out tasers. But - Ray Liotta sends his regards, motherfucker. Which, Pesci mused as he zapped Werthead point-blank in the chest, was only true if you defined sending your regards by having your brother do all the dirty work while you putzed around uptown getting fat on cannoli at Vincenzos Trattoria.

- 117 -

Pesci and Vinny were watching their twitching victim burble incoherently on the floor when another man, an exact clone of Werthead, showed up, a look of shocked terror on his face. ...The fuck? all three of them said at once. The new Werthead shook his finger indignantly. You two are in big trouble. This event is restricted to... k-zaap! Pesci and Vinny tasered him in the crotch, and he collapsed to the ground, gurgling foam. A second copy of Werthead walked out. ...restricted to loyal supporters of Ser George Martin. We will... Another zap from Pescis gun and this Werthead was on the floor writing in agony next to his copies. Furthermore, another Werthead continued, we will not tolerate any further slander of... BLAM! Another Werthead walked in. Pesci tasered him twice in the gut. The Werthead squealed and doubled over, twitching on the ground as spittle flecked from his contorted mouth. Pesci snarled, grabbed a shoeshine box and swung it down savagely, breaking it over the Wertheads balls. The twitching stopped. As if on cue, two more Wertheads appeared. Jesus fucking Christ, this is gonna take all night! cursed Vinny. Pesci tasered another Werthead and sent him sprawling backwards in a pool of his own urine, but his wrathful glare was reserved for Vinny. Two things. Pescis sharp tone brooked no argument. One, dont ever fucking let me or Uncle Mario hear you use that kind of language. You fucking understand me, kid? You. Do. Not. Take. His. Name. In. Vain, he growled, punctuating each word with a knockout punch between the eyes of an advancing Werthead. Vinny stammered an apology and made the sign of the cross. Two, Pesci continued Why dont you got all night? Got a date? No..., mumbled Vinny. Pesci affectionately cuffed him on the head No shit you aint got a date, the way you talk to dames. Look here, cusino, dames dont go for all that macho shit. You gotta show em a little bit of romance. And respect. You wanna make time with a broad, you treat her how youd want your momma treated. Capisce? Sorry, cousin Joey. Vinny drew a bead and took out two Wertheads at once. By now, multiple Wertheads swarmed all over the room. Pesci shot one of them, and then another. He took aim at another and squeezed the trigger, only to hear a hollow click-click. He cursed and threw the Taser to the floor as the Werthead advanced on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Vinnys taser had also gone dead. Pesci allowed himself a proud grin as Vinny casually reached down into his violin case and pulled out a baseball bat with a rusted nail pounded into the business end. Nuncle Mario, youd be proud of this one.

- 118 -

Pesci grabbed a beer bottle, and cracked it over the Wertheads face. Another one immediately appeared to take its place. Pesci caught this one on the throat with a vicious backhand slash, only to see yet another Werthead emerge. Jesus fucking Christ, these assholes are everywhere. Pesci was in for a long night and he was starting to get hungry. Is fucking Liotta ever going to get here with that fucking cannoli?

- 119 -

LIOTTA
(submitted by scorpiknox)

Ray knew something was wrong. His brother always stuck to the plan, and the plan was to check in after hed planted the bug in Martins room. They might have been nabbed by hotel security and been forced to go along with them to avoid making a scene. Joey wasnt the type of guy to raise a fuss and kill a working man just to get out of a petty B&E charge, but if that was indeed the case hed have to wait a while for his phone call. Cook County central booking on a Friday night was always a busy place. As if on cue, the phone rang. No one but his brother was aware that Ray was staying at the Four Seasons, so he knew who was calling before he picked up the receiver. You certainly took your time. Hello to you too, little brother. Im doing peachy, thanks for asking, Pesci sounded tired. So, howd it go? You get that thing done we needed done? Ray always avoided specifics when discussing business over the phone. He was a master of the vague conversation. Pesci sighed on the other end of the line, Yeah, it got done. Fucking thing was harder than I thought it would be. Poor Vinny is a bit worse for wear, but we still made out OK. Oh, by the way, Im gonna kick your queer ass for not letting me bring the usual tools on this one. Still, I guess it could have been worse. There was no real clean-up, and anyway I dont think the client can call the city inspector. Im telling you hermano, they got some real weird shit going on over there. Real fucking weird. Yeah, I dont doubt it, Ray could only imagine what Joey was going on about. None of that mattered now anyway. Where are you now? A pay phone, in Bronzeville. Close if you need us, but we had to put some distance between us and downtown. Joey was being drowned out by the sound of a car horn in the background, so he raised his voice, Hows the signal? Good. Everything is coming in clear as a bell. You got anything we can use? Not yet. Just the woman talking to the help about his accommodations. But hes down at the con right now. We just have to be patient. His big speech isnt until Sunday. Plenty of time, Joey grunted in agreement and Ray continued, Now get your asses off the street, you two goombas dont blend in so good in that neighborhood. Yeah, whatever. I got a hood pass so were good. Call you tomorrow, early. Joey hung up. Ray put the receiver down and stood up at the edge of the bed, smoothing the back of his cashmere pants. The suite hed gotten was a little too sterile for his aesthetic, but it was roomy and classy enough. More importantly, Ray knew the head concierge was a man who knew how to keep things quiet, and that was worth more than all the postmodern furniture in all the world. Walking over to the next room, Ray inspected the equipment sitting on the suites main table. The short wave receiver was up and running, connected to a compression unit and a digital recorder. As he sat down and donned the headphones, Ray briefly wondered were Joey had ended up hiding the bug. Probably in someones ass.

- 120 -

Snapping his attention back to the task at hand, his ears were first greeted by the hiss of radio silence. It wasnt long however until he heard a door opening and closing, accompanied by muffled voices. Ray leaned forward in a futile effort to make out what was being said as he waited for them to move closer to the microphone. As the voices approached an acceptable level of clarity, Ray checked to make sure the signal was being recorded. One of them was a woman with a deep, husky timbre. The other was a nondescript male. At last, after about a minute, Ray was able to make out the details of the conversation, the woman saying, -avent heard from Elio in how long? Why didnt you tell me about this? The man sounded a bit like he was about to cry as he replied, I did tell you, a few days ago, but you just... There was a pause and he continued, I think it is time that you admit that weve been infiltrated. Mind your tone and calm down. The Werts are going to be fine, and they got a good look at those two troublemakers. Ive already called security at the convention and given them a description. Regardless of what may have happened to him, Elio has served his purpose. So what you need to do is just sit tight and make sure that damn speech is ready by Sunday. Ray shook his head in disgust. How had Joey managed to get spotted by that idiot Wert? Did Parris say there was more than one of them? The very concept of more than one Wert walking the Earth horrified him. This is all turning into a big fucking mess. The conversation continued as Rays thoughts wandered. It is all but done, dont worry. Youre sure hes got a new chapter to read? The man sounded doubtful. Ive seen it myself. In between binges hes let me read some. Is it good? Now the man sounded hopeful. No. Not really. Parris wasnt pulling any punches and her tone matched her words, Dont you worry Ty, it will do. The peasants will eat it, they are starving after all. Ty groaned, exasperated, I feel sick. What were doing is literally making me sick. Ray heard a sharp crack, the sound of palm striking cheek. Ty let out a yelp. Parris had turned to cold venom in the headphones. Now you just keep that bullshit to yourself. You stuff it down inside you so deep you forget you even put it there. Are we clear, boy? Ray smiled. He was getting good stuff and George wasnt even in the room. Now get out. Georgies gonna be along soon, and I need to get his food set up. Ray got up and fixed himself a drink from the mini-bar. It was going to be a long, nauseating night listening in on those two and he had no doubt that he was going to have to develop a healthy buzz just to make it through. Taking a sip from his scotch, he sat back down and settled in, putting his feet up on the table. I am going to make you eat your fucking words, fat man.

- 121 -

GEORGE
(submitted by loripetty)

George let out a satisfied, content mmmm and accidentally (not really) soiled himself. It will dry later, he thought to himself. The trip to the bathroom was excruciating, especially now that he was outside for his required five minutes of the day (at his doctors behest). Normally, he would be incredibly agitated, but he was enjoying his 5 minutes, particularly since Maisie Williams had joined him to practice with her Needle replica. Now, Arya, I want you to swing the sword with both hands, then muss up your own hair, he said in a whiny tone. Maisie complied, albeit with a look of confusion. George let another another contented groan and took another photo. It wasnt that he was a pedophile - he just really loved money. He knew that these pictures would be perfect to pimp out his rust-damaged Needle replicas (The very last ones, forever! he reminded himself with a smile, Until the next shipment, of course. ) They would fetch top dollar, much like Parriss body did at her prime. He was interrupted by a man in Ray-Bans and a dark suit, with a frowny-face pin on the lapel. Enjoying the weather? the man asked. Mmmm, George grunted affirmatively. My name is Weiss. We met at the after-party for the AGOT pilot. You may not remember. I said hello while you were submerged in the crawfish server. Mmmm? George replied. The heat was starting to get to him, and his feed bag was empty, so he relied on the age-old tactic of replying with grunts and groans. The man paced around, eventually leaning against a birch tree. I dont want you around our actresses anymore. Not after the Jennifer Ehle and Tamzin Merchant incidents. Georges eyebrows perked up. But I was just - he paused to fan himself with an empty Crunch n Munch box - I was just trying to sell my Cersei Grieving Gowns and Dany Qarthien Robes. He took a puff from his asthma inhaler. Well be that as it may - and the fact that Ms. Merchant takes it off at little to no provocation - they werent actually expecting those photos to be used to sell things. You see, its common courtesy to... Georges attention span ceased, and he started thinking about miniatures. I could bundle Hot Pie miniatures with Needle. I hope the Jets dont trade away any more draft picks. Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles take away the challenge of dipping into your own sour cream. Parris wants to do it by the window. Have to ask the doctor how to get it up. ...the book! You cant forget our deal. Weiss took off his glasses and leaned over to look George eye-to-eye. George shifted uncomfortably in his borrowed hover-round. I want the book by next week. Nothing stops. Nothing... or you will do the hardest time there is. No more protection from the GRRMsguard. Ill pull you out of that Hilton and cast you down with the Sodomites. Youll think youve been fucked by a train! And the library tower? Gone... sealed off, brick-by-brick. Well have us a little book barbecue in the yard. Theyll see the flames for miles. Well dance around it like wild Injuns! You understand me? Catching my drift?... Or am I being obtuse?

- 122 -

George lost his attention span again at Sodomites. Maybe play fantasy football with Gaiman. Ran wants to. Doesnt know anything about football, but he pretends to. Tight, revealing pants. Makes me nervous. He kind of looks like a lady, though. Will consider. Frustrated, Weiss stamped off back into the hotel. For seemingly no reason at all, George thought about the book, and how his WORDSTAR writing machine actually had a rodent living inside of it now...

- 123 -

SHAWN
(submitted by kehnonymous)

She leaned in close, and looked him right in the eye. I want you to tweak my nipples as hard as you can. Shawn blinked stupidly, unable to believe his luck. Shed been the first - nay, only visitor at his booth the entire convention, but the wait had been worth it. Amy was a maiden fair of five and twenty, with a cherubic heart-shaped face framed by a sleek mane of chestnut brown hair. Her shirt read George R. R. Martin is not your bitch, and was the ice white of purest snow, but its cut that showed off her voluminous cleavage was most certainly not pure. Shed been eagerly awaiting The Dark Thorn to find a publisher and had brought xeroxed copies of the preview chapters as well as printouts of In defense of George R. R. Martin for him to autograph in triplicate. He felt the warm softness of her cheek brush against him as she whispered in his ear and her voice was a low, throaty purr. George R. R. Martin may not be your bitch, but I sure am. He felt her hand groping his, and something appeared in his hand. Her hotel key card. She favored him with a saucy, doe-eyed glance. Hear me roar, she panted with an exquisite ache to her voice. Ours is the fury, Shawn coolly smirked Growing strong, Amy countered with a playful growl as she stroked his lap Unbent, unbowed and unbroken smiled Shawn as his hand inched forward to tweak her pouty young bosom. Amy was too fast for him and stood up, out of reach. Valar grremlinus. All men must wait., she cooed, playfully wagging a finger at him. She licked her lips suggestively and sauntered away. Shawn and every other man within a twenty-foot radius raptly watched the easy sway of her hips as she slinked towards the convention hall exit. Shawn fumbled about for a sharpie marker and scrawled a large cardboard sign that he placed on his chair. Back in 5 minutes. Winter is coming, and so am I, haha. Giddy with anticipation, his thoughts turned back to when he had last taken the pink. A maiden fairto-plain, chance met at a Feast for Crows release party, haha. Fleeting memories of that afternoon danced through his head. He paused for a second and amended the sign to read Back in 3 minutes As Shawn made his way out the convention hall, he was accosted by a harried-looking bleach-blonde young woman wearing a dirty, velvet-slashed see-through evening gown. She looked like shed been on the run and was dragging a chubby, unwashed teenage boy with her. Youre Shawn Speakman, right? Yes, haha, soon-to-be-published author. He glanced at this watch. Im afraid Im in a bit of... OK, she continued so you know George. Shawn blinked stupidly.

- 124 -

George R. R. Martin, she huffed with an exasperated sigh. Seriously, you know nothing, Shawn Speakman. Anyways, where is he? Shawn gestured vaguely towards Georges now-empty booth. Georges first Q & A session was still supposed to have been going on, but hed left 15 minutes early, complaining of a short-circuit in his Hover-Round. The woman rolled her eyes. Arst4n! Arst4n! Arst4nnnnn, bleated the kid who was covered with a light dusting of Cheeto-dust. She glared at him and he fell silent Arst4n., he mumbled. Shawn pretended not to noticed Arst4ns pudgy hand, which had been scratching at his crotch, start picking his nose with gusto. Stop that!, snapped the woman. Arst4n held out a greasy finger and offered her a gleaming, ochre booger. She slapped him. Arst4n? mewed the kid pitifully. He rubbed his finger in his armpit and then groped at his crotch again. She slapped him. Ah anyways, Shawn interjected Ser Martin had some kind of malfunction that uh... caused him to cut his first session short, haha, however if you can find the buffet table...Now, I really must be off to... The woman stomped off, dragging Arst4n away by the ear. Shawn headed for the lobby where the elevators were. A man in Ray-Bans and a dark suit with a frowny-face pin on the lapel stormed into the lobby right into his path. Seeing Shawn, the man took a stack of construction paper illustrated with crudely drawn crayon figures and flung it at his feet. For the fifteenth time, we are NOT interested in the Dark Thorn trilogy! Do us all a favor and fucking take Random House off your fucking address book. The man threw up his hand in frustration and walked back toward the main hall. Alone at last, Shawn collected his thoughts as he rode the elevator up to Amys room. He thought about his fellow GRRMlins and their amorous misadventures and smirked. Sure, the concierge, a pretty young thing who looked rather like Kristin Kreuk, had rejected him out of hand. But he was way ahead of the game when you considered how his colleagues fared. Werthead was certainly no prize and neither were any of his surviving copies. Too much time spent defending Ser Martin and not enough time spent surfing craigslist, haha. Neil of Gaimans lady was pleasant enough to look at, until she wore a sleeveless dress and raised her arm to wave hello. Ran and Linda had each other. And thats the cruelest jape of all, haha. Its no mystery that they play Renly and Loras, but as to whom plays what, the gods only know. After today, hed be the envy of them all. He stiffened in anticipation as he approached Amys room. I wonder how she feels about the Dothraki style. He found her hotel room and swiped the key card in the reader. The lights were out, but he heard Amys dulcet-toned voice from inside. Come in, and shut the door. He did as asked, and fumbled towards her voice. In the darkness, his hackles were raised and he felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He spun around to face the three figures he sensed behind him. The room began to swim and the pitch-black darkness behind him faded to a bright hazy blur. He felt the

- 125 -

floor swooping up to greet him. The last thing he heard was Amys sweetly mocking laughter. You know nothing, Shawn Speakman.

- 126 -

LISA
(submitted by loripetty)

Lisa got off the elevator and approached Georges room door, which was ajar. Youre really going to follow me everywhere, arent you, she said to Arst4n with a sigh. He nodded vigorously, and taped a SMITE! sticker to her back (as he had done every hour, on the hour). Arst4n! George was waving a calendar ferociously at Ty, like an angry sea cow. ...and I want you to include those leftover 2009 calendars, and a package of Direwolf Jerky, with every $50 copy of Tuf Voyaging! But sir, the Direwolf Jerky has been expired for several years now! TY! I dont care! Wrap it up and post on my blog! His voice got whinier the longer the conversation went on. Ty protested. But sir - TY! Theyre incompetent fools! Theyll consume whatever morsels I provide them! I could make a miniature of YOU and theyd gobble it up like it was a thanksgiving meal! Theyre as dumb as inbred jackalopes! Theyre dumber than 13 on House! Theyre like - George gasped and realized he and Ty werent alone. TUTTLE! he exclaimed. Lisa crossed her arms. Thats right, George. The game is up. George sputtered like a tea kettle filled with fudge. What! You promised youd never tell anyone about Windhaven! You promised to keep quiet about the tax write-off, and I paid you in Deluxe Westeros Brownie Bars! AND THOSE WERE THE SWEETEST PLUM! No, George, Im not here about that, you moron. Im here about your little jail cellar in the Library Tower! Youre going to go away for a long, long time! George looked at her with a mixture of confusion and anger. What in Rhllors name are you talking about? I havent seen you in years! Just then, Parris sauntered in - much like a jello casserole saunters across a platter - and looked over at George. Whats all the commotion, yall? Realization dawned on Lisa. That deep voice. That short, Yosemite Sam-like physique. Those arms, jiggly and thick like a fat Gumby. It was her! You! You did this! You bitch! Yall cant prove nothin, Parris said casually, as she lit a Pall Mall. Yes I can! You locked me up and youd come act out scenes from your husbfrom Georges novels, and then youd leave me! You had me kidnapped from that White Castle by a man in foam armor! I can prove...um...well I have... I have nothing! Damn! But then, Lisa figured out what her play was. This isnt over, she said grimly, and stomped out of the room, with Arst4n in tow. He left a few pornographic pictures on the nightstand while they walked out. ---

- 127 -

Lisa stole a Cersei Grieving Gown from one of the dressing rooms and headed over to the bar, where she found two Italians - one who was on the phone with his mother, asking to borrow a shovel, and the other who was holding court with the female concierge, who was wearing opaque sunglasses. She sat down at the bar and ordered a cosmo. I want to help. Joey got off the phone immediately and started to protest, but Ray stopped him. Oh, this is going to be fun, Ray said amusedly.

- 128 -

PESCI
(submitted by scorpiknox)

The place smelled like stale pizza, flop sweat, and bleach. The combination of the days earlier festivities and the janitorial staffs effort to cleanse the room of nerd residue did not blend well. Pesci grimaced at the stench as he walked further into the dim convention hall. Behind him, Lisa was making too much noise. She had stumbled into the metal chair that Joey had managed to avoid a moment before. Joey shook his head a bit in exasperation, though he knew she wouldnt notice the gesture in the shadows. They might have managed to bribe a sympathetic security guard into letting them into the conventions ballroom, but they still had to be careful. Keep it the fuck down, he whispered, Youre gonna get us pinched. Sorry. I think I may have had one too many cosmos. Her response was only slightly slurred. Joey couldnt blame her for indulging. Apparently shed been locked in that tower for some time. A stiff drink or three seemed as good a way as any to help her forget what shed gone through. That she still drank cosmos spoke to how long shed been held captive. Even the dumb broads on Sex and the City had stopped drinking those years ago. Joey was reluctant to turn on his flashlight, but after Arst4n shut the door, what little light there had been in the room disappeared. All three of them paused in the sudden darkness, listening intently for any sound that might belie the presence of unwanted attention. It was eerily quiet. Even the HVAC was off. Arst4n, whispered Arst4n, cutting through the silence. God I wish hed quit following us, Joey said as he finally switched on his flashlight. The room was a typical middle American convention hall. High ceilings latticed with inset track lighting faded into shadows un-pierced by Joeys light. Busy, post-modern print carpeting lay at their feet, custom made to hide stains and bear the burden of countless business casual shoes. Joey could make out about three-hundred metal chairs lined in neat rows, probably still warm from the heat of overweight audience members. At the far side of the room, a long table and podium sat on a low stage. Two giant video screens were positioned on either side, looking like the solar panels of a satellite in some weird rip-off of a Kubrick film. This was where, in less than 13 hours, George would be making his speech and reading the new Dance chapter. There. Thats where the fuckers gonna be, Joey focused his light on the stage. I bet the audio equipment is behind the podium, Lisa said. Joey agreed and the trio made their way over, Joey muffling his light with his hand, letting only enough through to see where they were going. Behind the podium, Joey found the installation easy enough. It was as simple as unplugging an old tape player from the amplifier and using that input for his remote transmitter. With any luck, the player had gone unused for years and no one would even notice an innocuous piece of equipment sitting atop the other gear. Its done. Lets get out of here. Joey stood up, using his light to locate Lisa. She was sitting at the long table, her arms out in front of her, hands palm down, touching its surface. She had a strange look on her face as she stared into the darkness.

- 129 -

I cant believe the time has finally come, she monotoned, no longer whispering. Snapping out of her seeming trance, she looked up at Joey. her face suddenly concerned. Is this going to work? Tell me. Tell me this is going to work. Joey was not into reassuring people, least of all women. Despite this, he heard himself say, Sure as shit itll work. Dont get all undead Catelyn on me now, babe. Were almost at the home stretch. He put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in, Were gonna show these fuckers. Trust me. Lisa raised her arm across her body, placing her hand over Joeys. They remained there for a few quiet moments. Joey felt uncomfortable and aroused all at once. Finally, Lisa pushed back her chair and stood up. Lets go back to the hotel Joey. We have a big day tomorrow and I need to sleep this off. Outside the hall, all was quiet. No one had noticed them, and they nodded to the man they had bribed as he let them out the back door into the alley. Vinny was across the street waiting for them in the Lincoln. As they got in the back seat of the black sedan, Vinny looked back over his shoulder and asked, Hey, wheres that fucking Arst4n kid? Joey and Lisa exchanged glances. After a moment, Lisa shrugged and said, Looks like you got your wish. Joey shook his head and smirked. Turning to Vinny, he said simply, Drive.

- 130 -

GEORGE
(submitted by scorpiknox)

The backstage craft services table was woefully under-stocked. There were hardly any sandwiches left, and those that still lingered were chicken salad on rye. George looked over the remnants with disdain, finally grabbing one of the room temperature morsels despite his reluctance. He had never been one to one to turn down free food and today was no exception, though he did prefer his chicken deep fried. He began eating the sandwich even as he stuffed two more of them into the inside pocket of his trench coat. The one he was devouring tasted like hot, wet cardboard, but food was food and George dutifully finished his meal even as he felt a tap on his shoulder from behind. George turned around to see his assistant standing there. Boss, they want you on stage in twenty minutes, Ty was eyeing him strangely. What? What are you looking at? George licked his chops clear of the soft remains of rye and chicken salad. Oh, you, umyour beard sir. Theres a piece of bread in it. Ty pointed to where Georges chin should have been and looked down at the floor, embarrassed. Here? George wiped his face with the back of a fat fingered hand. A damp chunk of bread the size of a post-it note fell to the floor with a faint smack. Thanks, George grunted. He almost picked up the floor food and ate it, but thought better of the idea. Bah, not worth the effort. The bed in the hotel did not agree with him and his back had been acting up more than usual. Bad enough I have to be on my feet at all, he thought. How does the room look Ty? Is it filling up? Yes sir, I- Ser. Yes ser, it is already a packed house, Ty looked over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was within earshot. He lowered his voice, Um, I have your speech here. Lifting up his dragon shirt, Ty took out a manila envelope from back behind his waist-band and handed it to the man who paid his bills. George opened it up and took out the paper inside. About fifteen pages had been stapled together at the corner. They had been printed with a font large enough to would allow him to take off his glasses for dramatic effect, should the need arise. Excellent. George sighed, thumbing through the pages. This will have to do, I suppose. Well read it through in a minute, but first: any word from Elio? Has he shown up yet? George glanced up as he asked this, beady eyes peering out from between thick plastic rims and unkempt eyebrows. No, no sign of him yet, ser. Parris suspects foul play and I have to say I agree with her. I think the Others are beh-, George promptly cut him off. I dont care what you or that woman think, just tell me what you know. George lowered his voice a bit; hed been close to shouting. Look. Have the GRRMsguard on alert level Dabel and make sure they realize that that is the highest of my new alert levels. I mean it. I want them on their foam covered toes, Ty nodded as George continued, And did you circulate the pictures of those Italians that attacked The Wert Collective?

- 131 -

Uh sorry ser, I couldnt. They havent finished painting the portraits, but Ive been promised a May completion date. Damn and blast, The words sounded odd when said at a near whisper, so George raised his voice once more, How dare they miss a deadline like that! I was promised a painting of Italian mobsters and I shouldnt have to deal with unprofessional amateurs who dont make deadlines! He looked around self-consciously after the outburst and brought his voice down yet again, I am George Raymond Richard fucking Martin. Dont they know that? Actually ser, I believe most people are unaware of the true nature of your middle names. In point of fact, thats the first time Ive heard them. George was horrified at his mistake. In the heat of the moment hed said his middle names out loud. Luckily Ty was loyal, but if hed have made the same mistake in front of his enemies, all would have been lost. Yes well, just keep them to yourself, boy. Let the peasants continue to think that Im referencing that colossal hack Tolkien and all will be as it should. Ty nodded and said, Yes, ser. Thats actually what I thought you were doing. Your secret is safe with me. Of course. Was there a glimmer in Tys eyes just then? George couldnt be sure, but the thought of Ty betraying him was dire indeed. He quickly dismissed it as a dark impossibility. The recent turmoil had him chasing after shadows. I must keep ever vigilant, for I play a game most deadly. George like the way that last thought flowed and decided it should be preserved. Write this down, boy, he commanded. Ty pulled out a pen and what looked like an envelope from one of the cargo pockets of his shorts and prepared to take dictation. I must keep ever vigilant, for I play a game most deadly. Ty scribbled furiously and George waited until he was done to ask, Did you get it? Yes ser, word for word. Brilliant, Ser, most eloquent. Good, though if I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it. We shall now go over this drivel youve written, George knew Ty was a fair writer, but compliments and praise were exclusively reserved for him, not the help. Before we do that ser, there issomething else. Ty sounded even more reticent than usual. George stiffened at the prospect of more bad news. Well, out with it boy, what in the bloody hells else could be wrong now? George was on the verge of running out of breath from such a long conversation. Whispering is without a doubt the breathiest form of speech there is, he thought, seeking to justify his lack of fitness. Speakman is missing now too. He hasnt been seen since last night. Oh, is that all? George let out a relieved snort, You had me worried for a second. Between Tuttle showing up last night and all the other stuff I was beginning to think this whole trip was the Red Wedding come to life. You dont care about Shawn? Ty sounded surprised. He is insignificant.

- 132 -

But ser, hes one of your greatest defenders. Arent you worried? Ty had gone from surprised to incredulous. George scoffed. Have you read his fiction? Awful, just awful. No, he will not be missed. George waved the speech in front of Tys face and said, Enough bloody distractions, lets go over my speech.

- 133 -

ARST4N
(submitted by kehnonymous)

Arst4n had wandered through the convention center all night, and the first haze of morning dimly illuminated the cavernous convention hall. He wondered where the pretty girl and the potty mouth man had gone. At the large dais in the middle, one woman and several men wearing foam armor and black t-shirts embroidered with dragons were hanging banners decorated with knights and horses. Some of the men were heavily bandaged, but Arst4n thought all of them looked the same. The woman brandished a long lock of silky brown hair in one hand and looked like shed been crying. He stood in silence staring at the buzz of activity. The rumble in his stomach reminded him of his hunger and he picked his nose, searching for some breakfast. One of the men, who had bleary eyes and seemed to be watching the rest of the men work, noticed Arst4n and greeted him pleasantly. The master abides and so shall I, he proclaimed with a theatrical flourish. Can I help you? Arst4n. Ah yes, were er... Im Werthead. I patrol Speculative Horizons. Arst4n blinked uncomprehendingly. The man spoke really funny. He saw a large blue book lying on the velvet-draped table and started to examine it. Youd like an autograph? Werthead frowned to himself. The boy was drooling all over one of the few copies they had left of A Storm of Swords. Ser George R.R. Martin had limited the number of Ice and Fire books theyd brought to C2E2 to sell, insisting instead that they bring and sell their entire stock of Fevre Dream and Wild Cards volumes - even the water-damaged copies. He sniffed audibly and thought about a second hit of coke. Arst4n nodded eagerly. Arst4n. Youll have to have Ty take care of it, Werthead rolled his eyes. Gods be good, Ty takes care of everything. He called out to one of the other men. You! Sffworld.com! Take this kid backstage to Ty, he wants an autograph. Arst4n looked at the second man and blinked. They did look all the same. The first Werthead continued his instructions. The gods know we have enough bloody calendars as well, so see if Ty will unload some of them, theyre such a bloody pain to cart out of the tower. Just get back here quick, there arent nearly as many of us left. Maybe we also can unload some of the Wild Cards books on the kid. No... dont give him any copies of The Dark Thorn; in the name of the Seven, have some mercy on the child. He paused. Though, from the looks of him.... Child, you can read, cant you? He turned towards Arst4n and swore in fury. Seven fucking bloody hells! Arst4n was standing in front of the woman. He had pulled down his pants and was beaming proudly at the tiny pink worm wriggling between his legs. The woman collapsed in a heaving fit of sobs, and clawed at her face. Elio! Oh gods! Elio, where are you, my love? Arst4n had time to put a Post-It Note on the womans forehead that read Smite before the Wertheads grabbed him and escorted him away. ----

- 134 -

The Sffworld.com Werthead deposited him in front of a ready room. A nervous looking man opened the door and stammered a hello, quickly hiding a stack of papers in a drawer and stuffing another stack into a manila folder. I... you were here with Miss Tuttle, werent you? Im Ty and well... Ty paused to consider the unwashed, stupidlooking boy before him. Im sure one autograph will be fine. If they were going to send an infiltrator they wouldve sent someone.... brighter. Ser Martin is indisposed at the moment, so youll have to wait. A squat, dowdy woman was asleep on one of the sofas, snoring loudly. A pendulous, wrinkled breast flopped out of her baggy tie-dyed dress. Arst4n thought he had seen her before, too. He stared at the breast and thought he saw teeth marks on it. Arst4ns wax-crusted ears perked up as he heard a vibrating noise. Tys phone was ringing and the strains of My Heart Will Go On filled the hotel suite. Ty looked at the phone and his already nervous expression now registered absolute terror. Numbly he answered. Yes.. yes, itll be ready. I cant stay on the phone long.... You want me to do what? Look, Im not sure if I can do this, but I... I...I really have to... yes... Im listening... Arst4n got bored trying to understand all the grown-up talk. Scanning the room he found a table of miniature people, and fondled the girl ones with boobies in one hand and dug into his bedraggled grey sweatpants with the other. Next to the miniature figurines, his squinty dark eyes lit up at seeing a working replica crossbow, exquisitely lacquered to resemble a charging lion with flames for its mane. With a distracted snort he picked up the crossbow and began a clumsy examination of it. From behind a door, he heard the rumbling crescendo of a wet staccato fart. Inhaling heavily through his mouth he sniffed the air and thought he smelled chili con queso. Arst4n suddenly remembered that he had to pee. Arst4n, Arst4n, Arst4n!, he squealed, making a beeline for the closed bathroom door. No! Ty looked up from his phone call and screamed, frozen in terror. Brandishing the crossbow like a plastic toy sword, Arst4n opened the door. It was the fat man with the beard from before. Immensely rotund, wearing a sailor hat and an extra-extra-extra-large black t-shirt, he sat on the toilet, naked from the waist down. The toilet paper dispenser was empty and the man was feebly wiping between his ample backside with wadded up copies of The Dark Thorn. He looked up with a start. What in seven hells is that doing here?, the man thundered, pointing at Arst4n. I suppose you want an autograph, boy? Arst4n! The man harrumped. Itll cost you. Youll have to buy two signed copies of Tuf Voyaging, though Ill throw in a Dabel calendar if we still have any. Dont suppose you can actually read any of it, boy. With visible effort, he struggled to stand up. Arst4n! Arst4n! He could read, he could! He gesticulated excitedly with both hands, still holding the crossbow in his right. His round pudgy fingers brushed against the firing mechanism, and thurm!, a quarrel shot out and caught the fat man point blank in the belly. Arst4n stared in surprise. Arst4n?

- 135 -

The fat mans rolls of blubber took the brunt of the shot, and the crossbow bolt bounced off with a boing and clattered harmlessly on the ceramic tile floor. The man, however, shuddered with the impact, lost his footing, and landed back down upon the toilet in an awkward sitting position. There was a slurping rattle from beneath his immense belly, and he involuntarily loosed a spray of shit upon the ceramic tile floor. Arst4n giggled excitedly. Arst4n! Arst4n! Arst4n! God damn it! The fat mans voice was a curiously hysterical whine. Ty, clean this up now! Mood: exhausted. With a pained sigh, he attempted to stand up and gave up, settling back down on the toilet as his own shit pooled around his feet. Arst4n tittered gleefully at seeing bits of gold candy-wrapper foil scattered amongst the creeping brown lake of crud. Ty remembered himself and, with a frightened yelp, ran to fetch a mop. With a wheedling pout, the fat man fixed Arst4n with a glowering stare. Arst4n stared back. After a moment, his beady dull eyes narrowed in contemplation, and he frowned, clutching at himself as he strained to recall something... Arst4n.... Arst4n...artsan... Arst4n...Arst4nArst4nArst4nArst4n.... The fat man sighed, reached under a fold of fat and produced a chicken salad sandwich. He glumly started eating it with a look of resignation. Arst4n looked up, his eyes agape. ...Daddy?

- 136 -

GEORGE
(submitted by scorpiknox)

George was washing himself off in the bathroom sink, his pants still missing as he splashed water onto the back of his hairy thighs. He'd gotten lucky in that the supply of hand towels had been freshly stocked. He would need them as the mess had run down past his knees. In his attempts to clean up, Ty had gotten to the point where he was simply coating the floor with shit-water and there were still smeared remnants of the brown eruption on the tile. The boy had gone to get clean water for the mop bucket and had been instructed stop and pick up a fresh pair of pants along way. George got a look at himself in the bathroom mirror and for a brief moment felt the sharp sting of self-loathing. The bottom of his shirt was tucked through the collar like a San Franciscan monk and his belly was exposed in all of its dubious splendor. One ample haunch rested on the sink as he lapped water onto it. Clean was a relative term, and George was fast approaching his acceptable hygienic threshold. He was supposed to be on stage reading his new chapter ten minutes ago and he didnt want to be any more late than absolutely necessary. He hated when people were late. It was disrespectful. There was a knock on the door and he heard Ty say, "It's me." "Come in, you dullard." Ty slid into the cramped bathroom, keeping the door closed as much as possible. "Did you bring pants?" "Yes ser, are you ready for them?" Ty's face betrayed his disgust at the sight of his naked employer. "I asked for them didnt I?" George's voice was as menacing as he could manage under the circumstances. The sounds of a restless audience had grown more noticeable, even through the bathroom door. Both men paused for a bit, listening to what sounded like a chant of "We want GRRM, we want GRRM" as it grew in volume, finally drowning out the whir of the strained bathroom fan. It was then that Ty noticed that George was engorged. Minutes later, after Ty had left him to don his trousers, George was all but ready to face his public. The fresh pants felt cool against his still drying legs as he strapped on his suspenders. He walked out of the bathroom a new man, ready to face the world that had finally accepted his genius. Standing near the doorway, Parris caught his eye. "George, who is this little monster?" She glanced over to the couch on which she'd recently been napping. A filthy head poked out from behind it, beady eyes darting between Parris, George, and Ty. "Arst4n?" George let out a long and wheezy sigh. There was no use in hiding it any longer, he'd denied his progeny long enough. It was time to acknowledge his union with Tuttle, however meaningless it had been. "He's my son, Parris." Parris' eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She said nothing as she fumbled around for a few moments, searching through the loose folds of her tie-died muumuu. Finally, she drew a pack of Pall Malls from one of the pockets and lit one up. She took a long, deep drag, closing her eyes and tilting her head towards the ceiling as she exhaled a silvery cloud of smoke.

- 137 -

"Your son," she said at long last. Her voice was dangerously calm. George began to sputter, "Yes, but I can explain. It was Tuttle, you see she seduced me." He was uncomfortable. He was in trouble. Most of all, he was starving. "Look, what do you want me to say? It was a stupid bloody mistake, alright?" Parris smiled a wry smile and looked over towards Arst4n. "What was it Georgie, about eight years ago? Ten?" Arst4n stood up from behind the couch and cocked his head. He reminded George of a curious little monkey. "Yes Parris. It was during LepriCon, on the twentieth anniversary of our book's publication. The towers had just fallen and we, wellwe comforted each other." Having returned to the bathroom to finish mopping up, Ty cringed at the thought of his employer forcing his sweaty girth upon anyone. "Windhaven?" Arst4n asked sweetly. Parris approached George, and he took a step back despite himself. She reached out with long unpainted nails, grabbing a handful of beard and yanking him close to her. Their bellies met. "We ain't through discussing this, my lord. Not by a long shot." George nodded and started to stammer, but Parris cut him off. "Dont you have a speech to make? Well get to it. Do your damned job for once." With that, she released him. The chanting had grown louder, echoing from the entryway to the green room. The natives were restless. George cleared his throat. "Ty, where's the speech?" Poking his head out from behind the bathroom door, Ty replied, "Uh, you pooped on it, ser. You pooped on it a lot. " George flashed Artsan a murderous look, "This is all your fault, spawn of Tuttle," Arst4n looked back at George, smiling the smile of the insane. The author shuddered. "Very well, Ty. Have one of the Werts bring me a new copy at once. I shall read my Dance chapter first." With that George lumbered out of the room, avoiding Parris' gaze along the way. He exited the hallway that lead from the green room and approached the stairway up to the stage. Nine daunting steps separated him from his adoring fans. "I bet that wench J.K. never has to walk up stairs," he muttered to himself as he heaved his bulk up the flight, step after deliberate step. As he leaned on it for support, the hand rail creaked, strained to the breaking point under the tremendous burden. At last he reached the top, sweat pouring down his face, his glasses half fogged over from the effort. He gathered himself before opening the heavy door. Bright light hit his eyes, causing him to squint as he walked on stage. The chant of "We want GRRM" dissolved into the loud roar of applause as he approached the podium. Looking out over the crowd as his eyes adjusted, George failed to notice Ray Liotta in the audience, probably because he was dressed as Lando Calrissian in disguise as seen in Star Wars Episode VI. Ray had chosen the costume as an homage to another group of plucky rebels who'd risked their lives to overthrow a despot similar to George in build and disposition. The sound of feedback reverberated through the PA system as George breathed heavily into the microphone. "Testing, testing," said George. He had never got used to the sound of his own voice. He hated how modern audio equipment made him sound unusually high pitched and nasally. As his words reverberated throughout the hall, the room grew quiet

- 138 -

with anticipation. He spoke once more to the hushed crowd, "Can you hear me out there, Chicago?" A random audience member shouted a long, lonely "Ditka!" in response. George cleared his throat and said, "Well, I'd like to thank you all for coming, and thank C2E2 for inviting me to speak. Um, tonight I will be giving a speech about the business side of writing as well as professionalism in the creative world. After that I will be fielding any and all questions regarding Fevre Dream or Wildcards." George paused sensing that he was already losing the mob. They wanted to know about Dance of course, but what else was new? It was always about Dance. He smiled sadly as he continued, "But first, I will be reading a chapter from my forthcoming book, A Dance with Dragons." The crowd let out a great cheer, and among them Ray smiled to himself. He would let them enjoy their reading before he set things in motion. The poor rubes had been duped just as he had once been, many years ago. Why not grant them this one moment of happiness before he exposed George for the grafter that he was? George took a deep breath and opened the white binder that the Werts had left for him on the podium. Scanning the page, his brow furrowed. Someone had played a joke on him. He gave himself a mental shrug. It matters not, he thought, this lot will gobble it up as long as I tell them that it is made of Ice and Fire. "'Bran'," he began, "'The rat glared with beady black eyes at the broken mans approach before scurrying away into the darkness, a lone vestige of life among the dusty bones of death.'" Ray sat back in surprise, wondering who'd managed to switch out George's chapter with what the man had just read. Curious as to how long George would go on reading what was clearly not his work, he crossed his arms and listened patiently. Elsewhere in the crowd, Ray's friends did the same.

- 139 -

TY
(submitted by scorpiknox)

Ty and Parris sat on the green room couch. Exhausted, they eyed the feral child Arst4n as he squatted on the ruin that once was the craft service table. Ty looked at Parris and said, "You dont seem all that mad about this." Parris gave him a casual smile, "Ty my sweetling, its a good thing you look good in those shorts, 'cause you aint the brightest spark on the plug." Ty looked away, insulted, while Parris went on. "Now dont you think I already knew about all this? Why do you think I locked that trailer trash cunt up in the first place?" Just last night, Ty had been horrified to learn that he'd been party to Lisa Tuttle's prolonged captivity. He was beginning to suspect that he'd gotten in too deep with these people; that he was in danger of becoming one of them. The sheer wrongness of it all had been weighing heavily on his heart, even before the Tuttle revelation. He did not fully understand or acknowledge it, but Ty was on the verge of hating himself for his complacency. "No Ty," Parris continued her exposition, as villains are prone to do, "The only reason why I'm hot under the collar is 'cause this little shit didnt stay dead after I dropped him in that dumpster nine years ago." Arst4n grunted like an ape and stood up on the table, his hands shaking in the air in defiance. "Arst4n!" he shouted. Parris coerced her girth off of the couch and stood on bare feet. Ty remained on the sofa, too stunned at her admission of attempted infanticide to do much of anything but stare at her in horror. The woman approached Arst4n, and the boy hissed, nimbly jumping off of the table, away from Parris. A long, wicked dagger appeared in her hand from beneath the folds of her garment. Her eyes went wide as she said, "Come hither my dear heart, come to Parris" Arst4n hissed again, scrambling to the other side of the room. His eyes wild with terror, a wet stain spread across the front of his sweatpants. George was droning on outside, and Ty made out the muffled phrase, " the haze of drug addiction slackening his jowls and giving his hands the palsy awaiting his next fix. 'Dis place given me jeebies.'" The horrendous prose snapped Ty out of his trance as he realized that George was reading from Shawn Speakman's Dark Thorn Trilogy. He pushed his confusion aside and leapt up, putting himself in between the armed ogress and the filthy goblin. "Parris! Stop thisthis insanity! By the god's, he's only a child!" Ty's arms were outstretched, hands open and shaking. Adrenaline coursed through him, winding him up like a top: he had never before dared to defy Parris and it filled him with a sensation both exhilarating and terrifying. "This sweet child ain't getting one red cent of my money. I have worked too damn hard for him to take what's mine!" Parris snarled, murder in her voice. "This is about money?" Ty scoffed, indignant. "It is always about money. And when that silly, sloppy man up there finally dies, I will be one of the richest women in Santa Fe. That is, I will be as long as he has no heirs. Now out of my way, or you'll be the first to die!" Parris lunged at Ty with the pointy end,

- 140 -

nearly catching him in the chest. He dodged to the right in time to avoid serious damage, but a cut had opened up on his shoulder. Blood was streaming down his arm and his shirt was ruined. That was it; that was all Ty could take. He burned with a rage as sudden as it was fierce, all the years of abuse and frustration coming back to him, flooding him with the desire to be rid of both of them, once and for all. "Cow, you go too far!" Ty went for the knife and Parris pulled away, quicker than Ty would have thought possible for a woman her size. "Ah, the worm has grown teeth!" Parris brushed unkempt strands of hair from her face with one hand while she flourished the blade with the other. "Well, come at me then, boy. Let's finish this." The two met in the middle of the green room, a snarling ball of pasty white flesh. Ty was slightly stronger, but Parris could move, and used her bulk to her advantage. The dagger was all that mattered, both combatants vying for control over the deadly tool at the expense of all else. Finally Ty gave up trying to wrest the weapon for himself and struck Parris' elbow hard with a closed fist. The dagger clattered to the ground. Parris screamed in outrage and put her leg behind Ty's, shifting her weight to one side. Ty flew onto his back, the floor delivering a blow that sent sharp pains shooting along his spine. He'd tried too late to catch his fall and felt the bones in his left wrist crack. Parris lunged for her weapon and Ty did the same. She was faster. Seeing that she had the advantage, Ty relented, laying on his back with his knees up. The pain in his wrist was unbearable, and tears welled up in his eyes. "Just make it quick," he choked, "I'd rather die than to be like you." Parris loomed over him, saying, "You disappoint me, sugar. I thought we had a little something, you and me." "Never! We've never had anything!" Ty was defiant in his resignation. If he was to die, it would be with his principles unsullied, his morality restored. "C'est la vie, mon cheri, " Parris straightened as she prepared her death blow, griping the hilt of the dagger in both hands. Just as she was about to strike, a spidery figure leapt onto her back. The boy called Arst4n scratched and clawed at Parris' face from behind, and she flailed in vain trying to stab him off of her. To her dismay, her pillowy arms could not manage the angle and the blade never came close to its target. Arst4n climbed around her, she the tree and he the ape, his gnashing teeth finding her face at long last. Blood spurted forth and Parris dropped the dagger for the second time as she let out a high pitched moan. Parris fell to the ground and Arst4n jumped off of her. The boy's face was awash in crimson, his teeth pink as he smiled at Ty and barked "Arst4n!" Parris was crumpled in a heap, softly cooing to herself like a wounded animal. Ty rose to his knees and got a look at his fallen foe. Her nose was mangled beyond repair and her scalp was bleeding from where Arst4n had yanked huge clumps of hair free at the roots. "Leave," he told her as he picked up the fallen dagger. "Leave and never come back. Not to Santa Fe, not to New Mexico, not to anywhere near me, do you understand? Leave before I take this dagger and finish you myself." Ty knew the threat was hollow, but he counted on Parris not wanting to take that chance. She nodded and slowly got up on her

- 141 -

hands and knees, crawling towards the rear exit of the green room. As she passed by the craft services table, she pulled herself up onto her feet. Spotting a stack of napkins she took a handful to staunch the flow of blood. Watery eyes looked back at Ty over her shoulder. "This isnt over," was all she said before making her way out the door.

- 142 -

LIOTTA
(submitted by scorpiknox)

Ray was trying hard not to laugh at just how bad The Dark Thorn was. He could tell that George had been trying to fix it even as he read it, but his efforts were in vain. It was beyond repair, grammar so abused and mangled that Gore Vidal himself could not have mended it. As predicted however, the GRRiMlins were eating it up. They thought it was a new Bran chapter after all. George continued reading: "'The booksellers administrations had hurt like hell and Richard had gritted his teeth throughout them. He knew by the next morning he would be greatly healed.' " George abruptly stopped reading and muttered to himself, "By the gods, what was he thinking? " He hadnt been quiet enough to avoid being picked up by the microphone, and his mutterings rang through the room. He looked up at the crowd, his face going red. Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he said, "Ahem, well, that concludes this chapter of A Dance with Dragons. " The applause was thunderous, the result of enthusiastic fans, brainwashed long ago, voicing their unconditional love for a man who could not have cared less about them. Ray brought his watch up to his mouth and said, "Now! " The room went dark and the crowd's applause dissolved into a confused dissonance. An ominous low rumble swelled from the speakers that were arrayed along the front of the stage. A hush fell upon them all, most under the impression that this was some part of the show. Perhaps a big announcement from George, they thought. Perhaps the big announcement. The two giant screens on either side of the dais flashed on, flooding the room with white light for a split second before going black. Then came the words on the screen, typed out in letters three feet tall. YOU ARE ALL ASLEEP. The screen flashed again, then: YOU ARE LIVING A LIE. Ray heard someone behind him say, "Aw, they already did this in the Matrix." Another someone shushed him. The screen flashed yet again: THERE IS NO SPOON. "See, it's just a Matrix rip-off, thats a direct quote!" This time the one man peanut gallery was shushed by half a dozen others. THERE IS NO DANCE WITH DRAGONS. At this, the crowd gasped in unison. "Lies!" someone shouted. George's voice rang out over the speakers: "no one must know that I'll never finish the series. The peasants will still pay so long as they think their patience will be rewarded"

- 143 -

"...The imbeciles worship me, as they should..." On stage, George squealed, "Turn it off, turn it all off!" His mike was no longer on, and he flailed about helplessly, screaming at someone in the front row. I dont feel like writing it, and I deserve to be noticed for my previous work anyway!Ty, your speech had better make me look goodI am not their bitch, they are mine!...I want those detractors dead!...Bring me more food!...Free calendars!... They should be thanking me for my generosity!" "I have no plans to work on Dance for the remainder of the yearMood: lazy." The sound bites continued, but were soon drowned out by the din of what was fast becoming an angry mob on the verge of rioting. Ray knew the job was only half finished. A new message flashed on the screen: THERE IS A BOMB IN THIS ROOM. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES. Within the crowd, hot anger quickly turned to cold terror and there was a mad rush for the doors. People scrambled over chairs and each other, screaming and cursing, fighting their way out of the convention hall. Ray stayed where he was, an immutable boulder in a stream. He spotted his brother and Vinny, who were dressed up as Baseball Furies from the movie The Warriors, a perfect excuse to bring baseball bats with them into the convention. He spotted Kristen Kruek and Lisa Tuttle, dressed as the Klingon sisters Lursa and B'Etor of House Duras, both armed with functional bat'leths. And he spotted Krafus and his two mysterious friends, dressed in ordinary clothes but no doubt filled with extraordinary hate. As the room emptied out, the lights came back up. GRRM still stood atop the dais. In the turmoil, he had armed himself with a replica of Needle. The sword looked comically small in contrast with his massive bulk, but the blade was as sharp as any. The GRRMsguard was lined up in front of the stage, weapons drawn. Ray recognized four of them as members of the Wert Collective, but the other three were new to him. The central Wert called out, "George RR Martin is not your bitch!" Ray approached the stage, halving the distance between he and the assembled forces of GRRM before stopping. "Is that all you have to say Wert? The same tired lines, over and over again?" "Go read something else!" replied the Wert on the right, answering Ray's question. Ray could sense his allies gathering behind him. He switched his attention from the Werts to George himself. "Who are these new lackeys you've assembled Georgie-boy? I've never seen them before." The three new-comers all wore the same green and blue foam armor of the GRRMsguard, green for the NY Jets, blue for the NY Giants. The bald one stepped forward. His head was the shape of an hourglass, as if it had been caught in a vice. His eyes were squinted and he gave a sinister grin as he introduced himself with a thick cockney accent, "I'm Evilnioj, I am, the defender of Ser Martin's vastly superior early work. I own multiple copies of all Wildcard novels and 'ave a case of first edition copies of Tuf Voyaging on backorder! I am Ser Martin's greatest fan!" At that, Evilnioj stepped back into formation. The second of the new GRRMsguard stepped forward. He had a Dallas Cowboys hat on and his face reminded Ray of Sloth from The Goonies. "And I am Trebla1972," he declared, "I am the keeper of the NFL posts. I worship Ser Martin for his insights into the NCF East and will defend his analysis to the death. I am Ser Martin's greatest fan!"

- 144 -

The last of the new guards stepped forward as Trebla1972 stepped back. He was young, with thick black hair and chubby infant like cheeks. For some reason, he was wearing bright orange scuba-goggles. He pursed his lips and said, "What's the matter with you people? Dont you know that I am Doug Whiting? You really need to get a life. I spend all day trolling Facebook to potshot those who would doubt my lord's majesty, thus I am Ser Martin's greatest fan!" The man who looked like a big baby stepped back. The GRRMsguard line was complete once more. George had assembled a hodgepodge rabble of internet hangers on and Ray was not impressed. "Give it up old man," he called out, "End this fucking farce. You know we'll win this. The fact that you've been reduced to relying on the B team only proves how weak you've become. Where is Ran? Where is Shawn? Where is Neil? You seem to be missing your greatest defenders." Ray paused. He'd noticed two other key absences. "And where are Ty and Parris?" Pesci piped up, "Probably out back making some fuck-ugly babies." Krafus barked a sharp laugh at this. The last comment hit close to home, and George thundered as best he could in his whiney voice, "You ungrateful bastards! I'll have your heads on pikes! I am the American Tolkien! I a-am" he sputtered, "I am George RR Martin! I will not be treated as thus by the likes of you!" "Last chance, big guy." George seemed to calm down ever so slightly, perhaps at last sensing the dire nature of his situation. "What is it you want of me then?" he probed. "A full written apology for your behavior. Condemning the hucksterism, condemning the irresponsible vacations, and most of all, condemning the sheer callousness towards your fans that you've displayed these last five years." George opened his mouth to reply but Ray continued, "In addition, you agree to let Pesci fly back to Santa Fe with you and oversee the completion of the series. Call it a motivational consort." "Impossible!" George was incredulous, "I've never apologized for anything in my life and I'd sooner die than be forced to write when I'm not in the mood." George gritted his teeth in a snarl, yellow teeth contrasting with his dirty white beard. "No, I think instead I shall send you to the seven bloody hells!" George pointed his Needle at Ray and shrieked, "Get them! " The GRRMsguard charged, their foam swords replaced with wooden practice swords in anticipation of this very situation. Two of the Werts honed in on Pesci and Vinny, one shouting "Revenge!" as he swung his weapon in a wide, sweeping arc. Joey caught the whirring wooden blade with his bat and countered with a kick to the knee. The unfortunate Wert screeched as his leg bent back in the wrong direction. "Yeah!" Pesci gloated, "How do you like that, pig fucker?" Ten feet away, Ray was busy with Evilnoij, who'd come at him crying "For Doorways!" while wielding a wooden sword the size of a claymore. He'd probably focused on Ray because he lacked a proper weapon. The staff that had come with his costume was a useless prop long ago discarded, and he hadn't wanted to bring his pistol for fear he'd end up shooting someone. What Ray did have, however, was a childhood rife with violence, bloodshed, and countless street fights. He avoided the Brit's clumsy attack and delivered a hard right cross, landing squarely on one misshapen cheek. Before Evilnoij could react, fists with knuckles hard as steel rained a half a dozen more blows to the GRRiMlins face, rendering it a devastated ruin.

- 145 -

After he had dispatched his opponent, Ray looked around for someone else to fight. Krafus and his gang were in the process of tying up the two Werts they'd subdued, while near the stage Lisa and Kruek had Trebla1972 backed up at bat'leth point against one of the mammoth video screens. Even Vinny was doing well against his opponent, and Joey had left his recently crippled victim to deal with the ever annoying Doug Whiting. Too late, Ray saw that no one was watching what the George was up too. Still standing on the stage, it was obvious to the author that the battle was lost. George reached under his captain's hat and pulled out what looked like a small plastic orb. Raising his arm above his head, the rotund man declared, "You'll not force me to yield! Behold, my ninja stealth!" He slammed the plastic orb onto the floor and shouted, "I am Batman! " A billowing cloud of smoke erupted at his feet, quickly consuming him and half the dais around him. Ray cursed and raced towards the stage fearing the worst. Luckily, George had overestimated his powers of stealth and underestimated the strength of the smoke bomb: he could be clearly seen scurrying towards the back stage entrance. Ray bypassed the misty cloud and leapt onto the stage, headed straight for the fleeing author. "Dont make me tackle you fat man." Ray warned, not shouting, but loud enough for his nemesis to hear. About five feet away from the door, George stopped in his tracks. His back facing Ray, his shoulders sagged in resignation as folds folded upon folds, back-fat cascading over itself under his black T-shirt. He dropped his Needle with a clang and raised his hands. Then the door opened. A bruised and battered Ty emerged, holding his wrist. He seemed surprised to see George standing directly in front of him. "What the..? What the fuck is going on here?" George scrambled to put Ty between himself and Ray, "Oh thank the Gods, Ty it's you! My dear boy, do something. You've got to save me from them!" Ray had to admit, George was doing a remarkable job of hiding behind the much slimmer man. Ty took stock of the situation. The GRRMSguard had been utterly decimated while George was running to save his own skin. "Typical of you Ser, " The word ser was laced with vitriol. "Let your lackeys sacrifice themselves at your altar, while you remain unscathed, unsullied, and unaccountable. You'll never learn." Ty distanced himself from George, pushing him away. George was horrified. "Ty, no!" he whined, "You cant possibly mean to abandon me to these animals! After all I've done for you?" "George, I only came up here to tell you that I quit. I am taking your son with me and getting as far away from you and your poison as I possibly can." "He's got a son?" asked Ray, blinking. "Yes, the boy called Arst4n. He's down in the greenroom now. He isdamaged, but I sense there is still good in him. George had not been listening about his son, "You're leaving me? II dont believe this" At that, he laid down on the floor of the stage and curled up into a ball, rocking back and forth. His captain's hat fell off, revealing a bare wrinkled scalp. "What happened to Parris?" Ray asked Ty.

- 146 -

"Bitch tried to stab me. Tried to murder Arst4n when he was only a baby, too. She ran off after Iafter Arst4n nearly killed her." Ty looked down at his former boss with pity. "What will you do with him?" "The way I see it, he owes us all two things: an apology and a book. We're going to make sure he pays those debts, and soon. Very fucking soon." Ray heard footsteps and turned to see that Pesci had joined them. The shorter man eyed Ty like a cat eyes a mouse. "We got a fuckin' problem here little brother?" Joey's face paint had smeared and he looked a little ridiculous, but Ray wasn't about to tell him that. "Nah, we're straight. Ty was just leaving." Ty sensed that he'd worn out his welcome. "One more thing before I go," he said, taking out a scrap of paper and handing it to Ray. "This should help make him morecompliant." Ray looked down at the paper and then back up at Ty. "You cheeky bastard," he said with a mixture of surprise and amusement. Ty gave Ray a wry smile then stepped through the door, shutting it firmly behind him. It was now just the two brothers and George. "What? What's it say?" "It's his middle names. His true middle names." George looked up at Ray from the floor and, utterly crestfallen, began to sob. Joey looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. He clearly didnt understand the implications of the gift Ty had just given them, but George most certainly did. "So, what are we supposed to with all these fuckin' mooks, Ray?" Joey gestured to the captive GRRMsguard behind them. "Leave them Joey, we got who we came for."

- 147 -

EPILOGUE
(submitted by Slynt)

Scorpiknox heard her footsteps approaching, followed by the rattling of keys. He was still on the couch, nestled deep among the litter of take away food hed been consuming over the weekend. If only she had stayed at home this weekend, he would not have ended up in this pathetic position. He tried to will his body into rising from the couch, but he had sunk so deep over the last two days. Instead, he hurriedly wiped the trash off the couch with the back of his free hand, the fingers of his other hand still feverishly typing. Must. Finish. I. Am. Not. George. Honey, Im home, she called from the hallway. He heard her suitcase thump on the floor. Where are you? Normally, Scorpiknox would have been standing attention, ready to take her suitcase up to the bed chamber and unpack it, a warm footbath awaiting her in the living room, the house bright with the light of a thousand candles. But not this time. In the couch, he called back, but his voice was weak; he hadnt uttered a word since Friday, all his concentration bent on writing the longest chapter of A Feast for Trolls, the one chapter to rule them all. Damn you, Scorpi, I said Im home, she called again, her voice rising with frustration and surprise. My feet are aching. Be there in a sec, honey, must finish some work, he managed weakly. He heard her throw her keys on the floor. They skidded into view. Honey, he heard again, what do I smell? He swallowed a lump in his throat. Here it comes. He heard her snort, could see her face reddening before his minds eye, her anger building up. Havent done the dishes, dear, Ive been so busy, he said hurriedly, struggling to get himself out of the couch. Next to him, his mp3-player was still playing old eighties heavy metal tunes, but he had taken it off a few hours ago. Fifty-three hours listening while focused on his story had made his head ache. Have you made popcorn? she asked as he heard her take off her boots all by herself. Guess youre smelling my socks, honey, Scorpiknox replied. Better be honest. The pitch of her voice rose. You havent taken a shower? He heard spittle fly. Been working so hard, my dear... he tried, but she interrupted him as she loomed in the doorway. Her eyes widened as she took in the mess around him; empty pizza boxes, crumpled papers where he had scribbled down his notes and ideas, a tumbled pyramid of coke boxes, and himself in the couch in his grease-stained boxer shorts, his hairy legs resting on the table, his feet in an overfull ashtray. His Fender Stratocaster was on the floor beneath the table, buried in dust. I-I can explain, honey, Scorpiknox said apologetically. The look she gave him was not comforting. You havent studied at all, have you, she sighed, shaking her head mournfully.

- 148 -

Thats the thing, Scorpiknox said, I have been studying, you see? He waved a bunch of papers at her. She maneuvered her way across the floor and snatched the papers out of his hand, giving them a cursory glance. Studying? she snarled, This is for that stupid website, isnt it! They all like what I write, Scorpiknox said, his mullet nodding in agreement. Do you think I care about that? she snapped. They are not your friends, Scorpi. They are just online, like you. Poor bastards without a life. You know, when I met you, I saw a rocknroll star. Your long hair, your guitar... you even had a goddamn band back then. And now? She ripped the papers apart. Haha, I have already hit the Submit button. You are just another nerd, slouching away your life in front of the computer instead of hanging out with me, or get anywhere with your music, let alone studying so we can get out of this dump. When are you going to get a real job? Listen, honey, Scorpiknox said, Ive got a bit of a headache. Ill clean up tomorrow, ok? Ill study every day from now on, I just had to get this story done. Come here, give me a kiss. She couldnt resist him then. There was something about Scorpiknox that kept making her come back into his arms. It was the mullet. As they embraced, he whispered softly into her ear. Honey, everythings gonna be allright. Im gonna get a job. Really? she said, looking him in the eyes. He loved her so much when she looked this vulnerable. He could feel his heartbeat rising in perfect harmony with another body part. Really. Ive been procrastinating too long with my studies, just like George. Its about time I straighten up, just like you say. This time, it would be for real. First thing Im gonna do is get a haircut, he said, beaming with newfound motivation. She gasped. Not the mullet! Behind them, the laptops screen flickered as he received a new message. It was a suggestion for a sequel to A Feast for Trolls

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=17#ixzz 1C2f38xuG

- 149 -

A Dance With Detractors

A DANCE WITH DETRACTORS

by THE BRAVE R. R. COMPANIONS
COVER ART
(submitted by graff)

- 150 -

PROLOGUE (kehnrrnonymous)
Sunset was beginning to creep over the empty park. Emilia Clarke walked through a copse of trees, frowning again at her friend's cryptic text message. "E Must see you. Meet me at Regents Park. In the woods by the swings." Emilia ducked underneath some underbrush into the clearing where her friend waited, idling on the swing. "Why here?" "So that the gods can see." Tamzin Merchant hopped off the swing set and bounded over to Emilia, clasping her hands in greeting. For once she was dressed simply, in leather boots and hunting greens. When she drew back the hood of her brown cloak, Emilia saw the puffy eyes where Tamzin had been crying. "So, Em - is it really true? You were cast as the new Danerys?" "I was, Tam," Emilia haltingly admitted. Something was very wrong. Tamzin had never been the jealous type. If anything, Tam's simpering giggle and tendency to walk around in the nude had stolen away enough boyfriends and would-be suitors to make all her friends the jealous ones. Still, Emilia and Tamzin had been friends for a long time, and seeing Tam in conservative clothes - in clothes at all - was an unusual sight. "Oh, Em, I couldn't be happier for you, but ..." Tamzin's eyes - always so vibrant and alive - were downcast and pale. "Tam, tell me. Oh, gods! I never meant to cause you any sorrow... I never meant to cause you any pain. I only wanted one time to -" "No, Em - it's not that at all; I really mean that. I know you were the best choice, you've always been the best actress of us all and you deserve this break. It's just... the author. The nude scenes he wanted me to do..." Tamzin's voice was breaking. Emilia had never known her Tam to turn down a nude scene. She just stared. "Oh stow it, Em. I do have some standards" "I haven't met him yet, Tam, and won't for another few months; he's barracked in the States, preparing for some gig in Australia called WorldCon. Surely he can't be that bad." "He's a monster, Em! You know I've never had a problem with getting my kit off, but the... things he wanted me to do! He was next to me, stinking of gin, and whispering the words "Wild Cards" in my ear. He made me pose atop a stack of calendars from 2009, slicked with his own sweat. And the worst of all... he made me read aloud from some drivel called The Skin Trade while I wore nothing but...," Tamzin repressed a sob "his sailor cap!" Emilia's cherubic face went pale as she bit her lip.

- 151 -

"Oh, Em!" Tamzin was in tears. "I fear for you. Be careful, sweetling. Promise me you'll be careful. Do promise me." Impulsively she threw her arms around Emilia, sobbing. Cold hard realization dawned on Emilia, and her face blanched with horror as she digested her friend's warnings. She gave a start and, with a violent shudder, vomited on Tamzin's dark brown cloak. Tam cracked a mirthless smile. "I shall wear that as a badge of honor." Emilia was mortified and burst into tears herself. "Oh, Tam! I'm so sorry!" Tamzin looked down at Emilia, relieved that color was returning to the poor girl's cheeks. "Don't worry, they're just clothes and... well you know how I feel about clothing. It's you I'm worried about. Perhaps you'll have the courage to do what I couldn't. But, that reminds me, Em," Tamzin's glance went to her frock where Em had been sick. "Whatever you do, please, whatever else you do, my dear sweet Em, if they offer you a serving: do not try the chili con queso."

- 152 -

Parris
(scorpiknox)
Her lungs were on fire. Years of smoking seemed to be catching up with her at long last. Parris grit her teeth and heaved another speaker into the truck, thick arms straining to get the bottom of the cabinet over the lip of the metal bed. She took solace in knowing that this was the last city before Santa Fe, the last night she'd have to work herself to near exhaustion. After sliding the speaker towards the back of the truck, Milo took over, somehow fitting the heavy speaker in among the tangle of rigging and stage gear. "How much left?" he asked her. Approaching middle age, Milo was not as old as he looked and not as young as he dressed. Long black hair was pulled back in a pony tail for utility, exposing cheeks rife with grey stubble. The network of ley lines that crisscrossed his face were like runes, telling the story of all his hard years in a language only discernable to the initiated. "Not much now sugar. 'Fact, I do believe that was the last of the heavy stuff. Just the mic stands and instruments now." Parris leaned against the back of the box-truck and lit a cigarette. "Break time already?" Milo joked. Parris scoffed in response. She'd known Milo for years, meeting in 1987 while backstage at a Man-o-War concert in Newark. He'd asked for some coke and she'd obliged. He was just a kid back then, but he'd had a nice ass for a skinny metal head. Still did as a matter of fact. Milo would just as soon let the two younger roadies finish up with the small stuff. This truck was more than big enough to accommodate all the gear, and any idiot with a set of thumbs could make it all fit just fine. They both knew Milo was too good for this gig, but it paid pretty well and money is money. Parris was all too aware that wealth was only unimportant to those who had it. Pride takes a back seat to an empty belly when the next meal may never come. It had been a lesson she had thought to never have to learn again, but the last two months had shown Parris that the past is not so different from the present after all. After Chicago, she'd been left to fend for herself. Her access to George's money had been cut-off, she'd been unable to get anyone at the bank to listen to her, and the few rumors she'd heard about George's fate had quickly lead her to the realization that she would have to get back to Santa Fe on her own. Broke, with only the clothes on her back, she had called in a few favors from some very old friends and done a few favors for some very new ones, all the while sleeping on friendly couch after friendly couch. Finally, after what had seemed like an age but was really only a few weeks, Milo landed her a gig as a roadie for Nickleback. She glanced down at herself as she smoked, liking what she saw. Her black Nickleback tshirt and tight grey jeans were a drastic change from the old oversized tie-dye dresses she'd become so accustomed to. She had lost some weight, and the bulge in her front pocket grew more noticeable with every paycheck. She had the money to make it back to Santa Fe on her own, had had it for quite some time in fact, but she needed to arrive home prepared for any contingency. Arriving penniless was not an option. In that respect, the tour schedule could not have worked out any better for her. There was only one more city after Santa Fe, and that was Salt Lake City. Parris fucking hated Salt Lake City. Mormons reminded her of her first husband, Orson. At the end, he had tried to convince her that allowing him to take a second wife would be good for their relationship. When Parris asked about threesomes, he'd grown offended and railed for an hour, red-faced and blustering, against the evils of homosexuality and lesbianism. She

- 153 -

took off the next day, leaving the magic underwear he had bought for her on his dresser. The farther away she stayed from that crazy bastard and his kind the better. Shaking herself from her brief reverie, she looked up and found Milo peering down at her from his perch inside the truck. "You're leaving soon." Milo wasn't asking. Parris nodded, saying nothing. Milo gave a grunt and eased himself onto the bed of the truck, his legs dangling over the edge. It was getting colder, and now that Parris had stopped working, a chill ran through her. "You could stay on you know." Milo said it and Parris knew it was true. "I know pretty much everyone in this business. You do a good job and I could get you more money next time, and, well shit, life on the road ain't so bad." Parris never told Milo the details about Chicago, but she knew he suspected something sinister. The truth was, she couldnt bear to tell anyone just how bad things had gotten, even before that final night. As hard as the last two months had been, Parris had at least been free. She now realized that it had taken that very freedom to open her eyes to the truth: Parris had been a prisoner in a cage of her own design for over a decade. "OK, so you're going. No stopping you, I get it," Milo paused, careful to plan out what he was to say next. He spoke again in an even tone, "Parris, what's in Santa Fe? What could possibly be worth setting yourself up forfor a repeat of whatever it was that happened to you in Chicago?" Parris looked at him and her eyes went cold as she smiled. "Revenge," she said simply.

- 154 -

Frank
(jaquelecaque)

The man worked his fingers under the iron collar around his neck. He'd worn that collar for over fifteen years. It chaffed. The only part of his neck that wasn't irritated was the burn scar from where the collar had been welded shut. The numbness in that spot was a different kind of irritation. It wasn't any sort of comfort at all. He sighed and let go of the collar. He could barely remember his name, let alone the last time he had seen the Sun. All there was was the collar... and the typewriter. He stared at the typewriter, unable to decide if he hated it or loved it. He'd churned out thousands and thousands of pages on it. While it was he was a slave to it, it still allowed him to get what was in his head out. The man looked at the filthy red and blue double slashed velvet doublet he was wearing. It had been some years since the patchouli smelling woman had brought him a new one. There was a moldy bread crumb stuck in the cuff. He ate it. It did nothing to relieve the hunger pangs and it only worsened the pangs of despair. He sighed and slid a sheet of paper into the typewriter and typed out the title page for the massive manuscript he'd just finished. He set the page on top of the pile and stood up and stretched. He moved to the corner of his cell and laid down in a pile of grimy straw. Sleep came fast when he closed his eyes. He dreamed of the time before his captivity. He was happy. He'd sent off the manuscript for the first book of an epic series of four books to his editor. He had felt divinely inspired the whole time he was writing it. It was as if the tale told itself. His dream fast forwarded to the day it was published. He was holding the book in his hands. His editor's name was emblazoned across the cover. He looked at the print that might have had his name on it but it was too small to read without a very powerful microscope. He was angry. He drove to his editor's residence in Santa Fe. As he got out of his car two men grabbed him and everything went black. He felt himself being dragged down a long stairway... stone? He couldn't see anything. A green and white double slashed velvet sack covered his head. He felt cold iron slap around his neck... and then the burning. He screamed. The sound of stone sliding on stone woke him. He could hear footsteps on the stone stairs. Soon the glow of a torch illuminated the gap between the floor and the door to his cell. He heard keys turning in the lock. The door opened. A man walked in. The man who entered the cell turned on a portable black light. A winged unicorn glowed to life on the man's shirt. The man looked at the prisoner and then at the writing table. "That's quite a pile. I take it you are finished? You'd better be if you're just lounging about." The prisoner looked up at the glowing winged unicorn. "Yes. It is finished. Please... will you kill me now?" The man in the winged unicorn shirt shook his head. "You'd like that wouldn't you? However, you'll not get off so easy. Your editor wants you to tell the tale of the battle for King's Landing from the point of views of Bort the muck-raker, Tod the baker's apprentice's friend's brother, Wil..."

- 155 -

"But I already did Wil!" The prisoner protested. "Not that Wil. Wil, the farmhand that worked on the farm that Zombie Caitlyn's group traveled by. Also the point of views of Ted the beggar, Michel, Ser Fredrik's squire's cousin and one POV from Tommen's whipping boy. I suggest you get started." The man in the winged unicorn shirt took the top page off the stack on the table and looked at it. "Oh... This will never do. Are you trying to get your brother to come down here to personally beat you?" The man in the winged unicorn shirt put the corner of the page to his torch and threw the page down in front of the prisoner. The prisoner could only stare helplessly as the flames engulfed the words "A Dream Of Spring by Frank S.S. Martin".

- 156 -

The Captain of the Post Office

(mordan)
The Captain walked through the sweltering streets of Santa Fe in high summer. The devil truly uses Santa Fe as his sauna he grumbled, delivering another piece of worthless correspondence, God I fucking hate this job. After that he did not speak again for hours. The Captains postal route was long. Longer now that the Post Office had to make cuts due to budget constraints, and the Captains supervisor, Robert Merrill, one of those SCA types that demanded to be called Lord Merrill, seemed to think the Captain should be thrilled to be out an extra three hours perspiring in the armpit of America. The thought of Merrill filled the Captain with rage, and he crumbled up a fragile letter he had been carrying before throwing it a yapping dog as he passed by a fenced yard. The Captain remembered when he had first arrived in Santa Fe from San Diego almost a decade earlier; a young college drop-out that had sworn to serve the United States Postal Service wherever he was needed. He recalled the night he had sworn his vows in San Diego Post Office # 92108. The Captain stood naked before the bearded postal trainers with his right hand up and recited the vows that had ruined his life: Neither sleet, nor snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, will stay me from the swift completion of my appointed rounds. Simple vows for a simple man. A bearded trainer then stepped forward to give the Captain the mark of all postmen: a horizontal paper cut using an envelope. The Captain whimpered as he received the cut on his upheld hand and was given a back-handed slap for doing so. As he fell to the floor the bearded trainer growled at him in disgust, We all must shed our blood for the United States Postal Service, but your inability to withstand a fucking paper cut shows me you will never last in our order. So you will be sent where people, careers, and dreams go to die. The next day the Captain arrived in Santa Fe. The Captains recollection was interrupted as he arrived at his final and most loathed delivery. He peered up at the tall hill and the haughty house atop of it. What kind of pompous asshole builds his house on top of a hill? The Captain thought, and why the hell hasnt he opened his mailbox in months? The Captain made the grueling trek up the dirt path that led to the gates of his final delivery, hatred for the house and whoever lived there growing with each step. As he finally reached the mailbox shaped like a castle he again looked at the strange home. It was a cross between a Victorian home and a medieval fortress, a home with stained glass windows but with iron bars guarding those windows. There was also a large tower jutting out near the rear of the home, leaning perilously towards the left. I hope the thing falls over and kills everybody inside. Rich assholes. The Captain harrumphed and opened the castle mailbox, and found it empty. He frowned, delivered the stack of letters to the address and trudged back down the hill. An hour later the Captain was in the locker room discarding his soiled uniform when he caught sight of his locker mirror. The Captain looked at his tanned, weather-beaten face and still couldnt believe how old he looked. He wasnt even thirty yet he looked as if he was pushing forty. His square jaw always had stubble and his eyes were plagued with crows feet and a haunted look that had seen too many letters bearing wrong addresses and too many unkempt yards. The Captain sighed, closed his locker, and was departing for the comfort of a Mickeys forty when the high pitched voice of Merrill shrilled into the air. CAP-EEE-TAN! Get in here pleeease! Ah, fuck me. The Captain turned around and went into Merrills office. He found the fat bastard sitting at his desk scribbling quickly and with much agitation. The Captain

- 157 -

coughed quietly, You called Robert? Merrill looked up from his letter his eyes wide and bulging, his fat chipmunk cheeks and curly short black hair giving him the look of a spoiled child-king sired by a toad. LORD MERRILL!!! Merrill shrieked, his voice getting even higher, How many times must I tell you?! Didnt I dub you my Captain? Do I call YOU Kenny McWilliams or dont I give you YOUR honorific??? Merrill had turned quite red by the end of his rant so the Captain acquiesced. Im sorry, er, Lord Merrill, How is this insane person my supervisor? What can I do for you? You fat piece of shit. Lord Merrill sat back in his chair and took a breath to calm down. He then smiled graciously and began to finger the necklace of stamps he wore. Stamps from every land he has ever delivered in, the Captain recalled. My good Captain, this is a package of such importance that I can only entrust it to you. Inside this parcel is information so valuable that I need you to personally deliver it to its owner. The chubby bastard began to seal the letter he had been writing with candle wax. Lord Merrill continued, The only problem is I dont know exactly where the person who needs this letter is. His last whereabouts were in Chicago, so you must begin your quest there. The Captain gaped at Lord Merrill and rubbed his temples. Chicago. You want me to take this package to Chicago and to LOOK for this person? Lord Merrill eyes again widened, giving him the very human look of dramatic squirrel. THIS IS NOT A TRIVIAL TASK CAPTAIN! The fate of things beyond your stoner-laidback-California-comprehension lies in the balance! Now go! You are to leave at first light! The Captain found himself walking towards his car. Im going to burn this fucking building down one day, he thought and peered at his letter, and who the fuck is Neil Gaiman?

- 158 -

GEORGE
(kehnrrnonymous)
George hunched over his typewriter, laboring over the same Bran chapter that he'd rewritten five times over the last week. He hated the Bran chapters worst of all. Damn it all, why didn't I just have Jaime behead that simpering little cripple fifteen years ago. All that time spent slogging through that whiny one-legged brat's chapters, when I could've been eating, blogging, gods... even walking. His rotund shoulders slumped even lower as he exhaled with obvious resignation. Pesci looked up from his Playboy magazine "Keep writing, fat man," he snarled. George looked away with a crestfallen sigh and Pesci resumed his intense study of the Miss January centerfold. Pesci was an insufferable, foul-mouthed blowhard, but at least he never claimed to read Playboy for the articles, like pretty much every man in America. There was a certain refreshing honesty to that. George still hated having him around. And damn it all if the feeling wasn't mutual. Pesci pretty clearly hated being there. Mutual happiness wasn't part of the arrangement at Chicago. Horrid pizza and even worse luck in that toddling town. At least they're stuck with only one NFL team. He remembered that smug smirk on Liotta's face and he felt his blood start to boil like melted Velveeta in a cast-iron saucepan. Pesci was to supervise him until he finished A Dance With Dragons. Liotta warned him about Pesci's hair-trigger temper and propensity for violence. And told me nothing that the Wertheads didn't already know, that's for damn sure. George counted it as a small victory that Pesci hadn't truly gotten angry in the three weeks he'd been here supervising. That thought rankled him. Supervising. He was the American Tolkien, and Pesci was a two-bit hood from Chicago who used profanity as a catchall replacement for his stunted vocabulary. A flashing message appeared on his screen. E-mail. He raised his head to yell for Ty... and his voice caught in his throat. Ty wasn't walking through that door. Neither was Parris. Chicago, Chicago... George gathered himself and tried to remember how to look at e-mails. Ty had told him enough times and he'd half-heartedly listened enough times that.... He squinted and gingerly pressed the button that said "Open" There it was. George read it intently. He glanced at his watch and pretended to write some more. He stole a glance back at Pesci, who had moved on to Miss February while idly puffing his way through a box of Parris' Pall-Malls. "Say... Mr. Pesci. I have a stack of Playboys from the seventies, if you're interested." Pesci blithely grunted. "Seen 'em all." "And that's just the start. I've got almost every issue, include the collector's editions from the sixties. You remember the first Bond film, right? Have you ever seen Ursula Andress naked? I'm telling you, she looks as hot as anything I've ever seen. Natural breasts, not like those airbrushed stick figures you get nowadays. And curves where they should be, and thighs so toned, you could crack a coconut between them. Mood: ho..." Pesci was impressed in spite of himself. "Well," he interjected "I think we can take a break for that. Those pages better not be sticky though, fat man. Lead on" He stood up from his chair, buttoning his pants. With visible strain, George feebly lifted himself from his desk and waddled over to an enclosed, vaulted room in the corner of his library tower. Pesci followed him in. George opened the vault's door and Pesci looked inside.

- 159 -

There, inside, was every single Playboy issue that George had been collecting since he was a teen. Pesci stood there in the middle of the room, his eyes rapt. A bead of saliva trickled from his open mouth. Entranced, he made a beeline for the Collector's Edition showcase and he did not see George reach underneath a dusty tapestry and push a button. George waddled over to a DVD player. "You might like this as well", turning on a TV. On the screen, a gorgeous, half-naked strawberry blonde was kneeling before a bluescreen, moaning "Women call me Shae. Men call me often." George stole a furtive glance at Pesci, who was appraising her with a sharklike grin. "Wow, you fat bastard. Have you been holding out on me?" George grinned merrily "Oh you've found me out," he wheezed good-naturedly. "Wait til you get to Number Six, the tall platinum blonde. That one made me wanna take a cold sho..." "Don't wanna hear it. Break time over. Back to writing." Pesci wasn't looking at him and had settled down onto a couch, where he only had eyes for the auditioning Shaes. "Of course, of course" George half-waddled, half crept across the library tower, and looked back. Pesci was still ogling the auditioning girls. George silently opened another door that lead to a vestibule where three identical men were waiting for him. He nodded at them and gestured silently across the room to the vault where Pesci was busy watching the Shae auditions. One of the men raised a gun. And pointed it toward the vault. "Hello, Mr. Pesci." Pesci looked up. "Fucking Wertheads! I'll kill you again!" He sprang up, reflexively reaching for his Glock 9mm which was in his coat... which he'd left by the writing desk. One of the Wertheads picked up Pesci's Glock and smirked. Pesci swore and started to charge towards the Wertheads BANG! The lead Werthead fired and above the doorway a panel burst open. With a loud CLANG, a solid steel door came crashing down in front of Pesci, locking him inside the vault. There was a small barred opening at eye level and Pesci's spittle flecked through it as he glared at George and the Wertheads. "You fucking limeys. Open this door right now or..." "I'm afraid that's an impossibility," the lead Werthead chuckled, "Seeing as how I just destroyed the failsafe mechanism. We could get a blowtorch to let you out but... we're really running late." "Where the fuck are you going?" Pesci was furiously and helplessly banging on the steel door.

- 160 -

"Well, Mr. Martin has a previous engagement at the Clarion West workshop and we've also got to take Melinda Snodgrass, so while we'd love to stay and chat, Ms. Snodgrass doesn't like to be kept waiting. DribbleofInk.com, is the car ready?" "Yes, Amazon.com" The Amazon.com Werthead smiled sadly at Pesci. "We'll be sure to send Shawn Speakman your regards." George tittered at that. Pesci's voice was cold and poisonous. "Fuck all of you." George and the three Wertheads turned away to leave. As they were about to walk out the door, he turned to the amazon.com Wert. "Leave the gun, take the cannoli," he wheezed. Amazon.com looked at him oddly. George shrugged. "I've always wanted to say that." Wert did as he was told. "And the chili releno" The Wert complied. George had a beatific smile on his face as he waddled towards his Hover-Round "And the bacon cream pies. And the chunky chocolate chicken crunches. And the butter-glazed triple fudge malts. Oh bloody hells, take the whole pantry along. It's a twenty minute drive to Snodgrass' place and she's on that vegan kick again. The American Tolkien can't be expected to make a road trip subsisting on nothing but rabbit food."

- 161 -

Kenny
(mordan)
"I'm looking for a nerd who is about five-foot nine, fortyish, lanky and likely being tailed by an entourage of other geeks. Have you seen anyone like that?" The Gothic comic book salesman gave Kenny a contemptuous snort as a reply and didn't look up from his cell phone. "His name is Neil Gaiman, does that help?" As way of answer the comic book clerk pointedly ignored Kenny as he continued to text. Kenny sighed. I'll get no help here. It had been much the same from the other nerd watering holes; hobby shops, internet cafes, and video game retailers. Kenny had scoured Chicago for three days and had only learned that Neil Gaiman was last seen arriving for C2E2, yet had not appeared during the convention as planned and since then had been missing. Fucking Merrill, I swear that bloated toad is going to pay for this. At least it's not as hot and miserable as Santa Fe. Despite his pointless search Kenny had found much to enjoy in Chicago. The weather was cooler, the people friendlier, and the food didn't always come with a side of beans and rice. If Merrill had given me enough money I would milk this trip for all it's worth, too bad that chubby bastard is as cheap and greedy as he is fat and worthless. Kenny's funds were rapidly evaporating, and despite his utter hatred for his superior he did not intend to return to Santa Fe having failed his task. The thought of Merrill's soprano voice screaming disdain filled Kenny with an anxious nausea. As Kenny was leaving the Atomic Comics store he was stopped by a passing pedestrian. The slight youth spoke in a hushed tone and with some urgency, "I know who you're looking for, if you wish to see him, meet me here at midnight." Before Kenny could even respond with a "What the fuck" the unremarkable youth melted into the press of people walking into the crowded streets of downtown Chicago. Kenny shook his head and returned to his motel room, thinking about the people he was now forced to deal with. If these fucking nerds quit living in a fantasy world of lords and pseudo-intrigue, they would probably get laid. But I guess if they got laid they wouldn't have any need for this shit. Kenny unlocked his room and went inside, the soothing hum of the A.C and the glow of the small fridge giving the shitty room an air of familiarity. Kenny opened the fridge and pulled out the only thing that made him happy anymore: a Mickey's forty. He took a refreshing pull of the blissful liquid and sat on a chair facing the only window. Midnight was hours away, so Kenny watched the sun set as his thoughts waned with the consumption of the green hornet. Kenny awoke with a start. It was very dark and the world was quiet. "God dammit", he muttered. Kenny dropped the empty bottle he had been holding and it clanked against another on the floor. With a drunken stumble he grabbed the letter, his keys, and rushed out the door. Kenny knew he was already late so didn't bother with stop signs and stop lights. As he approached his destination Kenny overshot his curb parking space in front of Atomic Comics and crushed the unfortunate parking meter that stood sentry. "Hah! The cost of doing business Merrill." Kenny exited his damaged rental car and surveyed the dark streets. Not a thing stirred. "Nerd!" He yelled out, "Where are you?!" The echo of his shout hadn't even faded when a cloth sack was drawn over his head, "Ah fucke...!!!" The last word dissolved as Kenny slid into darkness once more. The cloth sack was drawn from his face and Kenny's eyes blinked in adjustment. The room was dimly lit and a shadowy figure sat across from him. "What do you want?" The figure croaked. Kenny shook his head which was fuzzier than usual, and reached into his pocket. He withdrew the cursed letter that caused all this and an electronic signature pad and spoke to the figure, "This is from Robert Merrill from Santa Fe, I was told to bring it to Neil Gaiman. Are you him?" The figure said nothing. "Er, well I just need a signature here and I will be on my way." The figure reached out across the desk and grabbed the letter. The letter was forcibly opened, and the figure gave a cackling laugh after a

- 162 -

moment. "Heh, Lord Merrill has done well," he wheezed, "it looks like our brothers in Santa Fe are good for something more than licking our Master's boots." Kenny was beginning to feel markedly uncomfortable. "Riiight. Well I just need a signature h-" "Silence!", the figure hissed. "You, postman, are going to join us in our crusade to cleanse the world of the detractors who have poisoned our once great host and shamed our Lord." Kenny stood up. "I'm not going anywhere without a signature Neil. You see article 12-" The shadowy figure again cut Kenny off. "Sergeant, please take this...mailman...away to our reeducation room. Some time with Speakman's attempt at literature should make him more...receptive." Kenny felt a very powerful hand subdue his arms, and another clamp his mouth shut. He struggled as he was dragged to a room down the hall from where he sat. His jailer pushed open a door and shoved Kenny in before locking it. Kenny was alone in the dark, with a monotonous voice coming from speakers in the ceiling. Kenny listened. "The rat glared with beady black eyes at the broken mans approach before scurrying away into the darkness, a lone vestige of life among the dusty bones of death..." Kenny leaned over and vomited all the beer he had consumed. "God help me", Kenny gasped as he heaved again, emptying his stomach of all it's contents yet unable to cease retching. The droning voice continued, "Dis place given me jeebies..." Kenny began to scream. The sergeant lumbered back to the shadowy figure as the blood-curling screams came from the latest prisoner. He spoke in an unusually gentle voice, "What are we going to do now, Master?" The shadowy figure replied in a hoarse tone, "Prepare your men sergeant, for we march." "Of course my Lord. Where are we going?" The shadowy figure replied, "To Shayol Ghul." The figure coughed and hacked. "Damn you Sanderson. I mean to Applebee's, just in time for Iblis' birthday..."

- 163 -

GEORGE
(silentmajority)
He swiftly hurried down the hall towards his secret writing room. He'd been trying to think of the perfect word for months, and it finally dawned on him. It's not every day that inspiration comes knocking. He had to type it before he forgot it! George grabbed the doorknob, and turned, as he pushed on the door, but it wouldn't budge. Stepping back he put all his might behind his girth, and forced it against the door. It slowly opened. Taking one step in the door, George tripped, and fell down. "Damn dust bunny!" Bouncing back to his feet, he quickly fired up his computer. He reread the sentence that had been giving him so much trouble, and began to type. T...H...E! George was about to pat himself on the back, and post on his blog about how he had his best day of writing in months, when something happened. "What the...! How? Who writes a computer virus for a DOS machine?" Oh well, he thought, there's always next year. Looking at the calendar, he notices the convention that he highlighted. Smirking, George begins to whistle, steps over the dust bunny, and shuts the door. (--Screen fades to black--)

- 164 -

SOILED DWIGHT
(Slynt)
The room was full of garbage. A bed was hidden somewhere beneath an avalanche of discarded McDonalds-boxes, the smell of rotten salad conflating with the fetid smells of old farts unable to escape the room, the sour sweat of Dwights bushy armpits and the pile of icky toilet papers protruding ominously from the plastic bin at the side of Dwights computer desk. Upon that desk stood Dwights love of his life, a dust-shrouded Dell Dimension 8300, aging yet powerful enough to allow him to play fairly recent games, as long as they didnt require too intense graphics. Somewhere on the carpeted floor of this room, Dwight was comatose, his great hairy belly going up and down with his steady, foul breath. He was wearing a white-turnedyellow boxer shorts his favorite, with Homer Simpson proclaiming the importance of beer on it and his well-worn pair of tennis socks, one giant toe having burst through. A fly was wandering the uneven surface of that toe, tickling Dwight. Every time he wriggled his toe to make it go away, it returned. The battle lasted for an hour; finally Dwight managed to tear open his red eyes, and rise into a sitting position. Groggily he looked around, saw that everything was as it should be. He gazed across the countless porn magazines scattered across the floor, knew that they no longer held any excitement for him. There was only one thing to do. Settling into his chair, he woke the computer from hibernation and hit the web browser button. The feeling of going online made his crotch tingle. There was nothing like being part of the social world. Quickly, he tapped the address of George R.R. Martins website into the address field, chuckling softly at the speed with which the page opened. He had spent the last of his inheritance on upgrading his broadband connection to insanity. Quickly, he scanned the front page. Site Revised: September 17, 2010. New material in: Cover Art. There was no elation. This was the same revision hed been staring at for the last two weeks. The first few times he perused the new cover art, he had been aroused, but now it was old. He needed something fresh. The ultimate hope was, as it was every morning, that when he clicked the Not A Blog link, that he would see those magical words: It is done. How long had Dwight waited for a new Jon Snow chapter? Ten years. In that time, he had gone from being a bright, popular kid at school to a disgusting recluse, mind warped into one thing and one thing only checking Martins website. Waiting for A Dance with Dragons was no longer a quick check before going to school it was his life now, and he could not, would not attempt to return to normal life until that damn book was announced as finished. He hit the Not a Blog link, his eyes wandering across his desk searching for something to bite on. He found half a dormant hotdog hed not been able to squeeze down last night during the weeks sixteenth raid on Icecrown Citadel, and gobbled it up. His heart beat faster as he saw that the almighty author had updated his blog. It had been months since last Martin had revealed any details about the forthcoming book. Months. Sometimes Dwight got the feeling the book was more important to him than to the author himself. The updates were, as it turned out, of no interest to Dwight. Martin being in Australia looking at interesting nature and stuff. Martin writing about something called NFL. Dwight suspected it was somehow connected to that thing they called sports. To Dwights mind, the only real sport was raiding in World of Warcraft. And keeping an eye on Martin, of course.

- 165 -

Sighing, he opened Martins Ice & Fire sample chapter. He had read Tyrion drinking his way across the Narrow Sea a thousand times, but it was all he had. Slowly, his right hand crept towards the curled-up, shrunken and shriveled excuse for a penis. He began rubbing it, sensing it rising, growing harder and stronger like a Greyjoy in his prime. A few minutes later, his penis sagged back into quiescence. Damn it, Dwight cursed. He needed to unload. He needed something that could awaken his general. He needed There was a sharp knock on the door. Dwight! You wont believe it! We are going to a con to meet George! Shut it, Bobby Joe. I dont want to meet him at a con. I want him to be at home writing. Dwight, you know he needs vacations like any other normal person! Open the door. Dwight sighed. He pulled back on his Homer boxer and went to open the door, sliding on a discarded pizza slice. The kind of pizza George loved. The perfect crust. Opening, he saw Bobby Joe standing outside, his crooked teeth warping his smile, in his hands two tickets. You so need to come with me. We are going to fucking Ireland, dude! Thats where they be making the TV show! You need to meet Martin in person, man. So you can tell him. Tell him what you feel. Ireland? Dwights face lit up. Maybe there was hope after all. Hope for him. How long since he had been outside the room? Weeks. And then only to grab a few new boobzines down on the corner. And Coke and a burger. He felt his general rising to attention. Fuck yeah, he said, a determination in his voice that surprised him, there will be chains and balls! Allright, Bobby Joe said, clapping his friend on his shoulder. Bout time you and me did something fun together again, huh. We aint played no D&D for years. This is our year, Dwight. This is our year.

- 166 -

GEORGE
(Geshtar)
The day was grey and bitter cold, and those goddamn detractors would not leave well enough alone. George waddled about his library, cursing under his white beard. He was in the upper chamber, with his collection of toy knights and tomes of 19th century Indian rape narratives. More of a house addition or wing than a humble tower, the structure was vast, a monument to his wealth and all things GRRM. Yet even here, in my own sanctum, those bastards mock what I've done! George thought, his mind raging. He gritted his teeth as he remembered the custom Real Dolls, lifesize silicone sex dolls of Arianne Martell and Lady Merryweather, which he'd had Ty hide away in the secret dungeons beneath the tower. Arianne alone had to be sent back to the manufacturer twiceher nipples were not the right hue of brown. Finally he had to ship her off to a custom car painting company to get them just right. She had been so perfect, so very perfect... but the assholes ruined her. Every time he tweaked one of those succulent, brown nipples, he heard their laughter, saw their mocking words dance before his eyes. I gave those ungrateful whelps the best girl-on-girl action since the lesbian sex scene in Mulholland Drive, and how do they repay me? Mockery! Nonstop impudence and trolling! George wasn't even aware of his proclivity for tweaked nipples (as well as untweaked nipples and nipples on breastplates) until it was so crudely brought to his attention once Feast was delivered to his voracious readers. Everyone knew, now, thanks to those heartless pricks. Even Parris looked at him funny and would giggle into her hand any time it came up. How he hated them! Of course, being held captive by those greaseballs was a humiliation he could never forget, the same with the debacle in Chicago, but these events were nothing but symptoms of the disease. The disease that was... them. The vile detractors, and the ones who dared call themselves The Brave Companions. They had their blogs, their hate sites, their nonstop criticisms, but there was a place where they all got together to talk their shit and post their filthy and cruel fan fic--violating George's greatest papal bull "Thou shalt not write fan fiction of GRRM material." George couldn't even say the name of the forum in his head it enraged him so much. That one forum... that one goddamn forum... The rotund man paused for a breather, leaning against a wrought iron railing. His breath came and went in wheezy gasps. It was about time to call in an airdrop of KFC Doubledowns and freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches, but George had lost his appetite he was so enraged, which he knew was no small feat. Suddenly he was screaming. How dare those cocksuckers question me! The sheer nerve, the gall of those motherfucking nobodies! The outburst caused his anti-grav body lifts to malfunction, and soon he was hovering over bookshelves, rolled up silk tapestries, and thousands and thousands of worthless miniatures, all thrashing cankles and floating gluttonous arms. To the casual observer, the scene was not unlike Ghostbusters 2 when the fat Scoleri brother spasmodically terrorized the courtroom. His tantrum raged on, degenerating into flying spittle and incoherent curses. Five minutes passed before George was calm enough to come back down. The weight of gravity on his gorged, distended body was unrelenting as the lifts disengaged, returning him to normal physics.

- 167 -

Parris told him to ignore them, to not feed the trolls. So did the other lickspittles and circus freaks who made up his entire fan base. But George couldn't... he had to know what those who wouldn't be mindless sycophants were saying about him. It burned his ass he couldn't delete their words, moderate them into oblivion as he did on his NAB. They were out there, always out there... George had to give them one thinghis brownnosing defenders were total douches. There was Gayman, the English hack. He was nowhere near George's literary level, but George had thrown the Brit some dogwork as thanks for his groveling. George Martin is not your bitch had never been clever or witty or anything other than moronic, but it had caught on among the loyal, and they used it as a rally cry against the detractors. Hell, some had even made fucking T-shirts. That was going too far... especially as George wasn't getting a royalty. Then there was Speakboy, Warthead, and the dingus who called himself his hand, Ban. Were these really grown men? George didn't care to know. He did everything in his power to think as little about them and avoid their company in any social setting. Obnoxious and awkward as they were, they behaved how readers and fans should behave: never questioning, always sucking ass. George pulled a false book on a shelf and a mahogany paneled wall slid aside to reveal a secret chamber. The large author squeezed through the extra wide entrance. The room was dark and without natural light. While this room held a somewhat modern computer (a Dell circa 2004), this was not his writing room; that was on the far end of the mansion, and seldom visited. George sighed as he looked sadly at two well-lit recesses in the wall. Here his beloved pair of Pygmalion's statues once stood, Arianne and Lady Merryweather, their nipples pointing at him longingly. He could no longer gaze upon their silicone loveliness once the Companions had ruined them. In their place sat stacks of old Beauty and the Beast teleplay treatments. The computer chair was plush and had a stainless steel toilet bowl beneath the seat which would automatically open when sensing the need. George pounded out keys on a greasy keyboard. Today was not going to be spent researching Star Trek TNG episodes and registering multiple youtube accounts, George's new favorite pastime, second only to keeping up with the NFL. Oh, that was so much funwatching episode after episode and alerting fellow viewers to well punctuated, nipply tits. Honkers at 3:05. Nice pair of tits at 6:20. No, George thought, permitting himself a shit-eating grin, Today is the day the reckoning begins. George rarely got the question at conventions and signings, and when he did his answer was always cryptic. George, which character in ASOIAF do you identify with most? He was sure many thought it was Ned, and begrudgingly he had to concede others thought Robert, because of the... weight thing. The truth was Littlefinger. Like the little lord Baelish, George had been meddling behind the scenes with his detractors for years, ever since Feast hit the scene and people started saying it was boring, self indulgent, lacked all traces of editorial detail or proper narrative construction, and just plain blew. Two can play at this game of cunning, Brave Companions, George hacked out in a wheezy cackle. He clapped his ham-sized hands together and once again was floating, almost spinning as he bobbed about in the air. He thought back to 2005 when he sent his first agent, the one he lovingly called The Beast Rabban. Rabban, Rabban... I place you in charge of foiling my enemies. Their criticisms are yours to squeeze, as I promised. I want you to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. Give me their hate! Drive them to utter hatred. You must not show the slightest pity or mercy... as only you can... Never stop!

- 168 -

The unlikely mastermind pressed a button on his Life Alert, and a titanium portal whooshed open. Steam poured out, casting the room in a sheen of humidity and moisture. Ty slowly stepped out, naked save for a futuristic blue loincloth. The fortnightlong steam chamber/cloning incubator had done wonders; the P.A. was now ripped and cut with muscle, and for some reason he had orange hair and oddly resembled early 1980s musician Sting. Much improved, George thought, licking his lips. He'd stashed some of Ty's blood from the obligatory HIV screening early on in his service. It was a precaution in case the sniveling bastard ever betrayed him. Investing in cloning technology was the wisest thing the writer had ever done, next to Wild Cards of course. George's voice was thick with lust and gluttony as he appraised his creation, and the last act in his revenge. And when we've fucked with these people's minds enough I'll send in you, Feyd... they'll cheer you as a rescuer, with your knowledge of Dragon Age, Star Wars, and Draenei porn... lovely Feyd... really a lovely boy. Suddenly George's face seized and he seemed to lose all train of thought. NOW WHERE'S MY AIRDROP OF DOUBLEDOWNS!

- 169 -

Bobby
(Rex)
The air was cold, the wind akin to a frozen whip, as the young boy swiftly made his way up 34th street. Must get to the bookstore on time. A Dance with Dragons could be out. His was a sad life; no internet, no magazines, not even a paper, his family far too poor to afford any such luxuries. They had a cooker and a sink, as well as a wooden box which they used as a toilet, but apart from that the house Bobby lived in was mostly empty. Dad rarely brings food to the table. Yes, it was a hard life for little Bobby, washing himself in puddles that the rain left behind and eating living things that crawled around under the floor boards. But there was one person who brought joy into his life and that was George RR Martin. A long time ago, or so it seemed for Bobby, his parents had had enough money to buy a book. The boy had not been able to read and his parents believed he at least should be able to do that. Bobby could remember seeing the cover for the very first time, how shiney and new it seemed. A Game of Thrones. His father had sat down with him and together they started reading the first page and then the second. Within minutes Bobby had gotten the grasp of it and the very next day he didn't need any help reading anymore. He had been so happy back then, and he had been even more happy upon receiving the next two books "A Clash of Kings" and "A Storm of Swords". Those had been even better than the first but then... A Feast for Crows. Bobby liked that book aswell, and the message in the back had made hime even more happy. It had said that soon the next book would be out, within a year! Bobby had danced with joy only a ten year old posessed, never having known of the wait most other fans had experienced. But one year had turned into two, two into three, three into four, four into five, and still the book was not finished. Bobby had become a teenager, though his parents always told him he was a slow developer. And so it came that this young boy was walking down the high street, urgently running to the shop to see if the latest book by his favourite author was out. This journey was nothing new to him. Every thursday (((after school))) he would quickly go home, drop off his mouldy school sack and head on down to the shop. Every thursday he saw himself as the Kingslayer or the Young Wolf, riding to victorious battle that was the bookstore. He dreamed of all this because, as many poor young boys, he was horrendously bullied at school. There were three older boys who would wait for him after school and then push him to the floor or tie him to the fence or do other bad stuff to him that Bobby didn't quite understand. And yet no one would help him. People told him he stank, which was why no one ever got too close to him. He was stupid too, or so people said, and he'd been told many times that he would die alone. But none of that mattered on thursdays, because there was always the chance that "A Dance with Dragons" was out. Bobby knew he wouldn't be able to buy it but he could read it in the shop, probably. Finally the young boy saw the store in the distance and his face lit up. The street was busy and so he had to push past the grown ups who went about their business and he had to wait to cross the road because there were a lot of cars. He had been drifting off into his imagination again when he noticed the big jolly man walking in front of him. Santa? No... Bobby knew santa didn't wear sailor hats or had chili stains on his shirt. No! It's... it's... it's George RR Martin! Was this possible? Surely it wasn't him! And yet Bobby was sure that it was his favourite author who was walking down the street just in front of him. He only noticed now that the man was carrying a big sack, and to Bobby this could only mean one thing. He's delivering the new book to the shop! A Dance with Dragons is done!

- 170 -

Bobby was in so much shock that he stopped, his legs unable to carry him further. With wide eyes he watched as George RR Martin entered the shop, a grin on his face. And it was then that Bobby came up with his plan. He would follow George into the shop and tell him how he was bullied and poor and that he loved his books and that George was his favourite author. Bobby knew the man would feel sorry for him and he was sure that maybe he would get a free copy of A Dance with Dragons. It has to work! Bobby started for the shop and it wasn't until he was a few steps away from the door when he heard the voices. "I do not like it," The storekeep was saying. Bobby stopped silently in his tracks and listened. "You should be finished." "Gods forbid," A man's voice replied nasally. "It's not the book I want done. There's far too much work involved." Bobby stayed still, listening, suddenly afraid to go into the shop. "Dont play the fool." The storekeep replied. "Feast was one thing, but Dance is quite another." They were talking about his favourite books, Bobby realized. He wanted to hear more. A few more feet . . . But they would see him if he stepped up to the door. "You will have to keep writing over christmas," The storekeep said. "I would sooner eat," The nasal voiced man said. He sounded hungry. "Get me something from the bakers." Bobby looked towards the door. It wasn't that far away and anyway, perhaps the two had their backs turned. He slowly moved forward, inch by inch. "You eat too much. Finish the damn book." "It will be done when it's done." "If you were at all decent, you would have been done before fleeing to Australia." "Decent." The man made the word sound like a curse. "I think not eating as much as I do does something to your mind. You are mad." He laughed. It was a bitter sound. Bobby studied the door. Just a few more inches and I can see who the storekeep is talking to. Surely it can't be George! "I'll only write under certain circumstances." The nasal voice went on. "Lemoncakes and" "Stop that!" The storekeep said. Bobby heard the sudden slap of flesh on flesh, then the nasal man's laughter. Bobby moved forward by another inch and could finally look through the door. Inside the shop, two men were wrestling. They were both naked. Bobby could not tell who they were. The closer man's enormous back was to him, and his flabby body screened the other man from view as he pushed him up against a wall. There were soft, wet sounds. Bobby realized they were kissing. He watched, wide-eyed and frightened, his breath tight in his throat. The fat man had a hand down between the other's legs, and he must have been hurting him there, because the smaller man started to moan, low in his throat. "Stop it," He said, "stop it, stop it. Oh, please . . ." But his

- 171 -

voice was low and weak, and he did not push the fat man away. His hands buried themselves in the large man's beard, his scraggly grey beard, and pulled his face down to his nipples. Bobby saw his face. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open, moaning. His brown hair swung from side to side as his head moved back and forth, but still he recognized the storekeep. Bobby must have made a noise. Suddenly his eyes opened, and he was staring right at him. The storekeep screamed. Everything happened at once then. The storekeep pushed the fat man away wildly, shouting and pointing. Bobby tried to pull himself away from the door. He was in too much of a hurry. His head bumped hard against the wall, and in his panic his legs slipped, and suddenly he was falling, right into the shop. The impact took the breath out of him. Bobby lay there, panting. Faces appeared above him. The storekeep. And now Bobby recognized the fat man beside him. George?! "He saw us," The storekeep said shrilly. "So he did," George RR Martin said. The author reached down. "Take my hand," He said. "The floor is dirty." Bobby seized his arm and held on tight with all his strength. George yanked him up. "What are you doing?" The storekeep demanded. The author ignored him. He was very fat. He helped Bobby stand up on the floor. "How old are you, boy?" "Fifteen," Bobby said, shaking with relief. His fingers had dug deep gouges in the mans fat forearm. He let go sheepishly. "I am poor and people bully me at school but your books help me carry on living! I love you George RR Martin!" George looked over at the storekeep. "The things I do for Lemoncakes," he said with loathing. He gave Bobby a shove. Screaming, Bobby went backward out the door into empty air. There was nothing to grab on to. The wet floor rushed up to meet him. With a loud splash the boy landed in a muddy puddle.

- 172 -

THE WARCRAFT REAVER

(Geshtar)
Once he had been a raider, acclaimed on his server, ranked highest among the rogues of both the Horde and Alliance. It was by his own hand the gong was banged and the Gates of Ahn'Qiraj were at last opened. Kel'Thuzad, both incarnations, fell before his top tier blades, and he was the first duel wielder of the legendary warglaives of Azzinoth. The Lich King himself stood no chance before the reaver and his 24 brave companions. It was once whispered that he had invented roguespam, and Blizzard had secretly contracted him to balance rogue DPS after the debacle that was Molten Core and poison immune mobs. He had seen it all in his days of glory, but he'd never seen anything the likes of Wild Cards. Ike sighed as he unlocked the front and flipped the open sign. Albuqurque's Page One had seen better days. Once a proper bookstore, the place now was nothing more than a rundown music and pawn shop. A couple rickety shelves of old books were all that remained of what was once the most popular bookstore in the city. Of course this was before the recession, before the bad times. Ike shook his head as if to derail that line of thinking. No, I must not remember the dark period. His boss approached as Ike again paused before the Wild Cards spread on the display table. Son, I know what you're thinking. I don't like this any more than you do. The smarmy, middle-aged man casually snubbed out his cigarette on the cover of Aces and Jokers: Heroes and Villains for the WILD CARDS campaign setting. The ashy burn smoldered on the face of a hairy, muscled man with a red Jack as his card designation. The authors coming for the signing and whatever reader or two who showed up would never notice. The book was old and falling apart, and the cigarette mark was one of many. These are tough times. Martin, he paid up front, in cash. And you know he turns a blind eye to what we do out back. The boss cast a sidelong, weasel's glance to the rear storeroom where he peddled low grade meth to the aspiring musicians and connoisseurs of pawned goods who frequented his storefront. Still, this shit... his hand waved over Wild Cards... it hurts the soul. But you gotta do what you gotta do. A commotion out front drew both their attention. They walked outside to see what was going on. Da Mayor, the sagacious local wino of the block, was loitering on their stoop. The boss liked Da Mayor. Sometimes he would pay him a dollar to sweep up the front. Doctor, said Da Mayor. There some weird shit going down today. He pointed up the street. Three people, two men and a woman, were crawling on their bellies along the gutter. Their clothes were filthy, their faces soiled. The zeal of the brainwashed burned in their eyes as they slowly made their way toward Page One. On their backs, tied with hemp rope, were cardboard pizza boxes from various pizzerias in the city. The boss said, Mayor, here's a dollar if you call the cops from the pay phone down the way. I hope this isn't another yuppie New Age cult from Sedona like the last time.

- 173 -

Ike cringed. He knew exactly what was going on. Boss, no need for that. It's all been arranged. And paid for. These people are Mr. Martin's. They're part of his pizza crawl. Christ alive. I thought I was living out the Breaking Bad episode. Well, we better finish getting set up. Mayor, there's a dollar for you if you keep an eye out. If you see a couple of twins roll up in a Mercedes wearing Armani suits, you let me know. The boss stepped back inside as the pizza crawlers inched steadily toward them. Ike was about to follow when Da Mayor jabbed a finger in his chest. Little doctor. Always do the right thing. What? What? Ike stammered. Do the right thing. You knows what I'm talking about. Ike knew. That's it? That's it. Da Mayor gave his signature cryptic smile and then returned to his alley adjacent to Page One, ever vigilant. Ike closed the door behind him, pondering whether to flip the open sign back to closed. The boss shouted for him at the back of the store. Ike, fill me in again on the agenda. Yes ser. Sir, I mean, sir, sorry. First, the pizza crawlers will set up the buffet for the authors. I've already put out the signs making it clear food is only for the authors, no one else. I believe we're also receiving several caterers from around the city. It is Mr. Martin's expressed wish the catered food goes straight to his limo. He expects the other authors, the ones he calls 'the New Mexico chapter,' to arrive at exactly 2:45. You know how Mr. Martin despises tardiness. SerI mean Mr. Martin will arrive at approximately 3:00, give or take an hour. The boss jerked a flask out of his breast pocket. He took a long pull on spiced Christian Brothers brandy. Fuck me. Ike, it sounds like you have this under control. The things I do to keep reading alive in America. The boss stood up from his desk and pocketed his flask. He put his hands on Ike's shoulders, digging his fingers all the way to the bone. It hurt. A meaty hand slapped Ike's neck. We'll do good business today. We got a good thing going. Nothing like a family in business working together. One day you will take over... and Da Mayor, there will always be a place for him in the alley outside Page One. All right, I'm off. I must needs have my knob polished. With that the boss strolled out the back door and was gone. Aside from the pizza crawlers, the day went as the days tend to go. Ike tried to focus on the present, refusing to think of the dark times, Ireland, or the pact he had made. The dealers who came in knew the deal. Ike turned his back, they went out back, and then they left. Everyone was happy. There were no other customers. The first one came at exactly 2:45. He was fat and furry and seemed to be on the social level of Ike during the dark times. Refusing to look at Ike, he disappeared behind a rack of cheap Japanese guitars, mumbling to himself. The next two were female. Wiccan, feminist lit students by the look, except they were well over forty but never seemed to have left college. They were

- 174 -

attracted to the vegan pizzas the crawlers had brought. Two more men followed, as equally furry, fat, and socially awkward as the first. The last member of the New Mexico Wild Cards gang arrived at 3:41. Ike did a final check to make sure everything was in order and stood at attention. The limo pulled up to the front, but instantly Ike could tell something was wrong. This was not the Hummer super-stretch limo with the Hoveround trunk attachment, and there were no decals of REPUBLICAN FREE, GREEN-FRIENDLY HUMMER. Whoever came out of that limo, it would not be George. The rental limo pulled away, and the front bell rang as an aide opened the door for the last author. It was an older woman, pretentious and snooty. She wore diamonds and pearls around her neck, and rings circled every finger, some fingers having two. She wrinkled her nose as she surveyed the pawn shop. Oh, this simply will not do, she crooned, haughtily walking into the store. The other authors fawned before her. The woman pointedly ignored them. Her eyes found Ike and she approached, not bothering to mask her disgust and disapproval. You. Yes, you there. Why has George not arrived? Has he sent word by courier? He knows I am not accustomed to waiting. Ike bowed his head. Ms. Snodgrass, I assure you Mr. Martin is on his way. He had met the writer before, in Ireland, though she would not remember someone as small and insignificant as Ike. He shuddered at the memory. Very well. I will take my tea and crumpets in the solar, and A second limo, several times the girth of the first, pulled up in front of the shop. A chauffeur came around to the back and opened two double doors. The limo quaked as the passenger was helped out, the back tires suddenly rising higher on the suspension. In waddled the fattest man Ike had ever beheld. Sadly it was not the first time he had seen him, and Ike knew it would not be the last. He was wider than he was tall, and the mariner's cap upon his head accented the white and silver mane of his unkempt beard. Melinda Snodgrass was upon the famous fantasy author like a wolf-bitch to a fresh kill. George, dahling, you simply missed the most marvelous time this summer. You should have holidayed with us in the Hamptons instead of that barbaric Lizard Isle. And you missed Thanksgiving. Skiing on the white bossomed slopes of Vermont. Oh, you must say you're on for Christmas. My father set it up. Switzerland, skiing in 'Staad George's voice was wheezy as he brushed her off. Gstaad, he corrected. Dropping the 'G' is phony. You'd know this if you'd been there. Snodgrass looked like she'd just been kicked in the menopausal ovaries. Her face fell and she backed away, saying nothing. George approached the pizza table. The others knew better than coming between the man and his food. Ike watched in simultaneous fascination and disgust as the various cold pizzas were all devoured in a matter of ten grueling minutes. When he was finished, it was Ike who earned George's full attention.

- 175 -

The pizza crawlers did well. They can have the crusts and whatever toppings remain. Give these scraps to them with my blessing. As to our business, has everything been arranged? Ser, yes, all has been seen to. A pit opened in Ike's stomach as he rattled off the inventory of damaged miniatures, plastic Needle replicas, and bootlegged DVDs of Sibel Kekilli porn that were all waiting in the back for George to hawk under the table. And Wild Cards? I see the display table. The spread is acceptable, but where are the new editions? I requested a pallet of reissued volume 1s, straight from Tor. I was assured the merchandise would be here. Contempt overwhelmed Ike. He did his best to conceal it. His best was not good enough. George's eyes narrowed. He took Ike aside, behind the employee counter, with the Saturday night specials and fenced jewelry. So I see. I find your lack of faith disturbing... Dwight. The mention of his old name, the recollections of the dark time, was enough to make Ike lose it. He choked back sobs. George continued, pulling the young man closer. His breath stank of onions and bad fried chicken. Remember how I found you. Northern Ireland, a soul destroyed by MMO addiction and hoarding. You came to me, boy. You and your friend. I believe you wanted to tell me something. You said your piece, and I made my offer. You took it. I settled you here, got you this gig. Do not forget what I've done for you. Ike could not forget. The dark times were ever trying to close around him, pull him back to the Warcraft raiding, the squalor. He had been a detractor once. But George had changed all that when he had given him his new life, his new name. Then there had been the girl, the one called Linda. George had punished his defenders in Ireland for their negligence and incompetence during the Chicago C2EC travesty. Like Lord Tywin doling out a sharp lesson to his dwarf son, George's justice had been merciless and final. He reserved the worst for his hand, the one known as Ran. Ike remembered George's fateful proclamation: Perhaps the time has come to reinstitute an old custom. I grant my new followers prima nocte: first night. When any common girl of westeros.org fails on her obligation to defend me, the new lords shall have sexual rights to her on the night of her wedding. If we can't get the detractors out, we'll breed them out. The Lord's once proud hand had a lot more in common with Tyrion Lannister after that. Ashamed, Ike had to admit the deed had worked, and it had worked very well: he was but one of many former detractors who had fully taken up George's banner. George's back handed slap struck Ike like a fat, sweaty dodgeball. You know what you have to do. I want volume 1 displaying wall to wall. And I wanted it ten minutes ago. The shrinkwrapped pallet of unsellable books in the back room was a Meerenese knot Alexander himself couldn't hack through. Ike stared at the task, remembering the words of Da Mayor. A spark glinted somewhere inside him as the drunk's words repeated in his head: Do the right thing. The spark found tinder and there was flame. A five man-party began to form within Ike, not unlike a pick-up group formulated by the Titans themselves. For the first time in a long time, the young man smiled, and the sight was not an unpleasant thing to behold.

- 176 -

George had lifted him from the darkness, but at heart he was still the raider, still the undead rogue who had once moved heaven and earth on Azeroth. Instead of retreating back to Warcraft, he would hone his DPS in the real world and build a real party. Ike kicked a lever and the receiving bay door accordioned up into the ceiling. The enigmatic Mayor was waiting as if he'd known all along. He was behind the wheel of Snodgrass' limo, the top stripped off and capable of holding the contents of the Wild Cards volume 1 pallet. Ike gave him a salute as he drove the fork of the hydraulic push cart into the wooden pallet. Melee DPS was spoken forIke himself, though he was rusty. He also had his healer. The one called Parris had revealed herself to him weeks ago, selling a Mary Kay knockoff skincare line while garmented in a Nickelback T-shirt. Words were passed in hushed whispers, agreements made. She trusted him as much as he trusted her, but she seemed to truly hate George. As the Klingon homage went... An enemy of my enemy is my friend. Then there was the one called Ty, with his cloth Abercrombie armor. He would have to do but was certainly replaceable. Destiny ordained that Ty had also come to him only days after Parris. Ty's hate for George was only matched by his disgust for Parris, but this was nothing new. Someone in the group always hated the healer. The Italian brothers were still out there, somewhere. Pesci had not been seen since the Werthead collective had sprung George from his captivity. But they were around, whipped but not beaten. Surely they desired a rematch. Ike sighed, dropping the pallet of shitty books into the ruined limo. The vehicle bounced like the stretch Hummer had done when George had gotten out. All Ike needed was a tank. The story of his life. You have the perfect group and all you need is the tank. A sly smile crept over Ike's face. He knew just who to call.

- 177 -

APPENDIX
HOUSE MARTIN
The Martin clan has been in Santa Fe, New Mexico for several decades, holding court at a water damaged library tower with a dragon-shaped mailbox. Lured by the promise of tastier chili con queso, George R. R. Martin left behind his home state of New York and his adopted football teams the Giants and the Jets for the painted mesas of the New Mexico desert. There, he gained fame and renown for his A Song of Ice and Fire series, which gave him the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to edit Wild Cards with his friends. Martins personal sigil is a green jet next to a dark blue and red giant. The Martin house sigil is a rusty gray WordStar computer with grease stains on a field of pasty white. The house words are "No, no, no."

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN, The American Tolkien, writer-produce of TVs Beauty and the Beast, editor of Wild Cards, author of the as-yet unfinished fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire, editor of Wild Cards and absolute fucker. - PARRIS McBRIDE, his common law wife and former hippie. Maester of chili con queso and sometime keeper of the library tower. - TY FRANCK, his beleaguered sometime assistant and monitor of Martins Not-A-Blog. Aspiring author of (title removed at GRRMs request) - AUGUSTUS and CALIGULA, the two cats

- selected Wild Cards contributing authors: - MELINDA SNODGRASS - DANIEL ABRAHAM - CAROLINE SPECTOR - ROGER ZELAZNY - IAN TREGILLIS - WALTER JON WILLIAMS

- Other associated persons: - FRANK S. S. MARTIN, Georges secret ghostwriter and forgotten brother, said to be imprisoned deep within the library towers donjon - ARST4N (JAMES), an unwashed lackwit boy of indeterminate age who is rumored to be Martins bastard son

- 178 -

HOUSE GRRMLIN
George R. R. Martin is not without his defenders. Ever since 2008 came and went with A Dance With Dragons no closer to completion, a dedicated few have worked tirelessly to defend Martin against charges of being unprofessional, apathetic and late. To that end, they have squelched discussion of A Dance with Dragons projected publishing date in an attempt to maintain order. Martin has rewarded their loyalty by friending them on his livejournal blog. The GRRMlin house words are "George R. R. Martin is not your bitch." Their sigil is a human nose, stained brown, on a field of black. ELIO RAN GARCIA, webmaster of westeros.org, and a frequent and fawning poster to Martins Not-A-Blog under the name HIPPOIATHANATOI. - LINDA, his fiance His bannermen: - THE WERTHEAD COLLECTIVE, the common identity of Adam Whitehead, High Maester of the GRRMlins and his multiple manifestations on any internet forum tangentially related to George R. R. Martin - WERTZONE.COM, Lord Commander of the Collective - SFFWORLD.COM - AMAZON.COM - DRIBBLEOFINK.COM - SUDUVU.COM - WESTEROS.ORG - SPECULATIVEHORIZONS.BLOGSPOT.COM - BETTERHOMESANDGARDENS.COM And several others - JAMES LONG, webmaster of Speculative Horizons - AIDAN MOHER, webmaster of A Dribble of Ink. - EVILNIOJ, a poster on Not-A-Blog - EVIL AGENT, a poster on sffworld.com - NEIL GAIMAN, published British author, famous for coining the GRRMlin house words. - SHAWN SPEAKMAN, an aspiring author and temporal alchemist who claims to have successfully distilled five years into three. - DEBORAH, the only one who has willingly read The Dark Thorn in its entirety.

- 179 -

THE BRAVE COMPANIONS

When George R. R. Martin told his detractors to get their own blogs to complain about his inaction, Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci took the edict to heart. Their efforts galvanized the nascent movement of GRRM detractors and inspired the founding of allied movements such as the Is Winter Coming? forum and the GRRUMblers Wordpress blog. Driven to desperation by five years of slacking and ads for water-damaged merchandise, the Brave Companions now plot something awful against their tyrannical overlord. The house sigil is a photoshopped image of George R. R. Martin on an undersized exercise machine on a field of royal blue. Their house words are Finish the Book, George

RAY LIOTTA, Chicago mafia lord and founder of Finish the Book, George - JOE PESCI, his bloodthirsty older brother and wartime consigliore, assigned to monitor Martins progress on A Dance With Dragons, currently imprisoned within Martins library tower. - VINNIE, their cousin, a lad of nineteen

- some of their allies: - KRISTIN KREUK, called CAT OF THE CONCIERGE, statistician to The Brave Companions, blinded by her Kindly Manager. - SLYNT, an angry Norwegian rockstar-turned-teacher - IBLIS, tamer of camels - ROLAND OF GILEAD, an unfortunate poster on the Terry Brooks forum who had the audacity to intimate that GRRM was late. - KRAFUS, a French-Canadian and president-founder of Iblis fanclub - His allies: - AMY - DAVE - FRANK

- LISA TUTTLE (SHAE), formerly a captive at GRRM's library tower.

- KENNY MC WILLIAMS, an unfortunate postal worker - LORD ROBERT MERRILL, his overbearing supervisor

- 180 -

OTHER AUTHORS
- TERRY BROOKSKIND, an author of mediocre talent who writes stories about heroic characters who battle wizards and demons in non-fantasy settings - (ROBERT JORDAN), author of The Wheel of Time series, passed away in 2007 with the series incomplete - JOE ABERCROMBIE, a professional author - STEPHEN ERIKSON, a professional author - BRANDON SANDERSON, a professional author who is currently finishing The Wheel of Time. Prophesied to do the same for A Song of Ice and Fire.

- 181 -

Newspapers and Periodicals

Silentmajority

If you run a blog post it here, so we can can read it.

Here's KrKreuk's and mine - http://grrumblers.wordpress.com/

Slynt's Reread -> http://agot10th.blogspot.com/

Aussie Chris -> http://travelsthroughiest.blogspot.com/

KrKreuk's old blog -> http://krkreuk.livejournal.com/

Something Awful GRRM thread -> GRRM: Your despair is like succulent honey

Liota and Pesci -> http://grrrm.livejournal.com/

GRRM's soon to be banned fake Facebook page -> http://www.facebook.com/georgerrmartin

If you have a blog post the URL below. Also what other blogs, and websites do you follow that relate to SciFi/Fantasy? Annan: Blog of Ice and Fire - This guy is reading ASoIaF for the first time and posting his (humourous) commentary on it. He's currently on ACoK, but it hasn't been updated since August (finish the book, Jason!). A Podcast of Ice and Fire - Once again, hasn't been updated in QUITE a while, but some of their podcasts can be pretty funny. (At least one of the hosts is a member of SA, if anyone cares.)

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=general&action=display&thread=395# ixzz1C3rSWLJH - 182 -

Splitter: http://splittersworld.blogspot.com/?zx=eeb5366bfb8dc297

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=general&action=display&thread=395# ixzz1C3r6clSA

- 183 -

Poetry
Christmas Carols Carols
The GRRMmas Song
Post by kehnonymous on Dec 14, 2010, 11:37pm What can I say? George R & R Marrtyr's resemblance to Kris Kringle has got me in the holiday spirit. The GRRM-mas Song (sung to the tune of 'The Christmas Song') Martin slacking off on Ice and Fire Jack Vance editing your prose Angry readers claim that George is a liar While time stands still in Westeros Everybody knows some chile que es con queso Helps to make the waistband tight George's fans just don't care if he's slow He should take the time to get it right They're sure that Dance can't be far away And there's been lots of swords and Wild Cards along the way But every Martin fan is gonna cry If he's not finished before the show's season five.... They know that Santa's on his way; He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh. But every Martin fanboy's gonna cry If he's not finished before the show's season five.... And so I'm rehashing this wornout phrase For fans of this literary niche Although its been disproved both by Slynt and by Ray George R. Martin George R. Martin George R. Martin's not your bitch

- 184 -

My Favorite Things
Post by jjh on Dec 15, 2010, 3:21pm All these songs are delightful. Here is my effort, to the tune of "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music. (One of my guilty pleasures, actually.) Wild Cards, anthologies and HBO cast hints Jets games and Giants games and blog posts about them Hopeful Shae actresses tied up with strings These are a few of my favorite things Cheap resin miniatures and replica Needles Damp RPG sets and Game of Thrones T-shirts Signings and cons, with my pals glad-handing These are a few of my favorite things Doublets of velvet with sigils and slashes Lemoncake crumbs in my beard and eyelashes NAB dissent ban-hammered, no questioning These are a few of my favorite things When the trolls bite When my publisher rings When Im feeling bad I simply remember my favorite things (I certainly dont write Dance)

- 185 -

We Three Kings
Post by jjh on Dec 16, 2010, 7:03pm This is my last one, honest. GRRMmas is for everyone, so this one is dedicated to the holy trinity of GRRiMlins. To the tune of We Three Kings... We the three top GRRiMlins are Defending Ser George from afar Websites, forums, we patrol them Spreading our Word to all Ohhhh hes a gardener, hes all right He is not your bitch we cite Dance hes completing, still proceeding Go read something else tonight Everywhere on the net I declaim Facts and figures, again and again Wert forever, ceasing never Putting you all to shame Voodoo math to offer have I Im a writer, you can but sigh Disappointed? I say Own It! You are much stupider than I Im Hippo-boi, in my little room Detractors I ban from the group Love to comment on the NAB Craving some praise from GRRM Ohhhh hes a gardener, hes all right He is not your bitch we cite Dance hes completing, still proceeding Go read something else tonight

Note: art imitates life, thus poor Censor Ty remains, as always, sadly overlooked

- 186 -

All I want for Christmas

Post by grrmismyidol on Dec 19, 2010, 2:54pm To the tune of Maria Carey - All I want for Christmas I don't want a lot for Christmas There is just one thing I need I don't care about the wild cards or your new anthology I just want to see Tyrion More than you could ever know Give me half a chance All I want for Christmas Is Dance I don't want a lot for Christmas There's one thing I want to read And all your signing at conventions Will not make this fan feel pleased. I don't need to hang old calendars There already out of date Well until you make me happy I am filled with spiteful hate I just want to see John Snow More than you could ever know Make me wet my pants All I want for Christmas is Dance Dance baby Oh I won't ask for much this Christmas I won't even watch that show And I'm just gonna keep on waiting Fuck Fucking HBO I won't buy Tuf Voyaging Your attitude makes me sick I won't even check your blog You Fucking Lazy Prick 'Cause I just want Dany here tonight Watching her dragons taking flight Who the Fuck's Jack Vance? Baby all I want for Christmas is Dance Dance Oh all the lights are shining At last Your nearly there And it must be finished Before the premiere Is what everyone is thinking But I see that ship is sinking Fat man won't you give me the thing I really need? Won't you please give my book to me?

- 187 -

Oh I don't want a lot for Christmas I don't want replica swords And I don't care about the NFL And politics makes me bored Oh I just want to finally know If Dany will shag john Snow Isn't she his aunt? Baby all I want for Christmas is Dance baby All I want for Christmas is Dance All I want for Christmas is Dance All I want for Christmas is Dance

- 188 -

Twelve Days of GRRMstmas

Post by kehnonymous on Dec 13, 2010, 6:08pm Thanks to darkgreen for inspiring me with his fantastic 'Twelve Days of GRRMstmas' WINTER BLUNDERLAND (sung to the tune of 'Winter Wonderland') Arteries, are they thickening? Fat pink masts, are they glistening? Too lazy to write Mood: horny tonight Blogging while The Dance goes draggin' on Gone away is Jon Snow's blackbird, Its author ain't wrote any new words He strings us along, (Shawn Speakman is wrong) Blogging while The Dance goes draggin' on While at WorldCon we can meet a fat man For five years, been slacking on the job We'll say: Are you finished? He'll say: No Man But you can buy some swords On Not-A-Blog GRRM, he'll raise our ire, When we think of Ice and Fire Another delay, While Ty's underpaid, Blogging while The Dance goes draggin' on

Post by curiousorange on Dec 14, 2010, 9:57am All together now On the Twelfth Day of Christmas George RR Martin gave to me, Twelve Lemony Lemoncakes, Eleven Painted Miniatures, Ten Casting Hints, Nine Political Rants, Eight Foreign Editions, Seven Surprise Sex Scenes, Six Twisted Nipples, Fi-i-i-ve Pi-i-ink Masts! Four Replica Swords, Three NFL posts, Two Wildcard Books, And a waterlogged calendar from two thousand and three!

- 189 -

Haikus
Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by serlardmartin on Aug 11, 2010, 6:10am I just found those on another board, and maybe we can add some of our own. Gotta love the WildCard-haiku :

Mr. Martin cries, Buy some water-damaged books! Only fifty bucks! Not a Blog, its called Calendars? Miniatures? Just shut the f--k up How can I waste time Writing "A Dance With Dragons" When Wild Cards is due? In seventh grade I First read Song of Ice and Fire Just got my PhD Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by darkgreen on Aug 11, 2010, 8:29am Rejoice! It is done! Fools, dont jump to conclusions Crappy wild cards book Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by darkgreen on Aug 11, 2010, 8:42am Bathed in TV light A fat man moans with pleasure Cheetos and Shae tapes Yet another con It is all out of my hands I need to be praised Ageing and obese Dont worry about my health Doughnuts keep me young! Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by serlardmartin on Aug 11, 2010, 8:47am nerds hail me at the convention the smell of cheetos in my nose life is good all work and no play makes George a dull boy off to COMICON 2010 !!!

- 190 -

to my detractors George is not your bitch get a life Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by darkgreen on Aug 11, 2010, 9:04am Heyya serlardmartin. Is that some sort of free form haiku? Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by darkgreen on Aug 11, 2010, 9:28am On this book cover Behold my name in huge font! For I did edit! Football season comes I cant be bothered to write Excepting blog shits The merenese knot It is really just bullshit Lets me be lazy I canceled a con I climb now upon a cross I suffer for you! Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by job on Aug 11, 2010, 9:30am

Excellent Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by norwegianviking on Aug 11, 2010, 9:43am FTBG had a lot of this kind of Haikus a year or two ago. Maybe I`ll bother check if I can find it later. Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by loripetty on Aug 11, 2010, 10:01am Mood:stressed Leaving for Spain soon Nothing to be done for it It can not be helped A Dinner of KFC Pheasant's breast deep-fried Summer potatoes, mashed and mixed Crisp honey biscuits

- 191 -

Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by thejewgernaut on Aug 11, 2010, 10:09am I torture you fools I will never finish dance But please buy my crap Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by darkgreen on Aug 11, 2010, 10:18am Its done when its done Though I taunt you with blog posts A four year cock tease Im close to finished Though I was close years ago Yes, Im an asshole Care to buy my goods? Water damaged, out of date Limited supply Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by jjh on Aug 11, 2010, 10:55am HBO filming Re-living my TV days Way more fun than Dance Hobnobbing abroad Surrounded by sycophants Dance lies neglected Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by moose2 on Aug 11, 2010, 10:57am Casting is hard work All the Shaes are really hot Mood equals horny Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by darkgreen on Aug 11, 2010, 11:08am This one was gold, jjh: Aug 11, 2010, 10:55am, jjh wrote: Hobnobbing abroad Surrounded by sycophants Dance lies neglected Shit, I fucked myself New fans and HBO Will expect more books Dont criticize me You cant rush a masterpiece I am an artist

- 192 -

Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by kehnonymous on Aug 11, 2010, 11:34am Aug 11, 2010, 10:55am, jjh wrote: Hobnobbing abroad Surrounded by sycophants Dance lies neglected

Agreed! +1 to you Hey, sorry I ain't been 'round Just got back from trip Mom calls her Sibel Ron Jeremy calls her often A perfect Shae she is? Jets start training camp As do the New York Giants All hope lost for Dance Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by darkgreen on Aug 11, 2010, 11:44am Re-wrote a chapter So you must now suck my cock For I deserve it I am not your bitch But you are all my bitches Now purchase my junk A productive day I added a new POV Are you excited? A casting guess game! Who plays the mole on Neds ass? Its some nobody! Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by kehnonymous on Aug 11, 2010, 12:04pm Sean Bean plays Ned Lena Headey plays Cersei George plays The Marrtyr Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by scorpiknox on Aug 11, 2010, 12:32pm Wow, I you guys have been busy while I was sleeping. Just gonna copy paste here for now. I wrote these on an alias on Nab. More of a haiku cluster, really.

- 193 -

I was going to post them here, but it looks like they got deleted, which really pisses me right the fuck off. They were legit haikus not in anyway derogatory to GRRM. Ab Fuck. If anyone stumbles across them, you'll know. But I am pretty sure they're gone. What is even weirder is that my "alias" was my attempt to make a true NaB poster. Need to start using a proxy when I post there I suppose. Too mad to poem Winter is too long this time The knot is not done Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by graff on Aug 11, 2010, 12:39pm Five years after Feast Martin's Dance sits unfinished Is Winter Coming? EDITED Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by thejewgernaut on Aug 11, 2010, 12:52pm I dedicate this one to scorpiknox's moderated haikus: censor all comments even humorous haikus absolute fucker Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by serlardmartin on Aug 12, 2010, 11:30am (admitted, it`s a freestyle haiku) open file "ADWD_manuscript" press "delete all" my burden gone with a tip of my finger Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by morandir on Aug 18, 2010, 11:29pm you paid thirty bucks for half a freaking novel screw you, buy wild cards Look! Miniatures! Cersei's tits, awesome detail I must masturbate. I'm feeling froggy. Casting clues will now spew forth. Dance is still not done. Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by kehnonymous on Aug 19, 2010, 12:56pm when he's at WorldCon will George tote Ty in his pouch

- 194 -

like a kangaroo? Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by scorpiknox on Aug 19, 2010, 3:44pm Captain's hat is packed For a well deserved trip south Winter Down Under Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by guicciardini on Aug 20, 2010, 10:09am George's Deep Thoughts: Pizza, Cheetos, Coke Pizza, pizza, pizza, now Pizza, KFC! Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by scorpiknox on Aug 20, 2010, 3:48pm Aug 20, 2010, 10:09am, guicciardini wrote: George's Deep Thoughts: Pizza, Cheetos, Coke Pizza, pizza, pizza, now Pizza, KFC! One thing you must know is that George eats Popeye's... Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by serlardmartin on Aug 24, 2010, 3:34am jerking off, thinking of Shae the issue of my loins spilled on the keyboard Parris must never know

Re: Create a GRRM - haiku ! Post by krafus on Aug 24, 2010, 7:35am Here's my old entry from the FTBG thread Norwegianviking mentioned: THE HAIKU BALLAD OF THE UNFINISHED BOOK Gather round you folks For tis a sad tale of woe That afflicts us all There was once a man Lets call him GRRM Who wrote a series It was really good It built a big readership And sold lotsa books

- 195 -

Three books were written By the year two thousand one We settled to wait The fourth book took long Very, very, very, very long to write Or so it seemed then Then came the sad news That the book would only deal With half the people Wed come to so love No Tyrion, Jon, Dany But thered be Jaime Book four was published In the year two thousand five To shouts of At last! It was not rubbish But it wasnt great either Not like the first three Still we held out hope For at the end of book four GRRM said: Twas a bitch to write But worry not, my faithful For in the next year, Book five will follow. Twill be a Dance with Dragons Yea, the second part Of A Feast for Crows, And within all characters Now missing will shine So again we hoped With bright eyes and eager grins Again we waited Days, months, then years passed And still the Dance wasnt done And something happened On the Livejournal Of Martin thats not a blog News of Dance dried up While all other news Of football, of foreign trips Of houses and flu Of politics and Wild Cards and ASOIAF

- 196 -

Merchandise went up Eventually, People started to notice And to ask questions Those questions were met By silence, then deletion On the Not-A-Blog Doubts began to grow In the hearts of some fans Eyes lost light, grins fell Even more time passed Doubts turned to open rancor The fandom ruptured At last Martin said Get thou gone, you naysayers, And complain elsewhere And thats what we did We came to Finish the Book And yea, it was good Eventually In the year two thousand nine The rancor became Too much for Martin He finally updated And he said he hoped To finish the Dance In June of two thousand nine Hope springs eternal Im afraid Im now All out of hope for the Dance Tis been way too long You dont like waiting? Try waiting eight fricking years *Then* you can complain Jjh on January 26th, 2011 ... and here are a couple of new ones. Still waiting? Angry? Best keep it to yourself, troll Or you'll be censored What is George up to? Writing? Or watching Shae tapes? (((You will never know)))

- 197 -

Scorpiknox on January 25th, 2011 Trolls all around me! They cut me with blades of lies! Linda off her meds. Caught in a time warp No progress for a decade Just like Ran's wardrobe Hey proboards try this: Dictionary -> Harrassment Then grow testicles

Robotosaur on January 27th, 2011 Step one: Call yourself A writer. Step two: ? ? Step three: Profits, bitch.

- 198 -

Everything Else
The Division of the Rings kehnonymous Three Calendars for Speakman, at a discounted rate Seven for the Wertheads while they blog at home, Nine for Sycophants doomed to wait, One for the Fat Lord on his porcelain throne In the Land of Martin where he's Five Years late One more Chapter to tie the Knot, One last 'con behind him. One more Chapter to end the pages, so Random House can bind them In the Land of Martin where he's Five Years late

- 199 -

Graphic Art and Paintings

jaquelecaque on May 13, 2010, 1:15am

- 200 -

jaquelecaque on May 13, 2010, 1:17am

- 201 -

jaquelecaque on May 13, 2010, 1:28am

- 202 -

altraum on May 13, 2010, 3:31pm

- 203 -

altraum on May 18, 2010, 12:25am

- 204 -

krkreuk on May 18, 2010, 4:02am

scorpiknox on Sept 1, 2010, 8:10am

- 205 -

scorpiknox on Sept 16, 2010, 9:20pm

scorpiknox on Sept 16, 2010, 10:26pm

- 206 -

scorpiknox on Sept 30, 2010, 9:54pm

loripetty on Oct 1, 2010, 9:00pm (loripetty didnt know the source for this one)

- 207 -

scorpiknox on Oct 7, 2010, 10:07pm

loripetty on Oct 23, 2010, 5:02am

- 208 -

loripetty on Oct 23, 2010, 6:09am

Rex on Oct 23, 2010, 9:52pm

- 209 -

- 210 -

Previous page (sorry, had to resize the thingy): felix on Dec 8, 2010, 12:03am

scorpiknox on Dec 8, 2010, 10:11pm

- 211 -

monel on Dec 9, 2010, 3:12am

- 212 -

- 213 -

- 214 -

- 215 -

Rex on Dec 23, 2010, 1:27am

- 216 -

loripetty on Jan 8, 2011, 7:51pm (saying the source is probably SA)

- 217 -

loripetty on Jan 8, 2011, 7:54pm

- 218 -

geshtar on Jan 16, 2011, 8:03pm

- 219 -

loripetty on Jan 18, 2011, 3:37pm

- 220 -

Rex on Jan 18, 2011, 3:56pm

- 221 -

Movies
silentmajority on Oct 28, 2010, 2:03pm http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmVpzran4UE&feature=player_embedded

graff on Nov 22, 2010, 10:59pm http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdtejCR413c

- 222 -

Language
GRRM/GRRiMlin - to - English Translator
(thread started by Mir8212 with contributions of Lori Petty, Silentmajority, Oliveira8, Iblis, Montage, Scorpiknox, Sweetmartin, aussiechris, myrddin, spannerx, Krafus, vonlent, jaquelecaque, jjh)

It's often quite difficult to understand what these jokers are saying so I thought a dictionary might come in handy.

Examples:

GRRM says: "My fans" GRRM means: The people who'll eat my shit and call it fudge

GRRM says: "My detractors" GRRM means: Everyone else

GRRM says: "Trolls" GRRM means: Anyone who has an opinion different from mine and/or asks about ADWD

GRRiMlin says: "Go read something else" GRRiMlin means: ASOIF was my first non-picture book so I'm assuming it's yours too

GRRiMlin says: "George Martin is not your bitch" GRRiMlin means: ..sorry, this GRRiMlin has no functional brain so there are no double meanings)

GRRM says:ADwD will probably be finished this year! GRRM means: A Wild Card book will positively be finished this year.

- 223 -

GRRM says: I finished a Jon Snow chapter today! GRRM means: I re-watch the Jet games today...twice! And now I'm starting to watch it again.

GRRM says: Trust me, no one wants Dance finished more than me. GRRM means: I gave up on this book years ago. Now bring me Hot Pockets and miniatures!

GRRM says: This is my Not A Blog. After all, i don't have time to do a real blog. GRRM means: Hello free advertising space and place to blog endlessly about football!

GRRM says: I have the crud. Just when i need to step up into high energy mode. GRRM means: After five years of bullshit, this is the best excuse i have left in my arsenal. The truth is, i'm in Barbados.

GRRM says: I made progress on a Tyrion chapter today. GRRM means: After months of struggling, I finished a whole three sentences in a Tyrion chapter today. Though maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, decide they're not good enough, and scrap them entirely.

GRRM says: I finished a Tyrion chapter today. GRRM means: After years of struggling, I finished an entire Tyrion chapter today. Though maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, decide it's not good enough, and scrap it entirely.

GRRM says: I may have untangled the Meereenese Knot a little bit today. GRRM means: And tomorrow, as usual, I'll announce that it didn't work out. Let's see, if I play this right, I can use the knot as an excuse not to finish Dance for another year, maybe even two years.

GRRM says: I'm a gardener type of writer, not an architect. GRRM means: I don't need no stinking outline.

GRRM says: A Dance with Dragons is my first priority.

- 224 -

GRRM means: A Dance with Dragons is my first priority, after editing Wild Cards anthologies, writing other novels and short stories, blogging about football and politics, creating new sales pitches for my billboar -I mean Not-A-Blog, travelling to any number of conventions, admiring my miniature collection, complaining about my illnesses, and various other activities.

"Neil Gaiman has, like, 12 of em, Martin says curtly.

GRRM means: I should have THIRTEEN! Neil Gaiman is not an AMERICAN TOLKIEN is he?! GRRM thinks: You dumbass detractor of a reporter!!!! How dare you question my right to an assisstant!!??? I've won HUGOs!!! HUGOs!!!! You have no idea what how hard it is to be a WRITER!!!!!!!! Oh, wait...Well, not a real writer like me!!!

GRRM says: "Ive been scarred too many times" GRRM means: I'm starting to think that even my real fans will start to turn if I keep this shit up

GRRM says: ".....and I wind up doing nothing. GRRM means: .....and I wind up doing nothing (but now I feel kind of bad about it)

GRRM says: What more could you want? GRRM means: Dance? People seriously still care about that book? Huh. News to me.

GRRM says: I had one of my periodic email catastrophes. GRRM means: Fuck u and your emails full of adoration. I care more about fecal matter than your pathetic dreams of reaching me.

GRRM says: For all you Wild Card fans out there: GRRM means: Dear Ran and Wert... And Ty, since i force him to read them.

GRRM says: Fuck Republicans. GRRM means: Fuck Republicans.

- 225 -

GRRM says: I think I've made some progress on Dance lately. GRRM means: I hope this incredibly encouraging and detailed update will keep the lot of you quiet and happy for the entirety of my convention season.

GRRM says: P.S. Had a good day writing today. Half the day on the book, half the day on the script. That's something I NEVER do. But today everything seemed to click. Taxes are done too. Mood:Happy

GRRM means: P.S. I wrote something today. That's something I NEVER do. Someone did my taxes too. Mood: Bored

GRRM says: I have some autographed hardcovers of my book Fevre Dream for sale.

GRRM means: I have some severely damaged copies of my book Fevre Dream for sale. Muhahaha a damaged copy that's autographed is worth about as much as an not autographed damaged book. Enjoy your investment, chumps!

GRRM says: Meeereeeneesse knot GRRM means: That fictional piece of fiction I made up to excuse myself from writing.

GRRM says: (((((soon)))))) GRRM means: ...................................... (Good god! How the hell do I know what that means! No, seriously, what the fuck does that mean?)

GRRM says: This offer is good while the supply lasts... but I don't expect that to be long.

GRRM means: I have a box car full of this shit, but if I act like supplies are limited, more people will buy my garbage.

GRRM says: P.S. One of my readers has just pointed out to me that the 2009 calendar will be right again in 2015. That's not so far away...

- 226 -

GRRM means: P.S. Elio just validated my sorry attempt at pushing an outdated calendar as a reward for overpaying for my signature. Also, I will still be writing Dance in 2015. That's not so far away...

GRRM says: Buy a $100 worth of signed books and I'l throw in a signed 2009 calendar free. GRRM means: I've got a bunch of signed books and useless calendars sitting around taking up space and this is the only way I can move any of them.

GRRM says: Buy a $100 worth of signed books and I'l throw in a signed 2009 calendar free. GRRM means: I need space for more miniatures and money to buy them. Supoprt my habit, bitches!

GRRM says: Instant gratification generation Translation: Y'know, those brats who like to call you out when you're running half a decade late.

George says:ADWD in 2006 but means:ADWD forever translation:time is relative

Mr.MartOn says:back to westeros but means:he turned his back to westeros translation:just mention westeros and get a time bonus.

Googre says:i have the biggest fanbase in the world but means:i have the biggest pantyhose in the world translation:big pants but small hose

GRRM says: Instant gratification generation Translation: Get off my lawn!

- 227 -

GRRM says:

http://grrm.livejournal.com/151109.html?thread=9808965#t9808965

The first season, at least, will hew quite close to the books, from what I have seen. Admittedly, it will grow harder to remain faithful in later seasons, if the series is renewed. As the books progress and the original characters scatter, more and more secondary and tertiary characters become involved, more and more settings are seen, and the "butterfly effect" comes into play... whereas what seems like a small and innocous change in season one or two turns out to have major consequences in season five, when the minor character who was changed/ cut in season one is supposed to push to the fore and play a significant role. No one is saying it will be easy. But the intent is there.

Translation:

Season 1 will be badass, but the writers are totally fucked in season 5 when they have to tell the Brienne story and have it go absolutely nowhere, oh yeah and all the Samwell bullshit too, I hope the viewers like softcore fat guy porn GRRM says: Order $100 worth of books from my Signed Books page and I'll throw in a calendar gratis....This offer is good while the supply lasts... but I don't expect that to be long. Translation: I need to buy groceries so one of you GRRiMlins needs to do your duty and pay your taxes to your lord and master.

GRRM says again: Order $100 worth of books from my Signed Books page and I'll throw in a calendar gratis....This offer is good while the supply lasts... but I don't expect that to be long. Translation: Did you not hear me GRRiMlins? Put your wallets where your mouths are...uh...hang on, maybe take a step back first.

GRRM says again: Order $100 worth of books from my Signed Books page and I'll throw in a calendar gratis....This offer is good while the supply lasts... but I don't expect that to be long. Translation: Fucking GRRiMlins! Fuckers dissect everything I post and can't take a hint when I slap them in the face with it. I said, I don't expect that to be long.

- 228 -

GRRM says: P.S. One of my readers has just pointed out to me that the 2009 calendar will be right again in 2015. That's not so far away...

GRRM also says: ADWD will be done (((soon)))

Translation: I have a very, very, very, very, very different view of time compared to you of the 'instant gratification generation'

GRRM says: So let's not hear mutters about other commitments and similar feeble excuses. Just do it.

GRRM means: You are all my bitches now, oh yessssss.

GRRM says: "That's it for football for me until mid-November. TIVO will record all the games between then and now for me to watch when I get back. And now I'm off to ravage Eire and besiege Malta. Later."

GRRM means: "I deny myself nothing. Nothing." GRRM says: Mood = Horny

GRRM means: Who am I kidding? I can't fap. I haven't seen my penis in forty years. I'm not even sure if I have a penis anymore.

GRRM says: "Finished a chapter a few days ago. Revised another. Then re-revised it. " GRRM means: "Rewrote the final paragraph of a chapter that I deleted a month ago. Then I deleted the final paragraph of another chapter, so in a month I can rewrite that and say I'm making progress."

GRRM says: "The work has piled up as well, so tomorrow my nose goes back on the grindstone. For a few hours, anyway. Parris and my docs agree, no more twelve-hour days for a while. So posts here may be less frequent than before. Kong comes first.

GRRM means: Yes, I do indeed consider blogging as part of my work day, and despite my intentions, I will post 5 times in the next 12 days. This also means I'm cutting down on watching the Shae audition tapes from 10 hours per day to 9 hours per day, and also cutting down on my Dance with Dragons time from 20 minutes per day to 15 minutes per day. So I guess Kong comes first, after all of that other stuff anyway.

- 229 -

GRRM says: "It gave my spirits a huge boost to become George the Writer once again, after the dehumanizing experience of being George the Patient."

GRRM means: My doctor told me that I shouldn't 'work' twelve hour days anymore, but somehow has no problem with me meeting dozens of strangers of dubious hygiene while I have a compromised immune system. Obviously, having and meeting with fans is what makes one a 'Writer', not actually the 'having written' part. At least I can blame the book signing for another Dance delay if I get the crud again.

Parris says: JK Rowling stole GRRM's Hugo! Parris means: JK Rowling stole GRRM's Hugo!

Parris says: George can't attend the pizza crawl because he's sick. Parris means: Obviously George is using me as a human shield here, and asked me to make the announcement so he won't take any criticism. I normally would tell George to fuck off, but let's just say that there was a Myrish swamp involved, and he made it worth my while.

Parris says: We're working with our lawyers to get the faux GRRM Facebook pages shut down because they're infringing on George's NAB copyrights. Parris means: We all know that George's NAB posts have no commercial value, but this page gives people the ability to express actual opinions about the series without moderation! We're not in the business of free discourse of thought concerning George's work, so we just cant have that.

Read more: http://iswintercoming.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=ftbg&action=display&thread=50#ixzz 1C37lOjxP

- 230 -

Currency
There only exists one bill that we were able to learn of however, the re-search is work in progress, so there might be updates. Enlargen picture to get the details:

http://old.cubeupload.com/img/f7bf1bgurmff.jpg

- 231 -

The Food
Leo Tyrell: Stuffed Roast Pork with Plum Sauce
No way I can get a whole piglet into my oven, so we settle for pork A Feast For Crows - page 13 in my copy. We are sitting at The Quill and Tankard in Oldtown and are quaffing fearsomely strong cider, shoot arrows at wormy apples and discuss dragons. Lazy Leo (Tyrell) has just forced his company on us and is bragging what he had for dinner: roast piglet stuffed with truffes and chick-peas in plum sauce. 1.5 - 2.0 kg pork shoulder, the rind still on Sea Salt Pepper 1 tbs cilantro seeds 1 tbs caraway 2 cloves of garlic 1 handful of chestnuts 20 gr of dried truffes 1 small carrot 1 twig of celery 1 shallot 1 tbs oil 1 l vegetable stock 350 g dried, sweet plums some ginger (fresh) 1 shallot 1/2 l red wine (not too dry! Go a little on the sweet side, if possible) some chips of frozen butter honey sea salt freshly ground back pepper

Cut the rind on the pork shoulder in quares of about 1 - 1.5 cm. Take care, not to cut into the meat! Put sea salt, pepper, cilantro seeds, caraway into a mortar and grind until powdery. Distribute the powder evenly over the meat. Cut a hole into the meat parallel to the rind. Put in the mixture of vegetables/mushrooms - all very very finely chopped and sew shut. Heat the oil in a pan and put the meat in -rind down- and rost for a few minutes.After that roast all sides of the meat evenly. Heat the oven to 180 degree C. Put the meat into a casserole and add vegetable stock. Let the meat rost until done. This takes some 1.5 hours. Soak the plums in hot water. Finely chop the shallot and the ginger and roast in a bit of butter (not the frozen bit, we need that later). Add the wine, dry and add the plums. Let cook until the consistency is sirupy. Add honey, salt, pepper and the bits of frozen butter. Stir continously. Serve with dumplings and a glass of fearsomely strong cider.

- 232 -

Robotosaur Hot Spiced Wine

2 bottles red table wine (we used Yellow Tail Shiraz-Cab blend, which is about the most expensive you'd want to go at $6-7 a bottle) 1/2 cup water 1/2 cup white sugar 4-5 cinnamon sticks about 10 whole cloves one lemon, sliced into rounds, ends discarded one orange, sliced into rounds, ends discarded Mix water and sugar together in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add cinnamon and cloves; bring to a boil and allow to boil for about 5 minutes. Add red wine and reduce heat to below a simmer. If you see any bubbles, it's too hot. Add sliced orange and lemon. Don't peel the fruit, since you want the oils in the peel to flavor the wine. Keep mixture over heat for 30-40 minutes, ensuring that it never comes to a boil. Strain and serve warm.

- 233 -

HerbCersei: Herb -crusted Pike

A Feast For Crows - page 513. We are sitting in Cercei's solar and have helped us to a glas of her hippocras. She'll be here soon, awaiting Lord and Lady Stokeworth to get them to do something about Bronn.

1 pike (at least 45 cm) 1 package of toast 1 big bunch of parsley 1 small onion 250 g butter (soft) 1/2 bottle of white wine 2 lemony lemony lemons salt an pepper

vegetables to your liking, for example: 2 zucchini 2 sweet peppers (red and orange) celery a couple of small carrots Cut the rind from the toast and crumble it into a bowl. Chop the onion very find and add to the bowl as well as the soft butter, Chop the parsley very fine and add to the bowl. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Knead until you have a smooth dough. Sit the (cleansed and gutted, salted and with lemon-juice washed pike) upright on a halved potatoe (alternative: use clean pebbles) on your baking tray. Carefully put the dough on the pike - it should be wholly covered. Chop the vegetables and place around the pike. Wet the pike with a bit of wine and put it into your oven. 180 degree C. Let bake for about 45 minutes. After half the time, another bit of wine over the pike. For the last 10 minutes add the 'barbecue'-function to get a nice golden crust. Rosemary potatoes go well with this one.

- 234 -

Arianne Martell: Stuffed Grape Leaves

A Feast For Crows - page 842: We are imprisoned in the Spear Tower in Sunspear together with Arianne. We watched her dressing garishly and s n i g g e r e d (1) a lot when suddenly the servants come in, bringing her food - which she promptly denies. Let her! More for us, then. 250 g natural rice (*) 250 g crimini mushrooms 2 medium onions 100 g raisins 1 sweet red pepper A bunch of parsley 50-100 grams hot peppers (**) 1 package of grape leaves (***) White wine (no, I'll not be lecturing this time) Vegetable stock Olive oil Salt Pepper Spices, you love (e. g. cumin (mortared), cinnamon, cilantro seeds (mortared), garam masala ...) Begin preparing this recipe a day before you want to serve - in case you are using the preserved grape leaves. You should unpack them and water them overnight, since they are kept in brine. (*) meaning: not parboiled or such. Yes, I know - the recipe in AFFC is without rice. How they ever managed to roll the leaves and not have the rolls fall apart, is a mystery to me. I have done variations of this dish for all my life and fared best with rice, so rice it is. (**) hot <> hot. Use Thai birds-eyes. If you are more for hotter peppers, mix in a couple of Habaneros. There are many varieties between, so choose whatever suits you best. (***) the package shown on the photo are Turkish grape leaves. They will do. Personally, I prefer the Greek ones. They taste better and I am suspecting the Greeks to let mostly children do the plucking; which makes for the biggest leaves EVAH and sometimes they are so nicely folded ... like they would be, if harvested by a child sampling beautiful leaves. Chop mushrooms, onions, parsley and peppers very finely. Rinse the rice under cold water until the water runs clean. Set aside to dry. Put olive oil in a pan and heat. Put in onions and hot peppers and roast until glassy, add sweet pepper, mushrooms for a while, then parsley. Push them to the rim of the pan, so that the middle is free. Put a glug of oil there and put in the uncooked rice. Roast, until the rice is very hot and on the verge from glassy to going white again. Pour some of the wine over the rice an (caution: big steam cloud coming) add the vegetable stock. Reduce heat, put on a lid and cook for some 20 minutes, until the rice is done. Mix everything nicely and set aside to cool. Find a nice, clean, big surface and lay out the leaves - belly up. I don't know, how to phrase this exactly in English: the veins (??) of the leave should be up, the smooth side down. Put a tablespoon of the rice-mixture on every leave and fold the edges in, then make a small roll. Continue for hours on end to do that, until your fingers are all wizened ... you desperately want to shout at somebody ... and carefully place all the rolls in a casserolle.

- 235 -

Pre-heat your oven to 175 degrees C. Put in the casserrolle and let bake for around 45 minutes. Every now and then pour some more wine over the rolls. They should not (!) swim, but be relatively dry. NOM! You can preserve the dish by putting the roles in small portions into your freezer. They will still be extremely good when re-heated, if -admittedly- not as delicious as freshly made. The Greek have a way to preserve them in a mixture of something that includes olive oil. Unfortunately I do not know, how they do it - mine never get that far - but maybe, Kael Edin can help us there. You can make many variations of the mixture: try every vegetable imaginable, but stop at the size of peas. Minced meat also does nicely, but calls for herbs more than spices. Fruits and nuts can also go into the mixture (insted of meat, then). You are free to invent your own. This is one of my fav dishes of all time, it combines salty, sweet and hot. NOM! Some pics plugged out of the internet - without giving a source or credit or caring about copywrite: Here's what I mean with 'belly up' The look of it, before you bake it (yes, you can already eat them at this stage)

- 236 -

Honeyed Daenerys: Hone yed Duck with Orange Peppers

A Game Of Thrones - page 99: we are sitting with Illyrio, Jorah Mormont, Viserys and Dany at a table in the estate Khal Drogo owns in Pentos and having a bite to eat: honeyed duck with orange snap peppers. It is the evening before Dany is going to marry the Khal. Whatever 'snap peppers' might be ... we can do the duck alright and come up with something nice with peppers. This receipe could also go to the 'French Cooking' thread, since the most famous honeyed duck is certainly 'canard l'orange'. 2 pcs. duck breast 3 big organic oranges 3 tbs honey (pine, if you can get it) 1 tbs of fresh green pepper corns (Asian foodstuff shops) 1 tbs Ketjap Manis (at amazon) 500 ml duck stock pepper salt (frozen) butter oil cognac Cointreau medium hot, small orange peppers herbs (thyme, oregano ...) pepper salt cream cheese Slice the skin of the duck crosswise. Careful, do not cut into the meat. Halve the oranges and press the juice from 2.5 of them into a bowl. Take half of the green pepper corns and crush a bit, add to the bowl. Add Ketjap Manis, honey, Cointreau, pepper, salt to the bowl and mix everything. Put the duck breast into the bowl and let marinade for a couple hours, turn them around at some point. Heat oven to 180 degrees C. Put oil in a pan, heat and rost the duck breast - skin side first - until golden. Take a casserolle and put in a layer of (scrubbed clean) pebbles (3-4 cm in diameter), place the duck breast on top of them, skin up. Cover the duck with a thin layer of honey. Put the butter in the still-hot pan and roast slightly. Pour the duck-stock into the pan and let simmer for a while. Pour the contents of the pan into the casserolle and place it in the oven. Throw in the rest of the green pepper corns. Roast for about 30-45 minutes. Make sure, there's always enough fluid in the casserolle, but the duck is not floating in it. Clean the peppers. Mix cream cheese with salt, pepper, herbs and stuff it into the peppers. Take the duck out of the casserrolle and put on a plate and back into the oven, to keep warm - add the stuffed peppers to the plate. Pour the fluid out of the casserolle into a pot, pebbles and all - cook for a short time and then let simmer for about 15 minutes. Fish out the pebbles. Add small pieces of frozen butter and let simmer until a spoon, dipped into the sauce, stays covered. Add a small glug of cognac.

- 237 -

Slice the remaining 1/2 orange into small bits and arrange on a platter. Arrange the duck on it (sliced), surround the duck with the stuffed peppers and pour some of the sauce on the platter. Serve with dumplings. A nice addition is a salad of snap-peas, green asparagus and peppers.

- 238 -

Stew Jon: Mutton S tew

A Game Of Thrones - page 186. We are sitting with Jon and Tyrion in the common hall of Castle Black and have just gotten ourselves a bowl of mutton stew. Tyrion is complaning that somebody should tell the cooks that turnip isn't a meat. 750 g mutton - shoulder (if this tastes too strong for you, use lamb) 1 big oinion 2 tbl oil salt white pepper, crushed 750 string beans (green beans) 500 g barley (soaked) - potatoes, if you prefer (I do) 4 big tomatoes 500 ml lamb stock white wine lots and lots of fresh savory Pre-heat your oven to 200 degree C. Cut the meat into cubes of about 1.0 - 1.5 cm. Peel the onion and chop fine. Heat the oil in a casserrolle (or any other pot you have that can be put in the oven later). Put in the meat and rost. Add pepper, salt and the onion. Put the pot into the oven and let simmer for about 45 minutes. Occasionally add bits of wine and lamb stock. Clean the beans and break them into 4 cm pieces. Wash, peal the potatoes and cut them in cubes the same size as the meat. Put the tomatoes into boiling water for a couple of seconds, so you can get the peel off easily. Chop into quarters. Add the beans, the barley/the potatoes to the meat and pour a little wine and the lamb stock over everything. Let simmer for another 30 minutes. Chop the savory finely and add together with the tomatoes to the stew. Another 15 minutes in the oven. Taste. Add salt, pepper, wine. Personally, I throw in some bird-eye chillies in the first stage of this recipe (right before the onion).

- 239 -

Arya: Pumpkin Soup

A Game Of Thrones - page 214: we are sitting in the Small Hall of The Tower Of The Hand. Ned Stark is struggling with the Small Council, which is why we are without him, and the first course is already taken away - pumpkin soup. 2 tablespoons vegetable oil 1 onion, finely chopped 1 tablespoon brown sugar 2 cloves garlic, crushed 1 small pumpkin, skinned and chopped into 1-inch chunks 2 1/4 cups water 1 2/3 cups canned coconut cream 1 tablespoon hot sweet Thai chili sauce 1 tablespoon lemon grass, finely chopped* 1 tablespoon fish sauce freshly ground pepper 1/4 cup fresh cilantro chopped cilantro leaves, for garnish In a large pot, heat oil and gently cook onion with brown sugar and garlic over low heat until softened (8-10 minutes). Add chopped pumpkin, water, coconut cream, chili, lemongrass or rind and fish sauce. Season with freshly ground pepper. Simmer for about 25 minutes until tender. Remove and puree until smooth. Just before serving, adjust seasoning to taste. Mix in chopped coriander. Ladle soup into bowls and garnish with a fresh coriander leaf. *The same amount of grated lemon peel can be substituted. I have copy-pasted this recipe straight out of the web, courtesy of nom-nom.com, the only pumpkin soup I can actually eat. I am not a fan of pumpkin, so I am not going to improvise much on this.

- 240 -

ClaySansa: Salad, Snails and Clay -baked Trout

A Game Of Thrones - page 299: the tourney of The Hand, Kings Landing. Afterwards, anyway. We are spying on Joffrey and Sansa sharing a meal.

Salad:

250 g of fresh, small spinach leaves 50 g of sweetgrass (*) 4 medium big plums 3 tbs of crushed nuts/seeds (**) 100 ml of basic vinaigrette (***)

Snails:

This is difficult. I despise snails, but I have the good luck that a colleague of mine is breeding the animals, so I took 3 to experiment.

First snail: just stuff the shell (with the snail in it) with garlic, honey and herb butter. Roast.

Second snail: boil for a couple of minutes, remove snail from shell and cover it with a mixture of grated peccorino, grated bread crumbs, put back into shell, cover with garlic butter. Roast.

Third snail: see second snail, but cover with a mixture of thyme, oregano, lemon-grass and honey. Put back into shell. Roast.

(*) there's many variants of sweetgrass available, I used Mary's Grass, which is more common with incense sticks than with food, it has a taste that is close to vanilla, but not quite vanilla. You can get it in ecological shops or on the weekly markets where ecological farmers sell their goods. Use sparsely, dried or fresh.

- 241 -

(**) all crushed nuts or seeds (walnuts, soy-seeds, pumpkin-seeds - whatever you like most) should be roasted without the addition of fat or oil. Salt only slightly.

(***) basic vinaigrette: put a bit of coarse sea-salt into a bowl. same for freshly ground black pepper (setchuan is nice). Add white balsamico vinegar. Add white wine - double the amount of vinegar. Add mustard (honeyed or with herbs, whatever you prefer). Mix with a fork until the salt has dissolved. Slowly pour in fine olive oil - toscana cold pressed, extra virgin - while still mixing. When the consistency gets 'thicker', you can decide what to add next. Honey is extremely good - but you decide!

Trout, baked in clay

Since I finished AGOT, I was wondering how to go about that. There's a recipe in German on the web, but it tells of FAIL - well, mostly - here's the link for those of you that read German - I was out of ideas, so I went to a professional potter and asked for advice. Here's what she told me - and it actually worked!! Even in a normal oven! How much better would this be, roasted in an open fire!

2 freshly caught trout, gutted, cleaned and so on enough fresh or preserved grape leaves to cover those trout a mixture of herbs, butter, salt, pepper to stuff the trouts belly 1 kg of a river-clay mixture without any additions - here's what she gave me - the term is 'raku clay' ?

Stuff the belly of the fish with the mixture of butter, herbs, salt and pepper. Cover the fish with grape leaves. Mix the clay with water until you get a smooth, porridge-like texture. Cover the fish with said mixture. Sit them upright in the oven on a tray (use small pebbles in their bellies to enable sitting upright). Bake for 45 minutes - the clay covering should have hardened out!

Serve with bread, salad, snails and cutlery that enables you to crack the clay cover. Careful about that! Go around the top of the fish from head to tail, bypass fins.

ETA: I did 180 degree C in the oven.

- 242 -

Jjh - Sansa: Lemon Cakes

cup butter (125 ml, or 1 stick) 1 cup white sugar (250 ml) 2 eggs Grated rind of 1 lemon cup whole milk* (125 ml) 1 cups all-purpose flour (375 ml) 1 teaspoon baking powder (5 ml) Pinch of salt *You could probably use any kind of milk (except chocolate Preheat oven to 350 F. (175 C) Mix butter and sugar well. Add eggs to the mixture and beat until light and fluffy. Add the lemon rind and mix well. Stir the baking powder and salt into the flour. Add to the butter/sugar/egg mixture, alternately with the milk. Mix well. Put the batter into muffin tins that have been lined with medium-sized cupcake papers. Fill the cups about full. The mixture will be thick; it will not pour nicely. Use 2 soup spoons and glop it in as best you can using one spoon to scoop and the other to scrape. Dont worry that theyre not smooth on top; they will even out as they bake. You will have enough batter for about 16 cakes. Bake for 15-20 minutes. The cakes are done when the edges are golden and a metal skewer or toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean (i.e. no batter clinging to it). Start checking for doneness after about 13 minutes. They will bake faster in a dark pan. After removing from oven, run a knife around the edges of each cake and transfer them to a wire rack to cool. Glaze: While the cakes are baking, squeeze the juice out of the lemon into a glass bowl, add 2 tablespoons of sugar (30 ml), and heat it up in the microwave until the sugar is dissolved. About 45 seconds. Brush this onto the cakes while they are still warm. )

- 243 -

Jon: Roast Lamb Rack With A Crust Of Herbs

A Game Of Thrones - page 445: we are sitting in the common hall of Castle Black. Jon and his mates have been assigned their future jobs and to honour the occasion, Threefinger Hobb has prepared a special meal for the newbies. For the record - I am unsure, whether 'rack of lamb' means the same as 'baron d'agneau', though I tried to compare pictures of the two in google. For the sake of this recipe, I will assume this. Would be honoured though, if you correct me when I am wrong.

4 portions of baron d'agneau, each 300 g 2 tbs olive oil with 2 pressed garlic bulbs mixed in it freshly ground pepper (tellicherry) freshly ground sea salt 1 big twig of fresh rosemary a small bushel of twigs of fresh thyme 150 g of bread-crumbs, finely ground (white bread, roasted) a couple of parsley twigs, finely chopped a couple of chervil twigs, finely chopped another twig of rosemary, finely chopped another twig of thyme, finely chopped 1 tbs mustard 1 tbs of soft butter 1 shallot, finely chopped port 100 ml lamb stock 4 twigs of fresh mint

yellow turnips butter Season lamb with salt and pepper, sear in oil in a pan for about a minute or so. Put on a platter and place the first mentioned complete thyme and rosemary twigs atop the lamb. Bake in the oven at 180 degrees C for about 10 minutes. For the crust, mix bread crumbs, chopped herbs, butter, salt, pepper and mustard. For the sauce, mix port with lamb stock and the shallot. When hot (cooking ever so slightly) put in some of the butter, small slices, slice after slice and let melt. Cut the lamb to pieces, put on the herb coating like this and roast in the oven at 200 degree C. Cook the turnips. When done, mash them with whatchamacallit. Add soft butter and season to taste. Serve with sprig of ming on the lamb, sauce of the turnip.

- 244 -

Tyrion: Oxtail Soup, Summer Greens Salad, Crab Pie, Sqash and Butter Quails
A Clash Of Kings - page 123: Tyrion has just signed up 'the best cook in Kings Landing' no name - and is giving a small feast to Slynt (hi Slynt) in the Tower of The Hand. The new cook delivers, and deftly so. Clear Oxtail Soup: 3-4 tbs olive oil or "Butterschmalz" 1.5 kg ox tail bones 1 kg bones of the Others (nobody ever reads these recipes, so nobody is going to notice ...) erhm. o.k. bones for soup, like calf etc. 2 leeks, cleaned and sliced 2 onions, chopped 4 carrots, sliced a bunch of the other celery - cleaned, chopped 1 parsley root or parsnip, peeled and chopped beef stock 1 tbs ground sweet hungarian paprika dry, red wine salt pepper bay leaves 3 whole cloves 3 juniper berries 1 stalk fresh thyme or 1 tsp. dried thyme leaves 2 birbs eye chillies (optional) a bunch parsley cognac/dry sherry/madeira Start this a day before serving it: Wash bones and dry. Heat oil in pot, occasionally stir, they should be brown(ish). Clean and chop your vegetables. Throw the vegetables in and roast for several minutes. Add the red wine and the beef stock (upcoming steam, cloud - beware) deglaze the pan, scraping up all the browned bits. Add all the herbs/spices and one teaspoon of salt and some ground pepper. Let simmer at minimum heat for 3 - 4 hours or more. Remove the bones to a platter to cool. Pour the broth through a sieve clothed with kitchen paper, trash-bin the vegetables. Remove the meat from the bones and chop into bite sized pieces. Discard the rest of the bones and cartilage. Heat up the soup again. Season to taste using one of the various alcoholic bits I listed. No cream goes into this soup. Neither flour or orther pastry thingies. If the soup has too watery a consistency, you did someting wrong (the cooked bones should provide enough material to give the soup a 'body').

- 245 -

If in serious trouble, consider adding some Nam-Plah. Summer Greens 100 g of fresh, small spinach leaves 100 g of mizuna 100 g of arugula a handful of pecan nuts (roasted without oil, slightly salted) 50 g of peccorino (or -if you insist- parmiggiano reggiano - though personally I think the claim of the superior taste is bullshit) basic vinaigrette - see upthread (alternative: add some other small-leaved salads, that have leaves of a more reddish colour - just for the look of it) The works: wash, dry and mix leaves, crumble some roasted nuts over it, add the vinaigrette, slice the cheese finely and put the slices on top of all. You want croutons? Be my guest. Casually throw on some before you pour the vinaigrette. Crab Pie 1/2 carrot 2 tbs butter 3 spring onion twigs, chopped into 2 cm slices (diagonally) a bunch of fresh dill a bunch of fresh basil 0.5 kg of crab meat (no shells on it) 4 eggs sherry salt pepper (tellicherry) mustard A ready baked pie-shell - you can possibly get it in the bakery. If completely insane, try to make your own ... In a pan, cook butter until slightly brown. Add carrot, stir. Continue until soft. Add spring onion, dill, basil. Remove from heat source. Throw in crab meat and stir. Put the mixture into the pie shell evenly. Stir remaining ingredients into a soupy consistency. Pour over the pie. Heat your oven to 170 degrees C. Bake for some 45 minutes or so - poke it with a sharp knife then - if the knife is clean, the pie is done. Sqash: I trust, everybody knows how to do this? Quails in butter 4 quails lemon pepper (*) 3 bs butter one or more lemon Warm up the butter. Put a fine layer of it onto the quails. Preheat your oven to 220 degrees C. Put the lemon-pepper onto the quails. Roast for about 20 minutes. The birds should be brown!

- 246 -

Some press some lemon-juice over the birds while roasting. This is o.k. Personally, I prefer cognac. (*) make your own: take the peel of some ecologic lemons - DO NOT CUT INTO THE WHITEISH LAYER (otherwise the thing will turn bitter). Put the peel onto a layer of sea salt and let dry for a day or so (do not throw away the salt, it is still useful). Grind the dry lemon peel mixed together with tellicherry pepper corns. Use to season steaks and fowl.

- 247 -

Mulberry Tyrion: Goose Stuffed ... With Mul berry Sauce and ...
A Clash Of Kings - page 265: we are listening in on a conversation between Tyrion and Bronn. Bronn is delivering an invitation of Lady Tanda's to yet another dinner: a hunch of venison and goose stuffed - with mulberry sauce - and ... Lollys of course. I am skipping a roast hunch of venison - everybody can do that ... I also skipped Sallador Shan's stuffed stuffed, roast gull ... ergh. No way to gull. 1 goose - apprx. 5 kg 1 very big onion 1 fine big apple (try yellow Chinese, they are awesome) 6 slices of toasted white bread 250 g of roasted chestnuts 3 twigs of the other celery, see upthread all the innards of the goose a healthy bunch of fresh thyme salt pepper pine honey mulberries sugar armangnac

Rinse the goose (inside and out) with cold, clear water. Salt. Clean all the innards carefully and mix in a food-processor until very fine. Put somewhere cool. Preheat your oven to 220 degrees C. Wash and chop celery into fine slices. Same with apple. Chop toast into small pieces (no more than 1 cm), apply same procedure to chestnuts and the onion. Put all this into a bowl and mix. Add salt, pepper, thyme. Put the mixture inside the goose and sew shut. Brush the outside of the goose sparesly with honey. Some people do not use honey, instead they salt the goose on the outside. Hm. Your choice. Put the goose into the oven and roast for at least an hour. Reduce heat to 80 degrees C. Roast goose for at least another 6-7 hours. You can do this over night, if you have the appropriate devices on your oven. Come the morning, the goose should be done. Put the goose onto a platter and water into the pot the goose has been roasting in. Scrap everything into the water and pour it into a pot. Cook. By this time, the goose on the patter goes back into the oven to be re-heated to 180 degrees C. Put mulberries and sugar into the food processor and mix. Some would now go and sieve the mush to get the seeds out. Personally, I leave it as is and put the mush into the boiling sauce, spoon by spoon. Same with the finely grated innards of the goose you have been putting away earlier. Reduce heat. The sauce should only simmer ever so slightly. Pour in armagnac to taste. Serve with dumplings made of raw potatoes and red cabbage with plums in it.

- 248 -

Bran: A Feast At Winterfell, Part I: Venison Pie

A Clash Of Kings - page 324: We have joined Bran in the great hall in Winterfell where he is receiving all his brother's banner(wo)men on the occasion of a harvest-feast. I shall skip a few things: aurochs roasted with leeks - for the obvious reason: show me an aurochs bit for sale somewhere and I'll do it - until then: dream on . The duck, because we already have one. The goose is above. I am still considering pigeon - wait and see. I'll do the rest, except for the fruit-soup. I am almost as horrible on deserts as I am in baking, so here's where I need help again. Fruit-soup, anybody? Please? Help! 500 g venison steak (use New Zealand deer! It's marvelous) 2 tbs coarse sea salt, with herbs in it, if you can get it 1 tsp black pepper corns - Tasmanian again, this time some 3 cm fresh ginger, peeled venison stock olive oil 1 egg. Ready made pastry dough: if you are good at it, make your own. Put some oil into a cast iron pan. Heat. Sear the meat. Do not (!) salt it before searing. Actually, that goes for all roast meat. Salt when done, not before. The salt is apt to drain water from the medium closest to it, which when cooking - is always the meat. We cannot have that! The juices of the meat stay where they are meant to be - inside the meat! Add some 0.5 l water to the pan, add salt and let boild for a couple of minutes. Fish out the meat, set aside to cool. Chop the meat into squares of less than 1 cm. The finer, the better, but do not mince. Put in a bowl. Grind the sea salt, the pepper corns and the ginger into a fine paste. Add to the bowl. Add some venison stock - of, if you prefer, some of the broth you have left now. Mix. Clad some small porcelain pots with the dough - set some aside to make lids. It is a good idea to cover the inside of those pots with an extremely thin layer of fat (oil), so you will be able to get the pies out easily. Fill the meat into the pots. Cover with a dough-lid. Make sure to poke very small holes into the lid, so steam might evaporate. Preheat oven to 200 degrees C. Break the egg. Separate the whiteish part from the yolk. Use that to fasten the lids to the pots. Beat the yolk and use to glaze the pies. Put in the oven and bake for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 180 degrees C and continue baking for 40 minutes. Delicous hot, but nearly as good cold. You can preserve this, deep-freeezing it. But like with everything else, once thawed again, they are still good, but not excellent.

- 249 -

Bran: A Feast At Winterfell, Part II: Honeyed Mutton Chops

A Clash Of Kings - page 324: We have joined Bran in the great hall in Winterfell where he is receiving all his brother's banner(wo)men on the occasion of a harvest-feast. Still there. 500 g mutton chops 2 tbs fresh rosemary 2 tbs of spiced mustard (try honeyed dijon) 2 tbs of fresh mint leaves 1/2 tbs of freshly ground black pepper (tellicherry) olive oil Mix the herbs and the honey into kinda paste. Put olive oil into a pan and heat. Sear mutton chops for a minute on bot sides. Apply honey-herb mixture to the chops and continue searing. Turn chops and repeat procedure. 20 minutes at the utmost. It should be done by then.

- 250 -

Bran: A Feast At Winterfell, Part III: Roast Pigeon

A Clash Of Kings - page 324: We have joined Bran in the great hall in Winterfell where he is receiving all his brother's banner(wo)men on the occasion of a harvest-feast. Still there. 2 pigeons (don't get wild ones - the bred ones are better watched and usualy healthchecked. While this is not a low-temparature method dish, it still cannot hurt to have healthy pigeons to begin with)

50 g butter 100 g cooked pearl barley a bunch of dill, chopped 1 onion, finely sliced 2 cloves garlic, crushed (take the Chinese one-bulb ones, see upthread) 1 kg small, very strong tomatoes, chopped 3 peppers, sliced 3 birds eye chillies, finely chopped 1 aubergine Slice the aubergine into 1 cm strips. Put coarse sea salt on the strips and all of that onto a kitchen paper. Let rest for an hour or so. The salt draws the moisture from the aubergine (sorry, flodros, but this is necessary), so it will later on not be sucking up any oil or fat. This is what we, eerrghh, I want. Put the animals (cleaned, rinsed in cold water - you know the works) in a casserole. Brown in the oven at 180-200 degrees C until brown. Stuff the birds with the barley, dill, salt, butter, garlic. Fry the onion and garlic until soft and add the tomatoes, peppers. Fry the strips of aubergine gently until browned and add all of the above to the casserole that contains the birds. Simmer for an hour.

- 251 -

Geshtar - Generic Westeros Stew for the Smallfolk

1-2 pounds stew meat, cut into bite-size pieces (chuck for beef, shoulder or "butt" for pork) 2 large carrots, chopped 2 stalks celery, chopped 1 large or 2 medium yellow onions, sliced in rings 2 Yukon gold potatoes, chopped in bite size pieces 2 Tbs olive oil 1 cup all-purpose flour 3 cups beef or chicken stock (beef for beef and chicken for pork) 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 Tbs dried cayenne pepper 1 Tbs dried oregano 1 Tbs dried thyme 1/2 tsp Kosher salt 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper 1/4 cup dry white wine 1/2 tsp fresh thyme, leaves only Optional ingredients: 1 small turnip, chopped in bite size pieces Handful of small button mushrooms, destemmed Mix dried seasonings well in flour until fully incorporated. Dredge meat pieces on flour until well coated. Heat cast iron pot (cast iron is the best for this but a stainless steal pot will work fine) on medium low heat. Add olive oil. Saute onions until translucent. Sautee garlic for no more than a minute, stirring constantly. DO NOT BROWN -- garlic will turn bitter and ruin the stew. Add meat to pot and saute until brown. Pour in wine and scrape up bits from the bottom. Pour in beef or chicken stock. Add remaining ingredients. Lower heat to a simmer and season with 1/2 tsp fresh thyme and salt, pepper, and more cayenne to taste. Cook until potatoes are fork tender. The longer you cook, the thicker your stew will be. If you want a quick, thick stew, mash a few of the potatoes against the sides of the pot to thicken stew. This is best with homemade beef stock, but store bought is fine. I save every beef bone and freeze until I have enough to make stock, about a pound or too. Simply put bones in a stockpot, cut a whole bulb of garlic in half across the middle, break up some carrots, celery stalks, quarter a large onion, maybe quarter up a tomato if you want, drop in some whole peppercorns, fresh thyme branches, then fill the pot almost to the top with water. (I also like to add a few pieces of sliced ginger for a "secret" ingredient.) Bring to a boil and simmer all day, skimming the foam and scum off the top as needed.

- 252 -

Renly's Tourney, Part I: Tiny Fish in Salt Crust

A Clash Of Kings - page 348: Renly's tourney in the vicinity of Highgarden is at an end, Brienne has received her rainbow cloak. Another feast is in the making. Catelyn attends, hoping to talk some sense into Renly, come the morrow. 500 g of fresh and complete 'tiny fish', could be sardines, could be anchovy - I used gilthead - any fish, the flesh of which is very firm and the size is not overly large can be used 1 kg of coarse sea salt - or: as a general rule 2 kg salt per 1 kg fish fresh thyme fresh oregano fresh rosemary freshly ground black pepper 1 eggwhite 100 ml water Preheat your oven to 200 degree C. Chop the herbs finely, grind the pepper. Fill the bellies of the fish with the mixture. Mix salt, eggwhite and water. Put on a baking tray and make some fish-shaped hollows into it - adjust to the size of the fish you are using. Put the fish in and cover with a layer of the salt-mixture. CAUTION: make sure the salt does not touch the meat of the fish, only the skin! This is tricky on the belly - however you do it, the skin has to cover the the hole. Worst case: sew shut. Put the tray in the oven for 30 minutes. Switch off the heat and let the fish 'rest' for another 10 minutes (with the oven open). Serve as is - the salt crust should be opened at table - make sure your cutlery is up to the task. Baguette, Arbor Gold and fresh green salads go with this one.

- 253 -

Renly's Tourney, Part II: Venison stewed in Beer

A Clash Of Kings - page 348: Renly's tourney in the vicinity of Highgarden is at an end, Brienne has received her rainbow cloak. Another feast is in the making. Catelyn attends, hoping to talk some sense into Renly, come the morrow. 1.5 kg venison (shoulder ...) 2 big onions 2 big carrots 2 stalks celery 2 cloves Chinese garlic a bunch of fresh basil a small bunch of fresh parsley

sea salt with herbs freshly ground pepper, tellicherry pimenta cloves bay leaves 0.75 l of vinegar - CAUTION: do not get too sour. Mix aceto balsamico or crema di balsamico with a mild vinegar 0.75 l water 0.5 l dark beer 75 ml olive oil Vegetables: slice carrot and onion, dice garlic and celery, chop herbs finely. Chop the venson in bite-size pieces. Put a little of the oil into a big cast iron pot and saute. Put in the rest of the ingredients (not the meat). After 30 minutes stand it aside to cool. March into the cellar and dig out big earthenware bowl with lid. Put in the venison and cover with the marinade. Put on the lid. This time of year with temperatures around -1 to 5 degrees C I place the bowl on the terrace. Otherwise: use the fridge. The meat marinades for 2 days (in words: two days). After that, pour the content of the bowl into a big cast iron pot (or kettle or something). Bring to boil slowly then reduce heat and let simmer for a couple of hours.

- 254 -

With Arya: Mutton Wi th Mushrooms

A Storm Of Swords - page 305: we are sitting at the table at Acorn Hall - Lady Smallwood is the host. Thoros has made her a gift of several sheep, one of which we are eating. This is a lazy day. I will get nothing done, but what the heck! I am skipping a few dishes (most of them in ACOK): lamprey pie for one - for two reasons: 1.) they are YUK! (ate one when I was a small kid), much more YUK than eel. 2.) endangered species - you can no longer buy them legally. Skipping on roast swan stuffed with oysters and mushrooms. Not going to get caught whilst aiming my crossbow at a swan in a public park. And that recipe is a hoax. I have a hard time imaging bringing the three ingredients to a harmony. O.k. - to work: here's one of my favs. A co-worker of mine originates in Bulgaria and she gave me this recipe (which she also posted somewhere - cooksunited?? I'm going to hunt down the link later).

900g mutton (or lamb) 3 large onions olive oil 1 tbsp flour 900g fresh tomatoes 4 medium potatoes

1 tsp fresh mint a small bunch of parsley (garnish) 225g chanterelle mushrooms 2 large fresh Thai birds-eyes chillies 250ml mutton or strong lamb stock Tomatoes and meat go to bite sized cubes. Onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, chillies, mint and parsley finely chopped. Heat the oil in a pan and use to fry the meat and onions for about 10 minutes, or until well browned. Sprinkle the flour over the top and stir to combine then add the tomatoes (and their juice). Bring the mixture to a simmer, cover and cook gently for 30 minutes before adding the potatoes and mint. Simmer for a further 30 minutes (add stock, as necessary) then add the mushrooms and chillies. Top-up the liquid level with stock, bring to a simmer and cook for a further 30 minutes. Serve, garnished with chopped parsley.

- 255 -

Tyrion: Gammon Steaks

A Storm Of Swords - page 802: the breakfast with the Queen just before Joffrey's wedding. Tyrion is attending with Sansa at his side. We are located in the Queens Ballroom and Joffrey is about to be given his presents.

2 gammon steaks 5 pimentos, finely grounded 1 red thai birds eye chillie, finely chopped 1/2 orange, peeled - press the juice from it 1 tbs honey 2 tbs soy sauce olive oil

Rub the pimento-powder on the steaks. Put the olive oil in a pan and heat. Roast the gammon steaks for a couple of minutes on each side (2-3 min). Reduce heat to a simmer. Add the rest of the ingredients and simmer until the sauce is thickened. Easy, huh?

- 256 -

Tyrion: Something Dornish with Onion, Cheese and Eggs

A Storm Of Swords - page 802: the breakfast with the Queen just before Joffrey's wedding. Tyrion is attending with Sansa at his side. We are located in the Queens Ballroom and Joffrey is about to be given his presents. The description of the dish is so generic - could be anything. So I choose the Pakistani style. 1 spring onion 2 large eggs 1 red birds eye chillie, finely chopped twigs of fresh coriander some grated cheese - cheddar is nice, it melts perfectly. olive oil pepper salt Chop the spring onion and coriander quite finely and beat the eggs together with salt and pepper. Heat the oil in a small frying pan then tip in the onion, coriander and chilli and stir round the pan for a second or two so they soften a little. Pour in the eggs and keep them moving until two thirds have scrambled. Settle the eggs back down on the base of the pan, scatter over the cheese and cook for about a minute until the omelette is just set and the cheese has melted. Serve on roasted and buttered bread.

So. Next up: Joffrey's Wedding Feast (all there is of it) and then I'm done. Time ADWD showed up ...

- 257 -

Tyrion: Pork Tenderloin in Puff Pastry

A Storm Of Swords - page 802: the breakfast with the Queen just before Joffrey's wedding. Tyrion is attending with Sansa at his side. We are located in the Queens Ballroom and Joffrey is about to be given his presents. One more - the last - before the Wedding Feast. This I have straight out of the interwebz, courtesy to Chez Basilic - tested and approved of.

125 gr (about 1/2 cup) onion, finely chopped 1 garlic cloves, finely chopped 60 gr (about 3 cups) loosely packed spinach leaves, washed, drained and coarsely chopped 2 sun dried tomatoes (about 1 tbsp), finely chopped 2 slices prosciutto, finely chopped 2 tbsp olive oil 2 tbsp butter 1 pork tenderloin, about 600 gr ( about 1 1/4 lb) 400 gr (14 oz) ready made puff pastry salt and freshly ground pepper 1 egg beaten with a 1 tbsp of water parchment paper to line baking sheet Defrost puff pastry at room temperature for 2 hours. Dough should be flexible, but still cold when wrapping the pork. Heat 1 tbsp olive oil and 1 tbsp butter in a skillet over high medium heat. Add onion and garlic to the skillet and saut for 2-3 minutes or until onion is translucent. Add the spinach, sun dried tomatoes, prosciutto. Saut until spinach is just wilted. Set mixture aside to cool. Preheat oven 190C (375F). Line baking sheet with parchment paper. Butterfly pork tenderloin length ways without cutting straight through. Open out and beat flat with a mallet, taking care not to tear the flesh. Season with salt and pepper. Fill the center of the flattened pork with the spinach-prosciutto filling. Close pork tenderloin pressing it down gently and removing any filling excess. Secure it down with toothpicks or tie it with kitchen strings. Heat remaining 1 tbsp olive olive and 1 tbsp butter in saucepan over medium high heat and gently brown pork tenderloin on all sides for 6-8 minutes, taking care that filling does not squirt off the center. Remove toothpick or kitchen string and set aside until cool enough to be wrapped in the puff pastry. Roll out the puff pastry into a rectangle big enough to enclose the pork. Place pork tenderloin in the center of the pastry and wrap it snugly around the pork. Brush edges with the egg wash and pinch them together. Make sure that pastry seam is on the underside. Use any excess pastry and use for decoration purposes, if you like. Cut 2-3 slits on the top to let the steam escape. Bake it for about 30 minutes or until puff pastry is nicely brown. Let it rest for about 10 minutes before slicing it. Serve with buttered vegetables.

- 258 -

Mushrooms Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course I: Creamy Soup of M ushrooms and Buttered Snails
A Storm Of Swords - page 818. This is straight out of the interwebz, untested (no more snails for me), courtesy of food.com. The recipe sounds good and both, the ingredients and the preparation read as if that could be good. I'll do a straight copy/paste.

# # # # # # # # # # # #

2 1/2 cups mushrooms, chopped 1/2 cup onion, chopped 4 cups chicken stock 6 tablespoons butter 1/4 cup flour 1 cup milk 1 cup light cream 1 (6 ounce) can escargot, drained and chopped 2 garlic cloves, crushed 1/4 cup chopped parsley 2 green onions, chopped 1/4 cup white wine (optional)

1.) Combine mushrooms, onion, chicken stock and simmer 20 minutes. 2.) In another pot, melt 4 Tbs butter at medium heat, stir in flour. 3.) Add milk and cream, cook stirring constantly until thickened and smooth. 4.) Add salt and pepper to taste. 5.) Stir mushroom-chicken stock mixture into sauce. 6.) Saute escargot, garlic, parsley and green onion in remaining butter (1-2 minutes only). 7.) Add to soup with wine

- 259 -

Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course II: Pastry Coffin with Pork, Egg and Pine Nuts
A Storm Of Swords - page 819. 2 packages of frozen puff pastry dough freshly ground parmesan 1 kg leaf beet (if you can get, buy the one with red stalks for optics) 1 tbs dried marjory 200 g smoked pork 400 g buffalo-ricotta 7 eggs Let the puff pastry thaw and roll it. Wash the leaf beet and cook for a very short time in salted water. Pour out the water and press the leaves and dry them. Chop extremely fine. Use a few of the read stalks and repeat procedure (for optics only). Put leaves and stalks and half of your parmesan into a bowl. Add marjory, pepper, ricotta, three of your eggs and finely chopped pork. Preheat oven to 200 degrees C. Prepare a spring form with a little fat. Lay in the dough - you should make 7 fine layers but make sure you leave enough to form a lid. On top of each of the 7 layers paste a small amount of olive oil. Put in your veg-ricotta mix and smoothe. Poke 4 holes into the mixture - evenly spaced. Pour an egg into each hole. On top of that goes a generous layer of parmesan. Another 7 fine layers of dough make the lid. Use a fork or something to poke small holes into the lid (so that steam may evaporate - you can arrage them into some kind of design). Some more oil to be brushed over the top. Into the oven with the thingy for about one hour. Should be nicely golden when you take it out. The vegetarians skip the pork. Yeah, I omitted the pine nuts - I find them jarring in this context. You want to stick to ASoIaF literally, well: throw some into the veg-mixture ...

- 260 -

Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course III: Intermezzo

A Storm Of Swords - page 820. Sweetcorn Fritters Thai sweet chilli sauce, for dipping 1 egg, beaten 500 g potatoes, peeled and cubed 60 ml cream 45 g flour 2 cups kernesl of sweetcorn 1 egg white Sea salt freshly ground black pepper a bunch of fresh coriander leaves, 3 tbs olive oil Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add potatoes and cook until soft but not mushy, 6-8 minutes. Drain well, place in a bowl and allow to cool slightly. Add egg and cream and mix well. Stir in flour, corn and coriander. Put egg white into a bowl and beat until soft peaks from. Gently mix egg white into corn mixture and season with salt and pepper. In a heavy-bottomed wok, warm oil over medium heat. For each fritter, spoon 2 tablespoons corn mixture into hot wok. Cook fritters until golden, 2-3 minutes per side. Remove from pan and drain on paper towels. Oatbread with Dates and Butter 180g coarse oatmeal 150g plain flour 160g wholemeal flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda 1 teaspoon brown sugar (cane??) 140g coarsely chopped dates 55g coarsely chopped walnuts 430ml buttermilk butter, to serve Preheat oven to 190C . Grease a baking tray. Combine oats, flours, baking powder, bicarbonate of soda, sugar, dates, walnuts and 1 teaspoon salt in a large bowl. Stir in buttermilk until mixture forms a ball. Turn out onto a floured surface and knead into a 28cm loaf. Using a small knife, make five 1cm-deep slashes across top of loaf. Place on prepared tray. Bake for 1 hour.

Roast Wild Boar Ribs 1.2 kg boar ribs 1 medium onion 2 bulbs of that Chinese garlic some twigs of fresh rosemary freshly ground Tasmanian pepper

- 261 -

freshly ground sea salt olive oil Clean up the boar ribs and dry in a paper towel. Prepare a marinade out of the rest of the ingrediets, finely chopped. Put the boar into the marinade and give it a break a GRRM break for for 2 working days (=24 hours) should do the trick. Take the ribs out of the marinade and fire up your BBQ. Roast!!!

- 262 -

The Joffrey: Th e Wedding Feast, Course IV: Almond Crusted Trout

A Storm Of Swords - page 820. 2 tbs melted butter 2 tbs melted butter and mixed with 2-3 tbs lemony lemony lemon juice for drizzling 2 rainbow trout filets, rinsed and dried 3 tbs flour 4 tbs roasted bread crumbs 1 tsp paprika or fish seasoning 1 large egg beaten juice of half organic lemon sliced almonds fresh (!) minced Italian parsley salt and pepper to taste Preheat the oven to 200 degrees C. Rub 2 tbs of the melted butter onto the bottom of a shallow baking tray. Combine 2 tbs melted butter and 2 tbs lemon juice for drizzling and set aside. Place the flour, bread crumbs, salt, pepper and paprika in a shallow dish. In a separate dish, mix the egg and lemon juice from 1/2 lemon In a third dish, place the parsley and almonds. Dredge the fish in the flour, then in the egg mixture draining off any excess, then in the almond mixture. Place the fish in the shallow baking dish tray. Pat down any excess almonds and bake for about 12 minutes. This can vary. Depends on the fish, it's size (in all dimensions). Place the tray in a distance of about 10 cm under the broiler until the almonds turn a light, golden brown. Take care - not too brown or the almonds will go bitter! Drizzle butter-lemon juice mix over the fish.

- 263 -

Joffrey: The Wedding Feast, Course V: Roast Heron

A Storm Of Swords - page 820. e heyroun schal be diyht as is e swan and it come quyk to kechen. e sauce schal be mad of hym as a chaudon of gynger & of galyngale, & at it be coloured with e blood or with brende crustes at arn tosted. Which means, we have to look here: For to dihyte a swan. Tak & vndo hym & wasch hym, & do on a spite & enarme hym fayre & roste hym wel; & dysmembre hym on e beste manere & mak a fayre chyne, & e sauce erto schal be mad in is manere, & it is clept: Chaudon. Tak e issu of e swan & wasch it wel, & scoure e guttes wel with salt, & seth e issu al togedere til it be ynow, & an tak it vp and wasch it wel & hew it smal, & tak bred & poudere of gyngere & of galyngale & grynde togedere & tempere it with e broth, & coloure it with e blood. And when it is ysothe & ygrounde & streyned, salte it, & boyle it wel togydere in a postnet & sesen it with a litel vynegre. All clear? copyright: Hieatt, Constance B. and Sharon Butler. Curye on Inglish: English Culinary Manuscripts of the Fourteenth-Century (Including the Forme of Cury). New York: for The Early English Text Society by the Oxford University Press, 1985.

- 264 -