Writing Game of Thrones fanfiction to antagonise George R. R.

Martin, who apparently is dead against people writing about his stuff. I'm sure he'll read it and shake his fist at the screen, vomiting adverbs tendriciously. "Gosh howdy gee," thought Tyrion ingnamiously. "Being the smartest man in all the sixteen kingdoms sure does not make up for being two feet tall and ugly as a smacked arse." He saw some men and spent a good ten minutes examining their clothes.They were red and gold and yellow and crimson and studded with sapphires, and their shoes were all size tens made of patent leather with a carefully constructed sole that Tyrion realised with a start was of his own devising: he came up with in ten years ago one morning with his magnificent brain, and sold it to a wealthy merchant to buy more lovely capes. ________

"I hope you're pregnant my lady," gimped Joffrey coquettishly, "so that when I punch you enough a dead baby comes out and I can EAT it." Sansa pretended she was flying, out of the castle, away with magical fairies who had dresses made of gold and silver with blades of emerald cerulean down the sides that offset their golden orange hairs. "I'm fucking your dad's severed HEAD," said Joffrey. "WHY won't you LIKE ME?" ________

"Oh everyone I love is dead," wept Catelyn into her handkerchief, which was made of cloth-of-gold and dyed red with dragonblood ash and had a six-pointed star embroidered in the centre, each point curving off into the shape of a tiny but perfectly-rendered bee.

A raven arrived, with a message. She took it out and read it, shouting "DARK WINGS DARK WORDS" really loudly. "Oh, another one of my children has been raped, murdered, mutilated and eaten by Jamie Lannister. It must be Tuesday." _________

"DARK WINGGGSSSSS DARK WORDSSSSS" shrieked Catelyn Stark for the fiftieth time that day from atop the parapet. Some of the villagers who weren't in the middle of being raped looked up with some distress. "DAAAAAAARK WINGGGGGGGGGSSSSS DAAAAAAAARK WORDDDDSSSSSS" she squealed for the fiftieth time that day even though the last forty-nine ravens had been about an ingenious way of serving soup in hollowed-out bread. _______

"Honeyed wings, honeyed words," thought Tyrion lannister as he tore a pinion off of the glazed poached roasted duckling stuffed with rats, and listened ever closer to Joffrey's speech. "I want to be the best king," said Joffrey, who was wearing an outfit so beautiful that his subjects could scarce look at him. It had diamonds on it, and sapphires and carrots and emeralds and peas and celery and rubies and zircon and alexandrite and quartz and heck y'all, some of them weren't even precious delicately cut gemstones at all. "So do as I say and this nazi dictatorship will go well for everyone." Lady Melisandre stood beside him. She was wearing a red gown and had a red ruby on the choker round her throat that looked like it might be made of blood and probably was, knowing her. She smiled

enigmatically and Tyrion could not help but notice she looked radiant like two glowing suns stuffed into a bodice. He was instantly hard and came after two quick strokes, right into his trencher. "Maybe I should hire and fall in love with another prostitute," he thought, misery surging from his deflating cock. "That always goes down REALLY WELL, esp. with father."