Game of Meta FanFiction: A Derp of Drunkards
Welp. It’s official. Game of Thrones has now surpassed A Song of Ice and Fire in the telling of Westeros.
Which means, I can no longer lord my knowledge over the non-readers, or ‘peasants’ as I call them.
No longer will I know what’s going to happen before everybody else.
But, also, no longer can I read ahead to see what happens next.
I have to wait.
I HAVE TO WAIT LIKE A PEASANT!
Well, I won’t stand for it.
But I also won’t read Game of Thrones Fan Fiction because I AM LEGITIMATELY AFRAID. Some of the fandom are wily, what if they guess what will ACTUALLY happen next and I don’t get to be surprised the way I was with the books? What if they come up with a plot line I like better than what actually happens and I get bitter? What if I start reading what I think is a perfectly normal fic and then realize too late that it’s a romance between Ramsay Snow and Theon Greyjoy’s severed dangly bits?
Too many variables.
There’s clearly only ONE solution.
I’ll write my own fanfiction, so outlandish it could never end up in the series and so awful, no one would even pitch it to the writers, but so entertaining that it will keep me from losing what little sanity I have as I wait for new episodes of Game of Thrones, Sherlock, Broadchurch, Doctor Who….basically anything BBC has done, ever.
I present to you:
A Derp Of Drunkards
He drank his way through the preceding five books.
It seemed like the only reasonable course of action and evidently his two companions shared his vision, for all three of them had been drunk since Chapter 1 of the first book. They had departed Somewhere of the Something Something. Forgettable Minor Character was not sure what the Somewhere had been called as he had consumed several casks of sour red wine at the time and wasn’t an important enough character to merit having things to explained to him if he missed them the first go round.
There were only three things of which Forgettable Minor Character, or Ralph- as his companions called him, knew for certain: 1) He was probably going to die in these books 2) People were fighting over power that, in his minor opinion, seemed rather inconsequential in the grand scheme of the plot and 3) He was not drunk enough if he was able to think about these things.
He reached for another cask of a beverage the Inn Keep in the last chapter had felt warranted a seventeen page description only to find no full casks remained. This was a problem. Sobriety was dangerous. Being intoxicated was dangerous too, but taking a shit was dangerous in Westeros. Tywin Lannister was proof of that.
“We’re out, lads.” He barked, gaining the attention of his two companions.
“Whaddya mean, we’re out? We pillaged a tavern not five paragraphs ago!” bemoaned Trout. He was a waif of a man, pop-eyed and with a fleshy slash of mouth, his flesh had a dead white colouring to it that made no real biological sense and he perpetually smelled of fish due to once being described, in passing. as a fishmonger several books ago.
“I mean, we are out of full casks. Sobriety is coming.” muttered Ralph, darkly.
“Sobriety’s dangerous.” Trout agreed, dipping his head in agreement.
“Taking a shit is dangerous,” rejoined Ralph
“To Tywin Lannister!” toasted Purple Beetle, taking a long swig of his own cask.
He was a lord of no real importance and his house had been given their banners as an afterthought. House Beetle was not remotely famed or noticed by the other houses, which was fortuitous in that it meant most of them lived past page 14 and few, if any, of the female characters were brutally savaged for plot reasons. It was inconvenient, however, in that it meant he had an absolutely stupid name and he was forced to keep up with what was happening in the plot, on the off chance he one day became important.
They’d all had a close call some time back, when their small part of inebriants almost crossed paths with the youngest of the Stark girls on her way to her story arch, but they avoided her handily enough by deftly running away the moment they saw her. It was a tactic that had saved their lives countless times.
“Shall we go looking for another tavern?” Ralph asked Purple Beetle, or PB, as they called him.
“I’m so bloody bored of pillaging taverns for ale and women,” sighed PB
“Don’t really need the women,” pointed out Trout “Could just get the ale or grog or wine or what have you.”
“You’re forgetting his character description,” pointed out Ralph “He’s got this whole thing about making women uncomfortable with a slightly ominous tone that makes you think he’s some kind of brute, but never actually plays out because of his tragic backstory.”
“Oh yeah,” Trout wrinkled his nose “Seems unnecessary, all that fuss. You ain’t even in any notable battles or plot points.”
“Thank the gods for that,” PB smirked.
“Which gods?” asked Trout.
“DON’T. Do not start that blasted conversation again. I’m not near drunk enough for it.”
“I’s just sayin’,” said Trout, shrugging. “Seems to me that the Old Gods is real, yeah? BUT, that fiery one seems to have somefin to him too. An’ the god wif all the faces. So, my question is: Is it that they’re all real? Are only some of ’em real? If so, why pick an’ choose? Seems unnecessarily complicated.”
“You’re unnecessarily complicated,” chuckled PB.
“Oh, very mature, m’lord. Ain’t my fault you is too tortured by your incomplete backstory to be anyfin more den cannon fodder when the time comes.”
“Are you supposed to be a cockney type character or a chav?” mocked PB, looking down his regal nose at Trout.
“I hate both of you,” announced Ralph “Can’t we just go find a tavern, pillage it, get drunk, and continue surviving this blasted series?”
“What’s the point?” whined PB “It’s so boring? We pillage, we eat, there’s several lengthy descriptions of our battle and food along the way, we get drunk, we survive and we repeat it all.”
“Well what the hell else are we supposed to do?” sighed Ralph.
“I don’t know! ANYTHING. If we’re going to live in a limbo, we might as well join the main plot and be done with it.”
“You say that as though the plot is less full of limbo than our little side-adventure is. There’s just as much ambiguity there as there is here, only difference is, we’re far more likely to die there.”
“Well at least it would be something different for a change!” PB muttered, darkly.
“Trout? You’ve been quiet. What do you think?” Ralph asked, turning to where Trout had been standing.
“Trout?” Ralph called, casting his eyes around camp.
“He was just here…”PB’s brow furrowed as he stood and joined Ralph in trying to locate their trusted companion and drinking buddy.
“I don’t like this,” said Ralph “This sort of moment never leads anywhere good.”
PB nodded and went to reply when suddenly his eyes gaped wide. The blade of his own long-sword sprouted from his throat with a wet squelch. He gurgled loudly, jerked like a fish on a hook, then slowly fell to his knees, revealing Trout standing behind him in a dramatic fashion, before finally collapsing.
Trout dusted off his hands as Ralph glowered at him.
“Now why did you have to go and do a fool thing like that?” he chastised.
Trout shrugged and moved to load his things onto PB’s horse.
“I was bored of his whining an’ he called me a chav. S’rude.”
“You are a bit of a chav, though.” Remarked Ralph, looting the corpse.
“Doesn’t matter. S’rude. Besides, we was way behind quota. If we kept wastin’ our time wif him, the books would get overpopulated.”
Trout finished loading his things and prepared to butcher their newly spare horse for meat in a scene that would both seem entirely practical and upsetting to the reader.
Ralph conceded the point with a sigh.
“True. It’s dirty work, but someone’s got to do it.”
He poured half of what was left from PB’s cask into his own empty one and passed the other to Trout.
“Valar Morghulis,” he toasted
“Valar Morghulis,” smiled Trout, lifting his own cask in what would later turn out to be a slightly sinister salute….
Or would it?
Wait ten years to find out.