“Because I am king and what I say is law! And as the Pink-Eyed Raven, what I say is always correct. So if you would rather obey me because it is the law or because I am right, you may decide for yourself. But one thing is certain, you will obey me!” Bland sat on the corner of his bed, yelling at a wind-up toy that had stopped working. Giving up, he threw the toy against the wall, shattering it into a still fully intact toy with a small dent on it. Beerion, hearing the commotion, entered swiftly.
“Your Grace, is everything alright?”
“Nevermind all that, Dwarf-Man McShortyButt!” Since becoming king, Bland had become very fond of hurling insults at all those around him. Though most were not as clever as the dagger he had just unleashed on Beerion, they all had to do with people having short butts for the most part. “How is work proceeding on Executive Order 66?” Bland rubbed his hands together maniacally and began to grin.
“Well… it proceeds. But, Your Grace—”
“I’m sorry, Beerion. Do my ears mistake me, or were you just about to question my authority? Do you know what happened to the last person who questioned my authority?”
Beerion looked with horror at the discarded wind-up toy, slightly dented, on the floor.
Just then, the commander of the Kingsguard burst into the room. “Your Grace, we got another one.” He dropped a bloody wheelchair on the ground in front of him.
“Excellent. Bring it down to the melting room.”
“The, um, the furnace room?”
“The MELTING room!”
“Well, it’s just nobody has ever called it that before. Generally it’s not used for melting, in fact. Only once you ordered us to go out into the country and murder every teenage boy in a wheelchair we could find, and then melt their chairs down into a great throne, did we melt anything down there, in all honesty.” The commander had tried Bland’s patience.
“Would you like to be melted along with the chair?”
“No, Your Grace. Right away.” The commander scurried downstairs to the melting room.
“What is it that you have to say, Beerion?” Bland asked, reading Beerion’s concerned face.
“Your Grace… Surely you see the parallels between what you are doing and what the horrid kings and queens before you did. You have gone mad with power. These boys in their wheelchairs… they pose no threat to you.”
“Oh, and I suppose I posed no threat to Cervix? To Dennys? I am king of Westopolis! A broken child from the North, leading the realm. Quite successfully, I might add.”
“Why are you melting down the chairs into a new throne, though? Swords of the conquered was one thing, but defenseless boys’ wheelchairs? What sort of message does that send?” Beerion tried to connect with Bland’s empathetic nature.
“Do you think you are going to connect to some sort of empathetic nature inside me?” Bland snickered. “It sends the message that I am king, and the only thing that will ever stop me from being king is NOTHING. I will live to be thousands of years old as the Pink-Eyed Raven. And while I live I will never cede my rule. Who knows, I may live… forever!” Lightning and thunder started cracking and booming outside. “I will never die! And the Seven Kingdoms will tremble at the sound of my name: Bland the Bringer of Death! Mwahahaha! Mwahahaha!”
Gods, fucking shit, thought Beerion, severely in need of a drink. I guess this is it. This was a horrible mistake. Bland? As king? That doesn’t even make sense. What was I thinking? What a truly disappointing, nonsensical, unsatisfactory way for all of this to end.
LeBronn
Did somebody say, ‘Damn, that guy is badass’?!” LeBronn burst through the door of King Bland’s newly constructed throne room, wielding a javelin in one hand and a matte-black machete in the other.
“Yes, my lord. King Bland has ordered me to repeat that to him for several hours now,” spoke a lowly peasant boy. The boy was fanning Bland with a palm branch and complimenting him while he sat in his new wheelchair throne, admiring his crown.
“I’ve been expecting you, LeBronn. Oh, Beerion, it seems your precious sellsword friend has finally come to dethrone me. I can’t imagine this is any of your doing, is it?” Bland smirked.
“LeBronn, what are you doing?!” stammered Beerion. He suddenly stopped polishing King Bland’s feet. “Your Grace, I assure you I had no idea he was coming.”
“Why, then, did I discover this raven you sent to LeBronn’s homestead telling him to return to the Strip immediately and kill the ‘tyrant king who has gone mad with power’?”
“Well, I—surely no such raven existed…”
“Save me your ignorant attempts to save yourself. Once I deal with this pathetic ‘threat,’ I will cut your throat myself. Bring it on, LeBronn. You are no match for my Pink-Eyed Raven laser eyes!”
LeBronn hurled his javelin straight through Bland’s heart. “Ah, that’s right… I don’t have laser eyes. But I did see that coming.” Bland keeled over dead.
“LeBronn, what were you thinking? That was far too close for comfort. I told you to come in the middle of night and do the deed while he was asleep!” Beerion wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Whatever, sweet cheeks. I’m the author’s favorite character. I can do whatever I want.” Hey there, readers, George here. LeBronn didn’t actually say this, but it would be so cool if he did, right? God, I fucking love that guy.
LeBronn tossed Bland into a heap on the floor and sat on the throne. “This I could get used to.”
“Well, of course you will not become king!” Beerion was shocked. “I promised you a castle filled with gold and whores if you could slay Bland.”
“No one has a grander castle, more gold, or more beautiful whores than the king, old friend.” LeBronn placed the crown on his head.
“But this is entirely unorthodox! The people will never accept you as their king. It just could never work. Would you please stop fanning, boy!”
“No, no. Please continue. It feels delightful.”
Beerion stared at LeBronn with disgust for a moment and then stormed out of the room. LeBronn rolled his eyes as Beerion slammed the door.
“Very well. Fan Boy, you will be appointed my Best Man. And for my first act as king, I order you to round up all the women to the west and bring them to this room. And don’t get comfortable because my second act is going to be to order you to round up all the women to the east.”
“That doesn’t sound good at all,” Ham said worriedly, putting down his book.
“Exactly,” cried Beerion. “That is what I am trying to tell you. LeBronn cannot be king. I just needed him to help remove Bland so that we could install a proper, just ruler for the realm! Now hurry. I have no doubt LeBronn will send men looking for us soon. There must be something in all of these books that can help us! There must be a prophecy or some other more clever plot device of some sort that will name the rightful king. Who should we turn to for leadership?!” Beerion anxiously peeked under the door of the library, watching for torchlight coming down the hallway.
“Didn’t you say Bland was the true, proper, just leader for the realm at that meeting a few weeks ago?” Ham asked.
“Ham! I was drunk when I said that!”
“But you’re drunk now!”
“And thank the Gods for that. But we have no time for this! Surely, somewhere… one of these books.” Beerion flipped through all the books on Ham’s desk. “No, no, Ham! All of these are cookbooks.”
“Actually most of them are just pictures of food, but—”
“Ham this is important. Think.”
“Well, I suppose…” Ham drifted off.
“What?! What is it?”
“There is the fan theory message board scroll. But, no. We mustn’t.”
“Excellent. We must. What is that?” Beerion grabbed Ham by the shin and pleaded for a response.
“There is a scroll, you see. A scroll that ranks the names of everyone born of noble blood in Westopolis by their likelihood of becoming king. A scroll that ma
gically updates at about 9 p.m. every Sunday. It has always been dismissed as nothing more than hogwash, but I suppose…”
“Ham, this is perfect. Who is at the top of the list?!”
“Well, it’s Jon of course. It has always been Jon Dough.”
“Ham, get me a raven. No, to send a message, not to eat. Gods, how long has that been in your pocket, man?”
Jon
Where is he?!” shouted Jon, hurtling up the stairs toward the Chair Room. Beerion was sitting on his shoulder, hanging onto a strand of Jon’s hair for dear life.
“In the Chair Room. I already told you. That is why we are on our way there now.”
“Good. And where is the Chair Room?!” Jon screamed as he kicked down the door to the Chair Room.
“Looks like you found it, sweet cheeks. Does that catchphrase still work?” LeBronn asked his Best Man.
“Yes, Your Grace. Even better the second time,” the boy said, continuing to fan LeBronn.
“You killed my brother, you monster. And now you dare to sit on his throne while it is still wet from his accidents. Prepare to die.” Jon drew his sword, and Beerion hopped off his shoulders.
“Is that what this is? I figured it was some sort of king thing to sit on a waterbed-chair hybrid. Either way, your brother went mad with power the day he got it. If you ask me, I’m twice the king he ever could have been. Even without that whole omnipotence schtick he had going for him.” LeBronn causally stood up and prepared his own sword. Jon smiled and put his sword to the ground. “Giving up that easy, Jon?”
Jon put his fingers to his lips and let out an ear-piercing whistle. Toast exploded through the open door and lunged at LeBronn. Before LeBronn could get in a swing at the wolf, Toast ripped his neck off. LeBronn, the best character in the book, was tragically dead. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a Toasty, Toasty boy?” Jon pet Toast’s stomach.
Ham came waddling up the stairs into the throne room. “Jon! It is so good to see you.”
“Hello, Ham.” Jon grew somber looking at the decaying heap of Bland’s body on the ground.
“Sorry, Jon. I’ve been meaning to move that. It’s just every time I make it to the top of these stairs, I am so exhausted—anyway. According to this scroll that Beerion and I uncovered… you are to be king! King of Westopolis, the Sandals, and the Thirsty Men, all of that!”
Just then, Dog Shit rushed into the room and plunged his spear clean through Jon Dough’s heart.
“Dog Shit, what have you done?!” cried Ham.
“Jon Dough had to pay for his crimes against Dennys Grandslam. I could not stand by and watch him get away with the murder of two sworn leaders!” Dog Shit bowed honorably.
“But LeBronn was by no means a sworn leader!” Beerion pleaded.
“Maybe so. But I, Dog Shit, commander of the Funsullied, haver of no butt, will be. I claim my right to the throne.”
“Well, now… actually that may not be so.” Ham unfurled the scroll. “In the case of Jon’s death, the king is—ha!”
“Who?! Who is this alleged king?!” Dog Shit swore furiously.
“Well, in fact it is—”
Toast
Awww. Now look at him!” Ham clapped giddily, smiling from ear to ear.
“All we have done is look at him for the past forty-five minutes! Thirty minutes of which he was licking himself, and now he’s just walking in stupid circles!” Dog Shit spat at Ham.
“Because he’s trying to find a good spot to lay down, Dog Shit—it’s cuuute.” Ham batted his eyelashes playfully, fawning over Toast. “Also, what was that you just said? ‘Minutes’? What in the seven hells is that? We measure time in lengths of the late King Robot Boaratheon’s feet. What are you on about?”
“I don’t know, I was just trying something out…”
“Well, it’ll never stick.”
Stick! The stick Toast was happily gnawing on snapped. He lazily rolled over and settled in to lick himself once again.
“A dog cannot be the king. This, as well as several times before this, is where I draw the line.”
Ham cocked a confident smirk. “Well, I’m sorry Dog Shit, but it’s right here in the scroll, and seeing as you can’t do anything to change that, I suggest you start showing a little more respect toward Toasty here.”
Eddddd
Really?” shouted Beerion. “A dog? You killed a dog?” Ham was weeping in the corner.
“Now am I king?” asked Dog Shit, holding Toast’s bloody corpse.
“Oh boy,” said Ham, consulting the scroll. “Technically Eddddd is next in line as interim king.”
Dog Shit threw the animal corpse on the ground in frustration.
“Alright!” shouted Eddddd, creeping in from the edge of the room where he’d been watching. “You mean Jon really had me in there as his official first best human friend?”
“This isn’t a ranking of friends,” said Ham. “It’s a lineage of people most likely to end up as king. According to the people, you were less fit to rule than a dog.”
Eddddd laughed. “Whatever, Ham, or perhaps I should say… Whatever, Not-Jon’s-best-human-friend.”
“You take that back!” said Ham.
“King’s don’t do take-backs, and I’m king!” said Eddddd, placing the crown on his head.
“Lads,” said Whoremund, chewing on Toast’s corpse from the side of the room. “Why are we fighting about this? The answer is obvious. I was Jon’s best human friend!”
“I’m the king, and what I say goes,” retorted Eddddd. “I officially decree that I was Jon Dough’s best human friend! And anyone who says otherwise will be hanged. Understood?”
Ham and Whoremund nodded in silence.
Oh, I could get used to this, thought Eddddd, looking over his kingdom as Dog Shit promptly cut his head off.
Whoremund
I’ll be taking this,” said Dog Shit, placing the crown on his head.
“This cannot keep happening! The saga needs to end!” shouted Ham.
“Be that as it may, surely I am the king now. Who else could possibly challenge my leadership potential?”
“Agh, about that,” squeaked Ham, pointing at Whoremund and mouthing the words “next in line.”
“A Mildling? As king?” asked Dog Shit.
“You got a problem with that?” said Whoremund, yanking the crown away from Dog Shit and putting it on his own head. Wait, he’s right. Who on Wearth (which, by the way, is what Earth is called in this universe—sorry, I forgot to write that in earlier, damn) had a progressive-enough mind to think that I would be king, given how poorly Mildlings have been treated? thought Whoremund.
“I’m just reading what’s here on the scroll, folks. Also, Whoremund, he’s definitely going to try to kill you right now.”
Dog Shit unsheathed his sword and began making his way toward Whoremund. Whoremund quickly responded to what Ham had said. It’s on the scroll, he thought. It’s canon. I, a Mildling, am king. Whoremund began to launch into an impassioned speech about how this was a historic day for Mildling rights, one sentence into which his throat was cut by Dog Shit.
Ham
Now?” asked Dog Shit.
Ham looked down at the scroll and saw his own name. He tucked it under his arm and took off sprinting as fast as he could waddle.
“Ham?!” shouted Dog Shit, chasing after him. “Get back here, book boy!”
Ham bounded across the Strip to the only place he felt safe—the library. Once inside, he locked the metal doors behind him just in time to stop Dog Shit.
Phew, thought Ham. That was a close one. Now, I’ll just live inside this library forever so Dog Shit can’t kill me. It won’t be so bad. I’ll read books all day. I’ll get food… somehow.
Dog Shit cut through the metal doors with his knife with ease. He cut out a large hole for himself and walked in.
“Book boy! Are you king?”
“Uhhhhh,” panicked Ham, looking around. “No!” he shouted, spotting Ser Boats McSeaman i
n the children’s section of the library. “Ser Boats is! It’s Ser Boats and he’s my friend and that’s why I didn’t want to tell you!”
Boats
Hey, what’s going on over there?” said Ser Boats McSeaman, upset by the commotion at the front of the library. “I’m trying to learn to read over here, and I’m almost done with the Z words!”
“You’re the king now!” shouted Ham.
“Huh?” said Boats, getting speared in the heart by Dog Shit. With his last breath, Boats looked at his “King Arthur Learn-to-Read and Stickers” book and croaked out, “Zee… zee… zebra.” But he pronounced it oh so wrong.
Dog Shit
It had been one week since all the killing. Dog Shit stood at his throne, wearing his new crown, commanding throngs of Funsullied.
“We will cut the butts off every infidel!”
The audience went wild with cheers as Ham hid in the corner. Suddenly, Dog Shit stopped speaking because the tip of a long knife was protruding from his chest. It had been stuck into him by Malarya Snark.
“Attack!” she shouted. Out came every single lord and lady in all of Westopolis, called upon by Ham via emergency raven messages to retake the crown.
What followed was the bloodiest battle in the history of the Strip. It had now been zero weeks since the most recent killing. Hundreds of thousands died, and the bloodshed attracted Dragun back to the Strip. It was his first time returning since Dennys’s death, and the memory of her murder was fresh in his mind. He unleashed a devastating rain of fire, incinerating nearly all the remaining survivors and reducing the city to a pile of rubble once more.
Lame of Thrones Page 21
