Friday, August 04, 2006

Goodkind meets George R R Martin

'The black-clad deserter placed his head on the block unrepentantly. Richard Stark drew his sword and looked again at the name, Ice, embossed on its hilt in an ancient font.

Bringer of Death.

"This man has failed his country. He has failed his people. His refusal to fight was a sign of his lack of moral clarity - if you're not with us, you're against us!"

The rent-a-crowd roared their approval, then frowned as it became apparent that Richard was going to keep talking.

"Freedom is life. Life is freedom. Anyone who refuses to submit to my free rule is an enemy of life, and deserves Death!"

"Two-four-six-eight, who do we app-re-ci-ate? RICH-ARD!" cried the crowd, the ancient mantra of the Old Religion.

With one blow, he striked the head off the old man. The blood flew up in a beautiful red arc, crimson against the snow, and the crowd gasped at the beauty of a righteous death. Katelan, Richard's long-haired wife, fell to her knees with sheer joy.

"Do you know why I had to perform this execution?" Richard asked the crowd. They shook their heads. "It is because of an ancient spell where only the wielder of Ice can execute anyone without displeasing the spirits!"

The rent-a-crowd muttered their approval. One said "Great job Richard, but we have to go now as we're needed at a gang-rape scene in the next chapter and it's quite a walk from here."

Richard leapt on his horse and began the ride back to his humble castle. Suddenly he heard a whimpering sound by the side of the track. Dismounting, he investigated, and found the body of a gar. Protruding from its side was an evil beak - the gar and the chicken had joined each other in death. The blood from the gar had trickled onto the snow and spelt out some prophetic words - "Don't go to King's Landing!" Richard wondered what that could mean.

There was movement in the snow. Richard jumped, then saw what it was - a baby gar! He picked it up and stroked it.

"I shall call you Gratch," he said.'

'Jon faced the Wildling horde with a sinking elation. His manly, masculine muscles rippled beneath his Night's Watch outfit. Rattleshirt stepped forward, his eyes narrowing with a hatred of all things good and pure.

"You have killed the eagle that is not an eagle, and now we will kill you!" He cackled evilly, and his hordes began to advance menacingly.

Jon's mind raced. Qhorin Halfhand had told him to do anything, anything at all to get out of this alive. And he knew that his own life was of utmost importance. He would choose Life, not the Death offered by these fiends. His thing began to rise, and he suddenly thought of a plan. His eyes sped across the enemy line and grabbed hold of the leader's.

"Wait! I will kill the half-handed one, then you shall know me for a friend!". He turned to Qhorin, and gave a wink. Qhorin nodded slowly; he knew that Jon's decision was the right one. "Go ahead, bastard!" he spat. Richard, er, Jon drew his bastard sword and raised it high. "Blade, be true!" he cried, and brought it down with a mighty swoosh, cleaving Qhorin into two equal halves.

Rattleshirt gasped, and stepped back, awed by this display of sheer power.

"The last person to call me a bastard was my sister. And I kicked her in the jaw." '

'Rhaechard Targaryen, standing proudly in his ruby-encrusted knight outfit, knitted his brows as his eyes flew across the advancing enemy, as they advanced towards him with a forward motion. His tactic of sending Richor Clegane, the Statue that Rides, to ravage the homelands of the usurpers and salt their fields, had all gone to plan, and his collection of ears was growing nicely, but the opposing army was still many times larger than his, they outnumbered him by hundreds to one, their numbers were far greater and his force was small in comparison.

He glided over to the command tent, where the Niccler was interviewing a captive. The man's unrepentant sneer was all the answer he needed, but he stayed to watch the interview for a while.

"Where is the Usurper? How many men does he have? How many swords? Is there gold in the village?" the Niccler asked, happy in the knowledge that she was serving Life, and not Death. Before, when she had been fighting against Rhaechard, her tortures had been in the service of Death, but now that she had seen the light, she was old and intelligent enough to realise that she was doing the only right thing, and if you can't see that too then you're obviously on the side of evil and no better than a murderer.

"Bags!" came a voice from behind him; Rhaechard instantly spinned around, his eyes flashing and blazing, but it was only Maester Zedd. "I have something to tell you," breathed the maester, "That douchebag Evil King Aerys is... your father!"

"NNNOOOOOOOOOOO!" cried Rhaechard, feeling his thing rise. Instantly he stretched and grabbed a sword from a nearby soldier, ripping off his shirt and armour to expose his rippling pectorals, glistening with manly sweat, that's Rhaechard's shirt and armour, mind, not the soldier's, cos that would be gay and Rhaechard was as straight as they come, he likes girls with big boobs and long hair, OK? In an instant he was among the enemy, suddenly sweeping his sword from left to right, slicing through steel like it was butter. Whump! An arm flew off. Clang! That was a helmeted head. Zzzooosh! Eight men fell dead, in sixteen pieces. Rhaechard grabbed the cascade of ears as they fell through the air and stuck them in the pocket of his travellin pants. '

'Arya brought up her sword, touching the crimson blade to her forehead. She gave the whole of herself over.
“Needle,” she whispered in supplication, “be true this day.”
Bringer of death.
“Dance with me, Death,” she murmured. “I am ready.”
The hordes of invisible lizards advanced, the latest horror to be unleashed by the invasion of the Others. The Westeros army had long fled in confusion at the advancing expanse of invisible beasts. Beasts of death. But Arya heeded her inner voices. This was the reason for her being struck blind all those years ago, which may or may not have been permanent. She no longer needed to see, to deal death with her blade.
Arya stalked among the lines of invisible lizards, from time to time turning and slicing with her blade. They hissed in astonishment as they died; their blood suddenly visible as it spurted from severed limbs and heads and punctured abdomens and other mortal wounds dealt by this silent killer. Grey shapes flashed past in the corner of her vision and she heard the sound of things dying that hadn't been killed by her. She frowned with confusion and rejoined the savage battle. Each commitment of her blade found flesh.
Under her breath she recited her list, and mentally ticked off each lizard as she killed it - "Lizard 35, lizard 36, lizard 37..."
Arya heard howls, and tried to wipe the invisible lizard blood from her eyes to see what was going on. She saw fur. Grey fur. Claws and teeth ripped into the attackers. Jaws bit off invisible bits of flesh. Tails wagged ferociously.
Arya stepped back as a direwolf landed in front of her, squashing the lizard who was about to kill her. It was Nymeria. There were direwolves everywhere. That was the shapes she had seen.
Suddenly the direwolves had killed all of the lizards. Wolves howled. Dying lizards groaned. Arya laughed.
Jon hugged her from behind. "I thought you were dead or possibly married to that Bolton, and I thought the Others were going to kill me!"
Sam Tarly approached and explained how the direwolves were the ancient enemy of the invisible lizards , and they had been given special powers by the Children of the Forest that would enable them to see and kill them. Arya and Jon laughed.
Red eyes gathered on the battlefield. Arya's dark mood brightened to see Nymeria's menacing mien. She hurried over to the wolf. It felt so good to be hugging that shaggy fur and she laughed with tears in here eyes, a face that had been a stranger to tears for so long.
"I love you Nymeria! I knew you'd come back!" she wept.
"Nrrrr lrrrrrr Arrrrrrrrr yrrrrrrrrrr" growled Nymeria happily, then backed away, looking at the other wolves.
Arya felt a lump rising in her throat. "Are you going to stay with us, Nymeria?" she asked fearfully.
In answer, Nymeria shook her head, and another direwolf trotted up. From its manly size and masculine demeanour, Arya could tell it was a male.
"Nymeria, you have a husband? Will you be staying with him at the Trident?"
Nymeria nodded with a wolfish smile, and nuzzled her mate.
"But you will come and visit us at Winterfell, won't you? We would love to have you there, any time you're in the North..." '

'He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.

Richard dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Kahlen held captive and powerless for the ninth or tenth time. Richard lost count but his heart ached for his one true love the same as it did the first time his one true love was kidnapped and almost raped.

In the dream his cronies rode with him, as they had in life, Martyn Cassel, Jory's father; faithful Theo Wull; Ethan Glover, who had seen the Truth that came from Richard; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and cutter of ears; the mudman, Howland Reed; and Lord Dustin on his small pony. Richard had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man's memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. In the dream they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist.

They were seven, facing three. In the dream as it had been in life. Yet these were no ordinary three, They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind. These were no shadows, their faces burned clear, even now. They were big men. Richard was a big man, and all these men were bigger then him. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips, for he knew not the truth of Objectivism. The hilt of his greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder. His braid was long and thick. Ser Oswell When was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his white enameled helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings, raping an evil chicken that wasn’t a chicken His wrist were thick almost as thick as his thick neck. Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He didn’t know how to handle children. Never once did he kick one them in the face. His neck was thick and so was his braid. But neither his neck nor his braid nor wrist was as thick as the other two. He was still bigger then Richard, who was a big man.

They all lacked the moral clarity to see the Truth. Richard once spoke to them, but they didn’t listen. They all deserved long, slow deaths. Richard would cut off their ears personally.

"I have come to tell you the Truth of Objectivism," Richard said to them.

"We have laughed at your speeches before," Ser Gerold answered.

"My brain has been turned to mush trying to decipher it," added Ser Oswell.

"When King's Landing fell, Nicci tortured your king with a Agiel, and I wondered where you were. Since he was evil, she was right to torture him all night"

"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and your pet Mord’Sith would burn in seven hells."

"I came down on Strom's End to lift the siege," Richard told them, "I give a speech about how your life is yours. I talked about how the only person you owe anything to is yourself. By my example I showed them how you can kill and torture and murder as long as you have moral clarity. I spoke of the evils of communism and the how the Church is evil. The Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."



"Our knees do not bend easily," said the waking Ser Arthur Dayne

"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a good man, and true," yawned Ser Oswell from the nap he took during the last 20 pages.

"I'm sorry, I fell asleep," Ser Gerold pointed out. "Can you summerize that?"

"Communism is dead," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

"We fell asleep during that speech," explained old Ser Gerold.

Richard’s wraiths moved up beside him, shadow swords in their hands. They were seven against three.

"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

Richard lost his temper and draw the Sword of Truth. All the memories of the other wielders memories came rushing back to him. The battle rage was upon him. Quicker then a snake, his first stroke slit Ser Oswell in half, his guts come sliding out of his bottom half. His lungs slid out from his now useless armor and washed the ground in blood. Richard easily turned that slice into a thrust and speared Ser Gerold with it. His point punched a boulder size hole through the heavy plate mail he was wearing and his chest. The point stuck out the back. Swift as a cat, Richard ripped the Sword out of Ser Gerold chest with his still beating heart at the end of the sword. He then cut Arthur’s neck cleaving it almost in half. Arthur’s armor stood no chance against that masterfully stroke.
Richard looked over his fallen enemies and laughed. His men laughed with them. Then Nicci grasped in horror as Arthur Dayne started a sword thrust from where he laid on the ground, his head barely attached to his body. Faster then a speeding bullet, Richard leapt aside the thrust. He reached down and shoved his hand into Arthur’s open neck and ripped his entire spinal column out of his body with one swift pull.
Richard then went to rescue Kahlen. At the sight of Richard, Kahlen’s memories came rushing back like a wind in a void. She remember everthing and was proud that even if she didn’t remember who she was, she was always true to her inner self.

- Watcher

'Ser Gregor Clegane drew the Sword of Truth from its sheath as his opponent was lead into the ring. He was a much smaller man than Gregor, who was a big man, but he had a dangerous look. Gregor turned to regard his beloved, the beautiful Cersei Lannister, before facing his opponent, Prince Oberyn Martell, of the Old World of Dorne.

The Dornishman's eyes gleamed with hate. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded, voice dripping with spite.

"Some deluded commie bastard who is lacking in moral clarity," Gregor replied.

The Dornishman ignored Gregor's words. "Elia of Dorne was my sister. You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

Gregor Clegane had killed many people, including women and children, in his wars with the Old Kingdom. He didn't remember this "Elia" or her children.

"Your sister chose Death," Gregor explained. "By serving the Old Kingdom and its evil king Aerys, she was a party to evil. This makes her evil herself.



And now you, too have chosen evil. The man you are defending today is guilty of many vile deeds. If you stand for him, then you yourself are evil and deserve to die."

"I am doing a good deed today," Prince Oberyn spat, his eyes blazing with hate. "Once I have slain you, I shall rape and murder the evil woman you are defending. You blame her brother for what he did? She was born with all the advantages. She is beautiful and cunning, where he is small and stunted. The Old Kingdom rewards those who kill people like her. Only with her death can we have equality."

He leveled his spear and charged. Gregor knew that he would have to kill him first and then explain to the crowd why his words were lies propagated by the Old Kingdom.

Weapons clashing, the two men circled each other.

Bringer of death.

"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

Bringer of death.

"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

Bringer of death.

"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

Bringer of death.

"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

Bringer of death.

Gregor swung the Sword of Truth in an arc that would have taken off the Dornishman's head had he not dived out of the way. He vanished into the crowd.

Bringer of death.

Gregor went after him, hacking his way through the mass of spectators. He had no choice. They were helping to conceal an evil man, so they were no better than evil themselves. Blood and gore showered across the ground and Gregor hacked his way through the crowd.

A man in a bloodstained tunic stood before him. "Can't you give peace a chance?" he asked, before the Sword of Truth took his head off in a red spray. There was still no sight of Prince Oberyn of Dorne.

Bringer of death.

Suddenly, something struck him from behind. Gregor sprawled forward, losing his grip on the Sword of Truth, which slid across the ground. He rolled to see Prince Oberyn standing above him, grasping the Sword in both hands.

"You're dead, Clegane," the prince spat. "I have the weapon." He wound up a stroke that would take Gregor's head off.

"I am the weapon," Gregor replied. He lurched upward and drove his hand through Prince Oberyn's armor and into the soft stomach beneath. He grasped the Dornishman's spinal cord and gave a mighty yank. It came free in a shower of gore. Prince Oberyn Martell collapsed.




- Mr Smash

The old official tugged at his wispy beard, the hairs clinging together like liberal pansies in a rightous swordfight. His young translator swirled her eyes flirtatiously at Dicky as she interpreted the old man's commentary.

"Tell that Westerlandi twat that he looks ridiculous in that outfit. What the hell's a Yeard supposed to be, anyway?"

"My master compliments you on your noble attire," said the girl.

Dicky grinded his teeth as the translation came through. The official was speaking in Old D'haran, not realising that Dicky's sword gave him the powers of understanding all languages. He felt his thing begin to rise, but pushed it back down - this was neither the time nor the place.

"Tell that self-important windbag that these are the Unsullied. Explain their training to him, as I can't be bothered to expend any more of my breath on that war-mongering piece of shit," said the old man, and wandered off to get a stiff drink.

"My master has asked me to tell you of the Unsullied. These are our most prized warriors, and their skill is second to none."

Dicky doubted that, as he knew none could defeat him in battle, even if he was unarmed and outnumbered by hundreds to one. Nevertheless, he needed these warriors as cannon-fodder for his latest war.

"Tell me of their training!" he said. "Are they noble individuals, fighting as if..."[snip]
[6 pages later] "...and in their pursuit of life, they refuse to bow to..." [oh no, he's still going, another snip]
[another 2 pages later] "...with their ears?" He paused, waiting for the answer.

The translator, who had nodded off, started awake again. "Their training, you said? Er, yes. Well, we find orphans on the street, who have been left to fend for themselves. We take them in, give them a warm bed and some food, and make them feel like they are part of a family." She stopped, seeing Dicky's eyes begin to narrow dangerously.

"Go on," said Dicky, menacingly. This was worse than he had feared.

"Well, then, when they are around the age of 8, we give each an egg, which they have to cherish and look after until it hatches."

Dicky closed his eyes. He knew what was coming. His eyes grew even wider as he asked "Is that... a CHICKEN egg? Do they kill the chick when it hatches?"

"Why, no! They care for the chicken and treat it well, so they learn the value of altruism, and the chicken becomes their friend."

"Then do they kill the chicken?" he asked eagerly.

The translator looked confused. "No, no-one kills the chicken. The chicken is a vulnerable creature - it cannot fly, it cannot fight - so needs protection. The boys are taught to protect the weak. Once they have learnt this lesson, they will learn how to fight, and we want to be sure they will only fight for the right reasons."

Dicky wasn't sure he liked the sound of this. "What of their fighting training?" he asked.

"The boys are first taught to work together as a team, so they can anticipate each others' reactions. Their strengths and weaknesses are identified, so that one soldier can compensate for failings in his fellow. The older boys train the younger ones and everyone helps each other out. By the time they are ready to fight, they have received training in all the major weapons as well as unarmed combat and battle strategy, and can charge high prices for their services."

"What if, er, someone hired them to, say, crush some civilians, then the opposing country paid them more money to come back and kill me, er, him?" asked Dicky.

"...never mind," he added, seeing the look of horror on her face. "I've heard enough! I am Richerys, Father of Gars, and I will single-handedly defeat all your warriarrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhh.........."


"Punish her! She attacked me with a stick and then her wolf tried to bite me!" Joffrey's face was purple with rage as he paced up and down the room.

Ned's mind raced. His youngest daughter, too young to be a slut, had been caught choosing life and had valiantly tried to defend her individualistic ways. Unfortunately she was now in the thrall of the evil Queen and her wicked son, and he had to find some way to defend her.

Sansa looked adoringly up at Joffrey. Ned's older daughter was starting to grow boobs, but they were still quite small, so she was treacherous and untrustworthy and refused to tell the Truth. In the manner of all women everywhere, her sluttish ways were causing her to lie in the defence of the man she rightfully worshipped.

Ned's mind raced. Joffrey, thinking himself secure, stuck out his tongue. It was like a red flag. Instantly Ned found that thing that was in him starting to rise. He lashed out with his foot and caught Joffrey in the jaw, shattering it like glass. The boy's blood arced in a fountain of pure red as his tongue was severed.

---------------------

The crowd roared their approval as Ned was brought to the executioner's block on the stairs of the Sept. Erect, masterful, masculine in his King's Hand outfit, he looked like a statue of himself.

Joffrey, whose tongue had been quickly regrown by the Maesters, spoke the execution order, but before the sword could be swung, Ned instantly stretched and carved a statue. It was a noble direwolf, its paw lightly resting on the body of a fairly conquered enemy. Carved on the pedestal was a single word - "Honour". Cersei fell to her knees and wept with joy, instantly confessing her sins to the crowd, who instantly forgave her.

9 Comments:

Blogger Arn said...

bastardization of great works at its finest.
bravo....bravo

2:56 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

There is only one great work parodied here... ASOIAF. And it's for fun anyway.

9:37 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I can't decide if it's a bastardization of "Song of Ice and Fire", or an improvement on "Sword of Truth."

5:26 pm  
Anonymous Gregorstein said...

"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

Bringer of death.

"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

Bringer of death.

LMAO =D

1:04 pm  
Blogger Job said...

Noooooooo, Oberyn...
Can't he win just once? :(

6:39 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

The piece by Mr.Smash made my sides hurt from laughing so hard.
BRINGER OF DEATH.
Goodkind takes himself way too seriously.

7:08 am  
Anonymous Women leather jackets said...

nice post love it
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10:50 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Beautiful :D Can't stop laughing!

9:51 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I loved this, but you kept misspelling Aryachard's name...

8:50 am  

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