#ahh yes nerds reunited once more

[engxneer]

@gumihosverdict liked for a starter!!

“hey, do you think you can search through your dirty sock kingdom for my missing sock? it has the second half of the periodic table on it.” he’s 80% sure that’s the half that he’s missing; don’t quote him, though. 

[drogonthronedestroyer]

Game Over....

Epsiode 4

The Plot that was Promised.

Silence. Not a sound could be heard on the air. Jon swung his head around to catch Tormund’s eye and the old wildling raised his bushy, ginger brows.

“Ahh!” They both chimed in unison as it all began to make sense. Jon looked at his feet, now more than a little embarrassed, unable to look his son in the face. “Well, that makes sense! Although…”

“I know…I know; you couldn’t help it! But then all of this,” Torrhen gestured to the frozen vista around him and Drogon followed the arc of his gesture inquisitively. “Well, it’s not canon is it? You are not telling me this is where you imagined you would end up after all they put you through? Jesus, you didn’t even get to take out the Night King after devoting your life to defeating him!” Torrhen made low tutting sounds under his breath. “That must have stung like shit!” Tormund frowned, discomfort writ large on his face whilst Jon hung his head, pursing his lips, his shaggy hair falling forwards to hide his expression.

“It was…a bit…disappointing, yes.”

Despite the sympathetic tone, his son was unrelenting.

“But, didn’t you even stop to question my mother going bat-shit crazy in the space of one episode? I mean, pissed off at Cersei, yes. Fucked off by the Mountain – totally, but she could have destroyed them both in just one triumphant flypast of the Red Keep! But no – she suddenly goes all Rambo and blows the whole bloody place apart! Really? Complete and utter certifiable homicidal madness on the basis of two deep fried Tarly traitors and Varys? And to be fair, she warned him what she would do to him episodes ago. There were a lot of things no one saw coming but that one…you would have had to have both your eyes pushed in by The Mountain not to have seen that one!”

“You weren’t there,” Jon mumbled sullenly, digging a hole in the snow with the toe of his boot. After all, there was nothing else he could say? It was all true. Too true. “We had no choice.” Torrhen raised his fair eyebrows, his face a picture of scepticism.

“So, after you read the script and learned what you had to do, did not one of you have the balls to look the writers in the eye and say ‘Not Today?’”

“I didn’t get any good lines.” Jon mused moodily. “At least, not that good.” He flapped a hand in Tormund’s direction. “He did though.”

“No, but you did get to look good,” Tormund piped up, pulling at his grizzled beard. “I really envied your post-death man-bun era!”Jon’s smile lit up the snow.

“Aww, thanks mate!”Torrhen snorted in utter disgust.

“Jesus guys! What’s wrong with you? Admittedly, it all started so well! All those heart-warming reunions at Winterfell! Well, apart from Sam who for some reason spent a fortnight in the library before he went to see you in the crypt? And he was supposed to be your closest friend?” Jon and Tormund stared back at him nonplussed. “Ok, maybe a fortnight was an exaggeration but you get my point, why wasn’t he out with everyone else when you arrived? Did he not get the Raven? Was the library soundproofed?” Even Drogon nodded in agreement then, which Jon felt was completely surreal. “Everything else was so promising! The swelling music! The call backs to an era when things didn’t move at the speed of light leaving bloody great big plot holes! When it could take a whole series for the Hound and Arya to travel the length of two football fields. A device that was completely abandoned until the Night King took three hours to cross the Godswood which was probably stalling for time whilst Arya found a ladder to jump from. And then…the battle started…”

“I know what you are going to say!” Jon interjected hastily.

“Really?” Torrhen remarked flatly. “Go on then, enlighten me!”

“Nice one!” snorted Tormund, slapping Jon on the back. “Enlighten!”

“Oh how I wish someone had…” sighed Torrhen, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Energy saving lighting rigs!” Jon piped up defensively. “We had to consider the environmental effects of making a television series over five continents with a cast and crew of thousands and taking over a decade to do it! What you didn’t see is that by the time the night shoots were done all the bulbs had warmed up and…” Jon’s voice trailed off to a murmur as he realised how stupid he sounded. “You sort of had to be there to see it.”

Torrhen looked distinctly unimpressed and cocked one eyebrow high, affecting a high pitched whining voice which made Tormund grin.

“That was rather the point wasn’t it? You couldn’t. Well, you could because you were there but as for anyone else! Are you sure it wasn’t more like “‘Oh well, budget constraints and all that! All this CGI we committed to in order to pull all you sad sacks in for several years is soooooo expensive! This will only take can six episodes if we hack through the character arcs and keep the dialogue to words of less than two syllables. The fans can imagine the rest; they are good at that. Besides we have no more books to go on which is making it really really hard work and it will be much easier to go and make a million more bucks ruining a Star Wars Franchise!’” Tormund leaned into Jon, whispering, his face worried.

“I didn’t see this guy at the table reads!” Jon shook his head, sadly as Torrhen began his punishing rant once more. Cold facts, hotly spoken. Fire and Ice.

“So who was it?” Tormund and Jon scowled as he asked the question. “Who gave the order to charge? Was it Melisandre, because as soon as she lit all those swords, it was like she had plugged them all into the mains! Talk about Duracell Dothraki! Off they went, charging into the dark and towards what? It was the Khalasar equivalent of driving a free Volvo into a brick wall! Then your sister suddenly learns how to fly and kills the Night King by gliding across the Godswood like some caped superhero, passing a hundred or so wights and all the assembled generals without anyone making any sort of attempt to swat her down! Was she invisible? I know if ‘no one’ is there you can’t see them, but this was pushing the ‘no one’ premise just a tad too far don’t you think? And by the way, exactly what was your brother doing whilst he was letting everyone else die? No doubt he was off bargaining with the old Gods and the New to secure a better ending for his character, maybe one where he asked them if it could be Bran for king. He was certainly no for-king use in the battle!”

Jon and Tormund milled about sheepishly, offering up no defence. How could they? Their lives had been at the mercy of different forces those days. But Torrhen had not finished, and was now striding about, waving his arms around to illustrate his points, his former calm a memory. Jon felt sure that if Drogon had eyebrows he would have raised them in tacit agreement at every declaration of dissatisfaction.

“So Night King, the whole lot, gone! Eight years of build up, plot seeding and misdirection and some weird science fiction scene much earlier on in the series which obviously meant nothing, all eliminated in around ninety minutes and then, what? Yay, none of us have a scratch on us so lets all go down to King’s Landing to kill Cersei! Even though technically at that point there should be only around twenty men left despite the – ahem – script unbelievably insisting that only half of the Dothraki had gone. Well I counted six that survived myself, and a horse, mind you it was very hard to see. Is that why they kept it so dark, so the bleeding gaping plot holes weren’t visible? Or maybe they weren’t dead, they were just pining? Then, here it becomes so bloody hysterical if it wasn’t tragic! Mum, apparently, was in such raptures of joy flying around the skies on Drogon that the reason for going to Dragonstone in the first place completely eluded her. That, and the fact that the Iron Fleet may be waiting for them. That same Iron Fleet that wiped out half of her forces in Season seven? And how the hell she failed to see over a hundred boats ranged up beneath them from twenty miles away until one of them shot a round of bolts into Rhaegal and killed him stone dead I just don’t know. Sudden catastrophic memory loss? And such an excellent shot was Euron that they then failed to hit Drogon on any other attempt even when he was heading right for them! So, they gave up on the dangerous flying thing and attacked the other boats instead! The boats that didn’t pose any threat, whereas bloody great fire breathing dragon did - but of course, spoiler, they needed to keep Drogon alive to torch King’s Landing and use as a plot device to turn my mother mad!” He paused for a second, taking a deep breath before he continued. “Apparently, according to the Dumb and Dumber, she forgot. Forgot about the Iron Fleet. Do we think Cersei forgot anything? Mind you she may well have done as all we saw her do was stare out of the window in an alcoholic stupor!”

“Are you some sort of fucking nerd?” Growled Tormund, his hands on his hips, now clearly irritated by the constant tirade. Yet, Torrhen was not to be stopped. His words came thick and fast now, flowing out of his mouth in an – er – Torrhent…

“No, wait! Hear me out, I have waited years for this! So we have Cersei, Qyburn and the Mountain all standing at a convenient dragon height near an open window – but not one of them gets as much as a blister! Cos its far better to have the madwoman kill thousands of CGI men, women and children than confront the main villains.” He gestured to Drogon, frowning. “Look at him! He wouldn’t harm a fly!” Drogon simpered on cue, tilting his head from one way to another like an attentive puppy. “So instead, we have the Hound, Arya and Jamie (somehow) inside the city all looking to wreak their individual revenges. Or possibly not. Well, at least the Hound did. Every dog has its day, as they say. Jamie, who had blood pouring out of more holes than a colander, and should have been dead, is miraculously directed to Cersei in the map room (no pun intended) and they both are romantically reunited and suffer the ultimate fate. Death by masonry. Arya is easily – too easily – convinced to give up on the last name on her list and after running around forever saving innocents from being crushed to death by leading them off to be burned to a crisp, she meets up with a random horse and rides off. Where? Why? Was this some subliminal reference to ‘Arya Horseface?’ Was the budget constraint soo bad that they meant to send Nymeria in to meet her, but could only afford a pantomime horse? Did they think we wouldn’t notice?” Jon wondered just how long they had been standing there and looked at his wrist pointedly, before remembering he had not worn a watch in twenty odd years and so just sighed heavily. Dany had always liked talking. And later, yelling.

“And then, and then…after all of that and King’s Landing stands in ruins, covered in snow, or ash, or the remnants of the fans disappointment, Mum gives a rousing speech. In two very different languages. Neither of them English but you all understood every single word! Bloody amazing!” He pointed angrily at Jon who was all but squirming. “You didn’t need to fuck your aunt! All three of you got right royally screwed! Mum got killed, you got banished and you…” he grinned at Tormund, “you let the Kingslayer fuck your date and then dump her for his sister. And you say my mother was the mad one...!”

Jon had had enough. It was cold, his furs were heavy and he needed a drink. He crossed his arms across his chest belligerently.

“We couldn’t help it. They offered us free Starbucks…”

“And bacon toasties,” Tormund interjected, “don’t forget them!”

“God yes,” Jon grinned, suddenly heartened, “the catering was top notch!”

“Never mind the bloody food!” Torrhen shouted, furious now. “What are we going to do about it? We can’t let this be how such a legendary tale is left to fester in the annals of history! Think about your careers!” Jon scrunched up his face. Maybe it was about time, he pouted, thoughtfully. And, he did rather fancy breaking out the man-bun once more.

“Ok, Ok, you’ve made your point and stuck us with it,” he reasoned, “admittedly at some length.” He twisted about, looking around, considering, his cloak flapping around him like dark wings. Took a deep breath or two before looking back at Torrhen. “You got an army?”

Torrhen shook his head regretfully leaving them all to look all at each other, perplexed. Even Drogon let out a sympathetic snuffle.

“What happened to the Dothraki left behind at Kings Landing?”

“No idea,” said Tormund. “I don’t suppose we can ask the Unsullied?” Jon pulled a horrified face.

“Surely they will all be dead?” His tone was hopeful. Torrhen shrugged.

“Well, we can forget about The Golden Company…”There was a brief silence before all of them burst out laughing.

“You have to admit,” chuckled Jon, “that scene was bloody hilarious!”

“It was! That guy’s face!” Torrhen snickered, turning to Drogon. “Great fire-breathing there mate! To do you credit, you probably had the best scenes in the whole of the last series! But then you had the advantage of not having a script!” Everyone nodded in considered agreement as Drogon preened. Tormund scowled suddenly. He could be slow at times, unlike the pace of the last series, but something bothered him.

“Hang on a bloody minute! You weren’t there! Neither was I? How come we both know what went on?” Torrhen looked suitably thoughtful for a moment, the sunlight peeping out from behind a cloud and painting the surrounding mountain tops with golden rays. Iceland…sorry…beyond the Wall had never quite looked so stunning.

“Perhaps we saw it in the flames? A message from the Lord of Light?”

“What?” Jon snorted. “Like the ‘Prince that was Promised’”.

“Don’t mock,” Torrhen said sombrely. “Look where we are now! Perhaps this is the ‘Plot that was Promised’!” Jon was thinking hard. It had been a long time since he had had to think hard. It still suited him.

“Ok, let’s think this through. So we have you. Me. Tormund…” there was an accompanying snort and Jon nodded in acknowledgement. “Drogon.” His lips pressed into a thin line as the dragon shook his head in appreciation. Smiling. He was. The bastard was smiling. But Jon shook his head, sadly, his hair falling around him in waves, looking suddenly much darker than it had been at the beginning of this tale. “Gonna be a tough one mate!”

It seemed their mission was doomed before it began and they all stood reflecting in ponderous, if splendidly located, silence. Then, as if on cue, there was a strange rumbling sound, one Jon had heard before. It grew closer. And closer. Now punctuated by faint cries. Yells. Were they whoops?

“Maybe not …” Torrhen grinned slyly, his eyes glinting mischievously.

With that, Drogon raised his head and let out a terrifying roar. One which was answered within seconds. Distantly, by something which echoed his cry. Before Jon could turn, another dragon, one he knew all too well if he hadn’t been told it was dead, swooped around with a further throaty scream, landing on the ground with a crash beside Drogon, who turned somewhat clumsily to greet his brother. In the distance, the rolling thunder became the roar of an oncoming tide and within minutes the figures standing alone in the snow were surrounded by a screaming, jeering Dothraki hoard. Much, much bigger than the one last seen at Winterfell.

“Oh come on!” Jon gasped in utter disbelief, wondering if this was something to do with his wife and part of the best April Fool’s day trick revenge ever, but then he had no idea of the date. “This is bloody ridiculous!”

“You gotta be shitting me in my pants!” cried Tormund at the same time. The air became eerily quiet, apart from the snorting of horses and the various chirrups and growls of Drogon and Rhaegal catching up on news.

“Is it?” Someone said. “As ridiculous as that last episode?” A female voice he knew far too well (see – by this stage he knows an awful lot does Jon Snow – that’s called character development) caused him to turn quickly, so quickly he almost fell over his voluminous cloak. Righting himself, he came face to face with his queen. His love. His aunt. His…woman he murdered amidst a passionate snog.

“No!” One word, incredulous.

“Yes!” One word. Clearly pissed. Jon and Dany stared at each other. She was wearing the same leather effect, warlike costume which she had suddenly pitched up in on the day he had – er – killed her. But there was no sign of the mark of his dagger. Still amazed at what a good special effects team could achieve, he could not think of anything else to say, so he played for time, nodding at the green, amber eyed beast from which she had just dismounted.

“Is that really Rhaegal?”

“Uhuh! Surely you know that, if you know nothing else.” He frowned, sulkily.

“I do. But how?” Dany thought for a minute, biting her lower lip seductively.

“Er – what if we say…he wasn’t as badly hurt as it appeared when he got shot through the neck by that scorpion bolt. It looked bad, but it was only a flesh wound. So he managed to swim to the beach at Dragonstone…on the far side of the island opposite where everyone else swam to, except Missandei of course, and where he has been convalescing for many years.” She rolled her eyes upwards as if assessing the quality of her words before giving a satisfied nod. “Then he flew home.”

“That bastard said you were dead!” Tormund snapped, pointing accusingly at Torrhen who raised an eyebrow archly.

“Plot twist?’ After a second, Jon nodded, turning to Tormund.

“I’ll buy it!” Tormund raised his arms outwards in submission.

“Oh, what the fuck!”

“Good!” Dany held out her hand to Torrhen, who muttered under his breath before meekly unfastening the dragon clasp and handing it over.

“Sorry! I only borrowed it!”

“Hmnn,” Dany murmured. “Like you just borrowed Drogon! Next time, ask!” She pinned the clasp back onto her fur coat in a business like fashion, patting it with glee, her dark brows meeting together in an arrowhead as she frowned. “Well then, are we agreed?”

Jon still looked uneasy. Almost out of his comfort zone. He looked around hesitantly.

“Aren’t you supposed to say ‘Shall we begin?’”

Dany grinned. “Like you are supposed to say “You’re my queen?” That did it. He returned her smile ruefully. “I think we can forget all that crap!” They all looked at each other in agreement. “So, men of the north, are our ambitions aligned?”

“Well, that’s a lot more words than ‘shall we begin’, but its worth a try.” Jon admitted grudgingly. “It can’t be any worse than the last attempt surely?”

“Where we all got right royally shit on?” Dany smiled enigmatically. “No. It’s time to put that right. And just as an aside, I do have a stab vest on under this coat! But enough of the past - we will need to re-establish our loyal following. Some have stayed true and were justifiably outraged about what unfolded before their disbelieving eyes…”

“And ears…” Jon’s words were greeted with a mumble of assent.

“But we need something,” she continued thoughtfully, “something to appeal to the disaffected. To put us back where we were around season six.”

They muttered amongst themselves for a while as the amassed Dothraki, getting bored, or getting ready, however you will, took it in turns to try and light their swords.

“What about…Cersei turns up as a Night Queen so she can be killed all over again but this time in a fight to the death with you?” suggested Jon to Dany helpfully.

“That would work. As long as I don’t get killed – again!” she answered pointedly. “Needs to be a long drawn out struggle though, over a couple of seasons?”

“And those White Walker symbols!” Tormund growled. “Perhaps we ought to make something up about that?”

“Good idea. It was some form of ancient cryptic language – warning that those that are dead, again, may not be quite as dead as they thought? Especially if those who are responsible for killing them try to take the throne for themselves.” Drogon snorted suddenly, and Dany turned listening. “Aww, no baby, it doesn’t matter that you melted it! We can make a new one with all the Kingsguard’s armour.” Jon giggled. He had not giggled for a long time. If ever at all.

“Or those they have pissed off and banished might be more pissed off and not so banished as they thought?”

“I’m sure we can think of something.” Torrhen interjected. “Jesus, the original end was so excruciatingly bad, the bar really isn’t set all that high!”

“And this time I get the big woman!” shouted Tormund, “or I’m out!”

“Fine by me.” said Jon, looking over at Torrhen thoughtfully. “Just one thing. Three dragons you said, and discounting those two actual dragons! So, how’s that going to work when we win this thing?” There was a moments silence punctured only by two disgruntled draggony chirrups.

“I’ll take King’s Landing – because I already did!” said Dany firmly. “Torrhen, you can have Dragonstone and Jon…the north?” That seemed to trouble him. After all, he was known for his loyalty to his family, for being as good as his word. For being a true Stark. More Stark than any other Stark ever. Starkly Stark. Which he considered may be a good name for a rapper if all of this failed, again. Maybe Chris Martin had connections he could exploit?

“What about Sansa?” he asked doubtfully.

“What about her?” Dany asked, in a tone of voice that made a certain part of his body freeze.

“Ok!” he shrugged lightly. “It’s her fault I’m here. Done!”

“Finally!” groaned Tormund. “Then I suggest we all celebrate with a meal back at our camp. We don’t have much, some bread, ale and I hope you all like fowl.”

With that, a huge figure dressed all in black pushed his way between the Dothraki horses. A tall, ugly man, his face terribly scarred, his shadow a scar on the pristine snow.

“Did someone mention chicken?” growled the Hound. “I’m in!"