Ned Stark sat beneath the weirwood tree wondering if he had been right to treat his bastard son so harshly. As the moonlight danced off the leaves, Lady Catelyn Stark knelt beside him and said the words he had been dreading. “Game night is coming.”
“Lord Stark,” said Tyrion, the lovable genius, dwarf, asshole Lannister, as he brought forth the die, “would you be so kind as to ask my brother to stop doing that to my sister, and instead jiggle his playing piece.”
Samwell Tarly blushed, “I held a milk-maiden’s hand once, but never that part of a woman.”
The Starks and Lannisters were seated at the great table in the large hall at Castle Winterfell. There had been an uneasy peace between the two houses since the last game night. Lady Stark still bore the bruises and shame of the Twister incident.
Jaime Lannister leaned over the playing board, one hand upon his sword hilt, the other clutching a small metallic Scotty dog. “Left foot green” he whispered to Lady Catelyn, then cast the die and moved his piece three spaces, warily eyeing the house on his new square. “From whose house is this house?” he demanded.
“Marvin Gardens is Ironborn!” shouted Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon.
Cersei put her hand on her brother Jaime’s shoulder and smiled at Theon. “Lord Greyjoy, in lieu of monetary payment we offer this deed to the B&O Railroad and my niece.”
Lady Stark could not hold her tongue, “But the Lannisters have already pledged their niece’s hand to our bastard son in return for Water Works and The Electric Company!”
As someone pushed one of the smaller Stark children out a window, a buxom serving wench brought fried salted cornmeal shaped in small triangles with a ramekin of finely chopped spiced tomato and a six-pack of Keystone Light. Two gratuitously naked women passed without advancing the plot.
It was Ned Stark’s roll. Ned turned to King Robert Baratheon, his old friend. “Your grace…” he began. Robert stopped him.
“Dammit Ned, don’t be so formal. I was your friend before I was your king. Refer to me as you have since we were children.”
“Okay, Dragon Dick, I need your council,” Ned said heavily. “I am torn between two paths. Do I roll this die in hopes that the outcome will finally bring peace to our houses, or do I behead the Lannister imp just because it’s been like a half hour since I beheaded someone?”
“I don’t care anymore Ned.” King Robert stood up and swung his axe deep into the table. “Someone bring me a whore! At least we all got laid playing Twister — my apologies to Lady Stark, I pray you’ll be walking more stoutly soon.”
Suddenly, a horn blew in the distance, shaking the castle walls. Ned Stark jumped to his feet and drew the ancient sword ‘Ice’, thusly named by the first Lords of Winterfell because it sounded really awesome.
The horn sounded again.
“Twice means the rider comes bearing an item.”
The sound rang out a third time.
“Thrice means the item is…”
The massive hall doors flew open. In a gust of powdery white and bitter cold, John Snow, the bastard son of Lord Ned Stark, entered, cried out “Yahtzee!” and placed the box on the table. A minor female character bared one of her breasts. Jaime mounted Cersei. A whore fisted Tyrion. Robert was gored by a wild boar and began to choke on his own bile and vomit, then on Samwell Tarley’s bile and vomit.
And once again, for all of Westeros, the game had changed.