Dear Fans,
As I dictate this to you, I’m lounging in Cabo with my feet on the biggest pair of knockers they’ve ever seen. You gotta trust me on this, but these knockers make the knockers on the TV version of Game of Thrones look like the knockers in the book version of Game of Thrones.
It’s me: George R. R. Martin (net worth: $100 million). If you’re reading this, you probably don’t have a TV. I have nine TVs—and that’s not even counting my tenth TV. I’m, how do I put this delicately, really goshdarn fucking rich now. Why is this? Well, let me tell you.
It’s summer 1996, and I’m on the Strip. I open up my typewriter, make sure my ink ribbon is full, and realize my rampant, unrelatable obsession with fantasy is a nonissue. I should write a book about dragons, I think. I black in two months later, and somehow my fifteen-page pop-up children’s book about dragons has become a nine-hundred-page pop-up children’s book about dragons. Shit shit shit! Too long, George! Too long!
House Snark
Yada yada yada, my editor got rid of the pop-ups, made me add more human sex, cut two hundred consecutive pages that were just last names of all the barbers in the Game of Thrones universe, and that’s basically the first novel you’ve all come to know and love!
Fast-forward 25 years. Fast-forward 100 more years. Now rewind 102 years. It’s 2019, and HBO has turned my book series into the preeminent softcore porn series. At this point, I’m rich as a mother-effing motherfucker. I haven’t seen the show in years, but my friends describe the episodes to me. Sounds pretty good. Sounds exactly like how I would’ve done it. But now they want me to finish off these damn books.
Now look, I really wish I could end this series with a forty-five-slide PowerPoint, but fans always complain to me when I don’t wrap up each character’s story arc in a fulfilling way.
Apparently, I introduced a character called “Trashbag” in the second book and never mentioned him again. I am accosted about the fate of this character on a weekly basis. Did you know I have introduced over three thousand characters in the novels who collectively have four thousand individual boobs with their own storylines? And as if I didn’t have that many boobs on my plate, imagine what would happen if I didn’t wrap up the character arc of the main guy in the books! The guy I killed. What’s his name? Tom? Tom Something? Tom?
House Grandslam
I have been told repeatedly that it’s taken me over a decade to write this book, and it’s likely that many of my fans have forgotten some of the plot points during that time. Personally, I have never read a preface or a prologue or an introduction or an author’s note in my life. I just skip to the book and deal with the ensuing confusion like an adult. For the sake of the children who read my dragon erotica, however, I will try to recap the plot as best I can. Jon! Dammit! That’s his name, not Tom. Oh God, did I write the whole book calling him Tom? Okay, if I did that, every time you see “Tom” just replace it with “Jon.”
So yeah, Jon Dough is the main guy, yeah? What’s up with him? Ah, right. I’ve got to stop killing the main characters every time I get the itch. Speaking of which, Chauncibell, when you get a moment, fetch some more of my talcum powder. Okay, so Jon was the Bored Demander of the Night’s Crotch, which means he was basically in charge of the guys who defend the Trench. Of course the Trench is some sort of magical thing up north, built to keep out the Mildlings. Trench? No, was it a trench, it was . . . Yes. Yes, it was a Trench, must’ve been. The White Wieners and the zombos, they’re there too. Chauncibell, this is real talcum powder. Yes, I know I said “itch.” But do I look itchy to you? I am a model of cleanliness and health. When I said talcum powder I meant another mimosa. You should be able to anticipate my needs regardless of what I ask for. White Wieners and the zombos and they’re led by . . . the White Wieners and the zombos are led by . . . Come on, George, come on, man.
The Nighty Night King! Right. And Jon saved all these Mildlings from him and brought them south of the Trench to Casablacka with the Night’s Crotch. Some of the guys in the Night’s Crotch got really mad about that and all stabbed Jon. Now he’s dead. Unless . . . it was all a dream! A dream? And there never was a Game of Thrones, and the little kid dreaming the dream went back to sleep and lived happily ever after?
Wait, no, George, you’ve tried this before, and every time your editor says, “The dream ending will not appease fans. It’s a cop out. You will become poor again.” So here we go, what else, what else?
House Bangsister
There’s this witch named Smellisandre. There’s also Jon’s huge best friend Whoremund, who is a Mildling. Not his other huge best friend, the fat book guy. Ham? Hamuel? Hamwell Tardy? Eddddd, my man, from the Night’s Crotch is there, and he thinks he’s Jon’s best friend too. Just let him believe that. And finally, there’s this smuggler named Ser Boats McSeaman who was trying to learn how to read and used to be second in command for Stankass Boaratheon. Basically those four people and also Jon’s direwolf, Toast, are all just sort of locked in this room at Casablacka with Jon’s dead body? What are they going to do about it? He’s dead, okay? Unless, no. Fuck. Did I already try the dream thing?
Whatever, he’s dead right now. One storyline down. I really just want to apologize about how many characters there are, folks. That was, you know, I really went overboard with the characters. It’s too many. Okay? You all know Dennys Grandslam. She’s also the main character. Very pretty. Silver hair. I want to touch the hair. All she cares about is eventually sitting on the Pointy Chair and becoming queen of Westopolis, and so to help her do that, she freed the city of Submeereen, which is not actually in Westopolis, and she tried to install a government there by crucifying the former slavemasters and listening to individual complaints one after another in a pyramid. I don’t know, guys, I was high for most of the nineties. Anyway, she freed the slaves, and the old slave owners were mad. So mad, they besieged the city, and then Dennys got kidnapped by the Clothkhaki. Funny story, I came up with the entire Clothkhaki language by sneaking drugs into my butler Chauncibell’s food and recording the sounds he made.
Now Peter Dinklage is running Submeereen with Ms. Andei (the translator) and Dog Shit (the Funsullied leader). Shit, Beerion. Not Peter Dinklage, that’s the . . . eh—whatever, copyediting will catch that before this gets published. Dennys’s dragons are locked up in a basement.
House Boaratheon
Let’s go, I don’t know, north now. Bland Snark. Bland is the handicapped kid. What else is there to say? He has visions and is hiding in a huge old tree north of the Trench with a wise man called the Pink-Eyed Raven, who is teaching him to be better at having visions. Bland overcompensates for his broken legs by doing a lot of upper-body exercises. Is that true? I cannot remember if that’s explained in the first four thousand pages of the Game of Thrones series, but I remember wanting that to be true. If it’s not there, I’m just deciding now that it’s still canon. I declare it . . . true!
Then there’s the main character, Cervix Bangsister. She was the queen of Westopolis until her husband died, so her son Jeffy became king, and then he died, and now her son Timid is king. She hates Timid’s wife, Manmeat Thighspell, because she gets to be queen instead of Cervix and also because she gets to have sex with Timid instead of her. Cervix is in King’s Landing Strip now and just got in trouble with the religious freaks there. The Beaky Buzzards, I calls ’em. Scariest cult any writer has ever written! I once got in trouble with a church, oh yes. A priest caught me impersonating him in the confessional booth. I heard forty confessions, and I wrotes ’em all down! Forty confessions is forty more intimate personal stories that I can turn into eight hundred more characters for me to use in me books!
Anywho, Cervix won’t confess for doing incest with her brother, Ser Lemme Bangsister. God, the forty-five-slide PowerPoint ending sounds so tempting right about now. Why, George? Why all the characters? You just couldn’t stop could you. Introduced that dumbass character “Trashbag” just because you were bored and out of coke. You’re paying for it now, George, huh?
We Just Needed Another Crest
Lemme got kidnapped and got his butt cut off. No, not his butt. Hahaha, could you imagine? How could I possibly have a character without a butt? That wouldn’t be hot at all. Hahaha, imagine that. A character without a butt? Preposterous! Lemme actually got his head cut off, and even though it’s been replaced by a prosthetic gold head, it’s put a strain on most facets of his life. Lemme also hangs out with my man Le Bronn, the sellsword. If there is one character I can see myself in, it’s gotta be him. He, similarly to me, is just so sick. He’s so cool. He’s—he’s just the man. He’s the best character by far and secretly the main character. You’ll see.
Okay, think, think, think. Characters, Georgie, characters. Uhhhh . . . Gorlon? No, that’s not one. Hmmmm . . . Malarya? Malarya Snark. Yeah, that’s one of them. Okay, she’s gross and loves violence. She’s way out in Blahblahblahvos training to be even better at violence. Her sister Pantsa is the spoiled, hot one of questionable age. Littledingle convinced Pantsa to marry Handsy Boytoy, that misunderstood guy with the dogs. Last we heard from her, I had her jump off a castle and not die by landing in a few inches of snow. Now she’s free, baby!!! Pantsa Snark is on the loose, everybody!
Who else? Someone name a character. Anyone. God these mimosas are bottomless as hell. Yes, one more please. Chauncibell! I’m on a roll here, man, bring me my catheter so I don’t have to get up to go to the bathroom. I’m definitely forgetting at least half of the storylines. I feel like there’s a wizard or something? A teenage wizard with a unique scar, maybe? Or, like, a cat with a big personality? Ahhhhhh, screw it. You guys will figure it out.
Anyway, I present you with the final book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying this handjob right now that I paid for with your money.
Best,
Georgie
