User blog:Dave T from Louisville/HOW GAME OF THRONES ENDS (HINT: BADLY)

Scene One: As dawn breaks, it dawns on Tyrion that he is the last Lannister standing. Like it or not, it is his familial duty to kill the nearest Targaryen. With some regret, he quietly shivs his pal and newly minted mad queen, Daenerys when she is distracted by some unsupportive thing Jon said. Daenerys death greatly upsets Drogon. (More on that in a moment.)

Jon (a.k.a. Jon-Aegon), realizing he is now the last TARGARYEN standing, feels he has no choice but to retaliate and kill a Lannister. After a fair bit of angsty brooding, he lops off Tyrion’s head. BUT, nobly, he does it himself, just like his “dad” Eddard would have done. No handing the sword off to some lackey for the Starks… or people who were raised thinking they were Starks... or Snows. Whatever.

Speaking of Eddard, the revelation that dead King Robert’s erstwhile pal’s erstwhile bastard son was really his nephew and a Targaryen heir to the throne is enough to bring Robert back from the depths of time (a.k.a. Season One). Zombie Robert rises, eats Jon, then goes back to being dead.

This precipitates some grumbling on social media concerning whether this plot twist is entirely “canon.”

Others counter that, hey, you know, it’s not like Robert’s the FIRST person the books or the show brought back from the dead, now is it?

This leaves Sansa and Arya to pick up the pieces. It all seems fine and sisterly until a snide comment by Sansa over the appropriateness of Jon killing Sansa’s erstwhile husband Tyrion irks Arya and reminds these two sisters of how they just never really much cared for each other. Sharp words escalate to shouting, then swordplay. Arya naturally wins (all that training finally pays off), and she deals Sansa a mortal blow to her stupid, beautiful, prissy face. That leaves Arya as the last Stark standing.

What about Bran, you say? Well, technically, Bran can’t be last Stark “standing” now can he? Can he?? (C’mon, people. Keep up here.)

So it looks like it's Queen Arya after all, which would be a fine result, well received by the hoi polloi (a.k.a. us), until…

Zombie direwolf Lady rises from the dead to avenge Sansa and maul Arya to death. Because, you know, it was all Arya’s fault to begin with and if it wasn’t for her stupid tomboy crap Sansa would be married to Joffrey and all would be well and Lady would be getting served Mighty Dog in a solid gold bowl every day at court and getting groomed by some wise eunuch who would whisper court intrigues into her ear. Stupid Arya.

With the appearance of a zombie direwolf, the War of the Canon erupts in earnest on social media, but a fragile truce is reached when someone points out that GRRM is never gonna finish the book series anyway, so, honestly, David Benioff and D.B Weiss are pretty much free to do any damn ridiculous thing they want. So shut up.

Anyway, after mauling Arya, the undead Lady stalks off to find and dispatch Bran, who also kind of messed things up for Lady and Sansa by climbing around like a witless squirrel, seeing what he wasn’t meant to see, and making Cersi mad. No good ever came of making Cersi mad. Stupid, stupid Bran.

By this point, kingly/queenly pickings are gettin’ mighty slim. So in the vacuum, Robin Arryn declares himself king, holes himself up in the Eyrie, and announces that he intends to make quite a few bad people fly now. Bad people are to report to the Eyrie immediately to get what’s coming to them.

Upon hearing this, the remaining knights and various motley warriors put aside their differences, trudge off to the Eyrie, grab Robin, unceremoniously shove him through the Moon Door, and trudge back to the lowlands to figure out what to do next.

But on that count, the matter is decided for them when…

Drogon. Did I mention Drogon? He’s distraught about losing his mom. Very, very distraught. So he goes berserk and sets fire to EVERYTHING from Winterfell to what’s left of King’s Landing and beyond. He makes the former city-burning rage thing look like a small, cheery campfire. Then he flies off to sulk in whatever faraway land dragons come from. (He stops off briefly in Pentos to torch that town, too.) He is never seen again in these parts. Future mapmakers remove the notation “there be dragons” from their depictions of Westeros and Essos.

At this point, there isn’t a single living being left. Not even a cockroach survives Drogon’s wrath. Everybody and everything is dead. The End.

...also, the War of the Canon on social media is declared officially over as everyone agrees that total annihilation is very, very canon.

BUT WAIT… is there something moving in the ashes of King’s Landing?...

There IS…

But what??

It’s kinda crispy and barely able to shuffle along. But it appears to be…YES, it’s…

The Mountain.

Turns out even a fall into the fire can’t kill ole’ zombie Gregor Clegane. The worst person in the world is now the ONLY person in the world.

Social media again collectively says, “Yep. That fits. That’s just about perfect, actually. Bravo.”

(Also, as to that “worst person” designation: Sorry, Cersi, Ramsey, Petyr—but, hey, the important thing is that you were nominated, amirite?)

Erstwhile Ser Gregor surveys the ruin all around him. Rather than being glad to be sort of/kind of alive, though, he is greatly dismayed to discover that he is all alone and there is no one left to brutalize. He feels he has no purpose. So he kicks half-heartedly at the nearest charred, smoking body and lies down in the dust, defeated in spirit, resigned to an eternity of not being able to bash anyone to bits or do other ghastly, unspeakable things.

He lies there for a beat or two (need to build the moment… maybe a few desultory raindrops start to fall on his weary, upturned, sooty face).

After a while, though, he thinks “You know what? This all would make a pretty good story. I should write it down.” So he blinks a couple of times, wipes at his face, slowly struggles back to his feet, and goes off in search of pen and paper.

As he’s searching through the rubble, he thinks to himself “I’ll need a nom de plume, of course… Instead of Gregor, I’ll be, uh, ‘George.’ And maybe I can change ‘The Mountain’ to, something softer, like, um, ‘The Martin’… ooh, and I’ll add a couple of initial Rs like that Tolkien guy. That would be classy.”

Final scene: Bulky, burnt figure hunched over a desk, straddling an undersized chair, pen clutched awkwardly in a meaty hand, scribbling the words “‘We should start back,’ Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. ‘The wildings are dead.’...”

Roll credits.

PS – Oh, wait. I almost forgot: Winter comes.