Hallo, I am George R R Wikey.
This stupid story is winding down now, so many people will die, especially your favourites! (if you have any)
The episodes will be shorter, 4-5 chapters at a time from now on, and be less serious bizness.
Srs bizness is boring, and I don't write serious shit very well. So if it seems I am starting to get lazy with my story tellings, fuck you. It is a concious artistsic decision.
I am definitely not lazy, self indulgent, nor any of those other bad things you might have heard about me.
Anywhere, here is the first few chapters of the new book, which contain no spoilers from that plagiarising bastard GRRM's series, A song of ice and fire.

A song of ice and fail, here we go. We kick off in the aftermath of the Black feast. Curtis has just massacred Paulus and his followers after inviting him down for supper in Oxford. Gee, Curtis, you cunt....

The world is moving on, and shit is happening all over the place!

Pollux

The sun was setting on the ancient streets of Rome, as the army marched on. Pollux glanced at Emperor Willis. His cruel gaze was focused dead ahead, on an approaching chapel. Atop a tower of the building, Pollux could see a priest, dressed in papal uniform.
"Roth,” Willis whispered. It was indeed Pope Roth. They had found him. He was watching them approach with sad eyes.
Willis turned to his commanders and pointed up at him.
"Men, bring him to me!”
There was no resistance offered as a stream of soldiers poured into the chapel. In mere minutes the pope being thrown to his knees before Willis.
“Hello Roth. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Roth looked Willis in the eye.
“I pray that the lord will forgive you for your sins. I know why you are here.”
Willis smirked. “Oh you do, do you Roth?”
“Yes. You intend to restore the Roman Empire. Forge a new empire out of the old kingdoms. But it won’t work. The world has moved on.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you Roth,” Willis said. “The tales of debauchery I am hearing from all across Europe paint a very different picture. Brother fighting brother in Spain…a decadent king in Ireland…murderous feasts in England...the people grow tired of their rulers. A return to order and old ideals would be welcomed.”
“You mean a return to tyranny!” Roth spat, his calm demeanour shaken. He glared up at Willis.
"No man could be so twisted and vile as you...I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the-"
Willis laughed.
"Are you attempting to perform an exorcism on me Roth? How pitiful.I have had enough of these pleasantries. Take him to a cell and keep him under guard.”
A bunch of guards escorted Roth away. Nobody had ever imprisoned a pope before. This would sure get the attention of the Christian world.



Willis turned to Pollux.
“It has begun.”
Pollux nodded.
“The whole of Western Europe will soon hear of this victory.”
“Indeed. They will know my intentions. But they are too weak, too splintered to fight us. They will all bow down to us before long.”

With this victory and several others across the country of Italy, Willis had conquered most of the old heartland of the Roman empire.



A mess of minor states, it had been an easy victory. But the significance could not be overstated. The Eastern Roman Empire had reunited with the West. Now only one thing stood in the way of the Roman empire being truly reborn.



The lands of Spain, Gaul and Britannia would have to be reconquered. And if everything kept going as planned, it would be done without having to march a single army against any of them...

Hupu

The long voyage to Norway was nearing its last leg now, and they had stopped on the coast of some place called France.

This is France, if you were wondering:



Him and his pregnant Queen, DR, had been resting here a while. Hupu had thoroughly enjoyed the stay. The flamboyant French locals had been fascinated with him since he had arrived. DR said it was because they had never seen a black man before. Hupu enjoyed the attention. They seemed to have taken to him as some kind of mystical eastern philosopher. He posed great questions to them such as “Tis it not realistic for a baby to appear out of nowhere?”
They had tried working that one out for ages. So had he, actually. And when he motioned like a bird, they seemed to take it as a cryptic analogy of the soul, and it’s natural desire to be free. Hupu had never intended that. But fheh.
Also, his art had become very popular. The French raved over his avant-garde style. Recently, he had painted the scene of the Black Feast, a terrible massacre which had recently happened in a place called England.



It had taken the French art world by storm. The critics had raved over the eastern upstart Hupu and his complete defiance of artistic norms, such as...you know, talent. They praised his imagination and surrealism.

Whilst he had a splendid time bonding with the French, his queen, DR, had spent much of the time out of sight on the decks of their boat. She was heavily pregnant, and preoccupied with planning the holiday to Norway. Hupu had begun to wonder if they should just stay in France. The way DR went on, you would think Norway was the greatest place on Earth. But could anywhere be better than this? France was warm and tranquil, and all the locals loved him. Hupu would happily stay here. But he knew that he could not. He had to stay by DR’s side. Forever and always.

They were nearing their destination now. The French port town they had been resting in was a mere month or so sailing distance from Norway. Very soon, DR and Bryce would have their showdown.

Curtis

Curtis and his troupe of bodyguards strode the streets of London, heading for Westminster abbey.



The dead were sprawled everywhere, whilst a thin crowd of peasants assembled on the cobblestones to greet their new king. They did not look happy. The streets were eerily silent except for a few painful moans and the crackling of dying fires. Curtis didn’t mind the less than warm welcome. He didn’t need people to love him. He just needed them to fear him. And if they didn’t yet, they would as soon as his coronation was over and his reign began. He would make sure of it. Curtis thought back to the feast at Oxford; the Black Feast, as it was coming to be known. Paulus’ shocked face as his men were massacred all around him. The memory made him smile. Fun times.
Westminster abbey rose tall above. Curtis entered. A small procession awaited inside to witness his inauguration. High lords and ladies from minor estates mostly. The new counts and Dukes of the realm, who had supported his claim to the throne, were busy dealing with the aftermath of the fighting. There was still Henry to take care of, plus the fugitives Kiwi and Boc to hunt down and punish. Furthermore, there was the Irish problem. His fledging Empire would not truly be united until Ireland was under British control. A demand of subjugation had been sent to Malion. If he declined, Ireland would be conquered by force. The Irish couldn’t hope to stand against him alone. One way or another, Ireland would be brought under his control.
Curtis approached the centre of the hall, and watched as the Archbishop of Canterbury came to his side. The archbishop cleared his throat. Curtis noticed he was trembling.
“Here..here stands you new king,” he announced, before turning to Curtis, who grinned widely at him.
“Do you…p...promise to uphold the laws of land and church?”
Curtis shrugged. “Meh, probably not, to be honest.”
The Archbishop wiped his brow. “Very well,” he said. “I anoint you King of England, and Emperor of Brittania!”
“Gee, thanks Archbishop!” Curtis said, patting him on the back and taking his crown.
That was the formalities over with. Next Curtis had a marriage in France to attend. His queen, Genevieve, was waiting. He glanced at his little brother Shawn in the crowd. He would have to look after the kingdom whilst he was gone. It would be a good test for him. During the black feast, he had somehow managed to get himself knocked out by Boc, who had been tied up with rope. Boc was resourceful but Curtis was amazed that he had managed to escape with no help. Curtis worried about his little brother sometimes. He hoped he would inherit the throne one day and continue the proud legacy of House Paige. But he wondered whether he was up to the task or not. Leaving him in temporary charge of the realm would be telling...

Kiwi

He had failed. Utterly failed in every respect. For the past few weeks, Kiwi and Boc had been fleeing their pursuers through dense moorlands and marshes, taking refuge in tiny villages and inns, barely staying one step ahead of their pursuers. He had barely registered any of the journey, in large part been dragged along by Boc. Kiwi had given up all hope. His king had been brutally murdered, along with all his loyal followers. All except him, of course.
He had been the kings bravest warrior. But fate had snatched an honourable death away from him. He had left the feast to go outside at the exact wrong moment, and as a result, forsaken his vow to die for Paulus. Every breath he took was another stain on his honour. Yet he hadn't done anything about it. He could have drew his dagger any time and gutted himself. But he hadn’t. Maybe he was a coward after all.
Here he was trekking the countryside with Boc, who had not long ago been one of the orchestrator's of the war. They were both landless fugitives with no hope in hell. Yet still they carried on. Boc aimed to get them to a port. They were currently walking through dense woodland, known for harbouring many outlaws. Kiwi was trodding along behind Boc, making no attempt at subterfuge.
“Kiwi, you need to keep an eye out,” Boc whispered. “We don’t know who is out here!”
“If anyone is out here, let them find us,” Kiwi murmured.
“Kiwi, I don’t fancy been strung up and hung by murderers and rapists,” Boc hissed. “You need to quit talking like that, I am sick of it.”
“This ends one of two ways Boc, and you know it. We either die on the gallows in London, or we die out here.”
Boc stopped and faced Kiwi, an impatient expression on his face. “Look, I saved your life back in Oxford. I know you were one of Paulus’ most competent fighters, and I hoped you might want to avenge him! Where has your fight gone?”
“It died when he died.”
Boc shook his head and carried on walking. “I’m tired of having this same argument. If you want to die, stay here and leave me be. You are no good to me like this.”
Boc picked up his stride and disappeared into the woods. Kiwi stood defiantly for a moment and watched him go. Then he shook his head and started running to catch up. He wasn't sure why. He felt he was prolonging the inevitable.
After some time travelling through the dense woodland, they came to a clearing. The hustle and bustle of civilization could be heard in the distance. Boc turned to Kiwi and smiled.
"I think we have found ourselves a port. Come on."
Kiwi shrugged and followed.

TBC!

Gee, what fun, heh? Especially that last chapter where literally nothing happened, am I right?!
Well folks, it has been fun, but now it is time to go. Tune in for another chapters at some point when I can get on my arse and write one.

BYEEEEEEE

Fuck you all, I am at the height of my abilities as a written

Oh my god stop pressuring me, I am writing as fast as I can!
I mean seriously, I am pouring my heart into the next episode, it occupies my EVERY waking moment!

*Phone Rings*

Ugh, what now? Wait a god damn minute, guys, I gotta take this.

*Answers phone*

Hello?

Oh hi Comic Con!

What's that? You want me to fly out and do a book signing for two weeks? HELL YEAH!

*Throws manuscript away*

Heh, fuck this, I have plenty of time to finish it later. Bye losers!

Episode 2: The Irish Problem

Malion

It was the early hours of the morning in Ireland. Malion was sat in his solar, head buried in his hands. The former king Paulus’ premonitions had proved to be true. He held a letter in his weary hands. It was from Curtis.



The situation looked dire. The Queen of France would soon be allied with Curtis through marriage. Refusing this offer and fighting would be insanity. But Malion had worked too hard to unite Ireland to give it away to a foreign emperor. Malion knew he would never be able to bring himself to accept this proposal. His Irish pride would never let him.

He needed allies, but there didn't seem to be any to be found. The French Queen Genevieve was definitely out. The Spanish kings would be uninterested. Malion had thought about approaching some of Curtis' lords, to see if any harboured a grudge against their new liege, but Curtis had purged the old lords and replaced almost all of them with his own loyal supporters. Malion couldn't even approach anyone with marriage to seal an alliance. He was still betrothed to Paulus' youngest daughter, whom was now nothing more than a former princess without a home. Malion had been advised to break off the marriage, but he wouldn't. Before he died, Paulus had done what he could to warn Malion about this impending crisis. Breaking off the betrothal which would save the former kings family from a life of destitution would be a poor way to return the favour.
Malion needed someone. Anyone who might despise Curtis and could oppose him.
A thought struck him. There was one possibility. The King of Scotland, Dylan. He had been forced to pledge allegiance to Curtis at the Black feast. No doubt that had been a traumatic experience. Malion wondered if the Scottish king would be on the best of terms with Curtis. The combined power of Ireland and Scotland could be enough to topple the ginger tyrant.
Malion reached for ink and quill, but just as he put pen to paper, his advisor entered, carrying a letter.
“Your grace, there was a rider in the night."
Malion took the letter and looked at it curiously. He tore it open and read:

Dear Malion the bastard, this is the Queen of Scotland.
I am sure you are considering approaching my husband for an alliance.
I am writing ahead of time to tell you not to waste your time.
If you fight, you will fight alone, and you will lose.
I don’t know if you remember me, but I am sure you remember my husband Leos.
Yes that is right, it is me, Sophia. You made a widow out of me. Now you are going to pay.

“Fuck,” Malion said. Sophia. Leos' widow had vowed revenge on him some time ago. Malion had never given the threat much thought at the time. It seems he had underestimated her.
"I should have seen this coming," Malion said, handing the message back to his advisor to read.
It seemed fate was forcing him into a corner.
"What do I do?" Malion asked, tiredly. His advisor looked at the king in despair.
"Your grace, we have beaten the odds before."
Malion laughed.
"But never odds like these. If I refuse this offer, we go to war alone, and are outnumbered more than four to one. Nobody can hope to overturn such odds."
"Wars are not won by numbers, your grace!"
"No. But when one side has considerably more men to throw at the other, the odds are stacked against you."
"I have seen you unite a kingdom over the past year and a half, out of nothing. The odds were against that happening too."
Malion smiled wearily and stood up.
"It is different this time."
His advisor held a hand up.
"No. The stakes are just higher. We must fight. If anyone can see us through this, it is you. I believe in you your grace!"
Malion was overwhelmed. The loyalty and respect of his subjects was something to behold. It filled him with vigour.
"I am pleased to be surrounded with people like you...okay....Send word back to this British Emperor Curtis. Tell him if he wants our lands, he will have to come and fecking take them himself. And if he is crazy enough to show up, we will throw him and his armies into the sea!"
The messenger smiled.
"Gladly your grace."

Niney

In Denmark, things were heating up.



Niney shook his head.
“Listen to me Klaus!” he pleaded to his son. "This is foolhardy!"
Klaus was not having any of it.
“Father, you have many supporters! Bryce cannot hope to win. As soon as the Byzantine invasion force arrives with Queen DR, we will strike. He will have to surrender!”
Niney sighed.
“You know little of war son. It is unpredictable.”
Niney feared the repercussions of this escalating plot. He didn’t want his throne back, he was content with the mercy Bryce had shown him and his family following his defeat. He would rather live and prosper as a Duke, than risk everything in an attempt to reclaim his throne. Ruling was overrated anyway. He had not enjoyed it. It had been nothing but endless stress.
But all Klaus saw was a family who had lost its place at the top. And he risked incurring the wrath of Bryce on all of his family to get it back.
“Klaus, our entire dynasty could be trod into the dust if you fail. We could be made destitute. Bryce is merciful, but he is not foolish. I cannot allow you to risk the entire family for the sake of pride.”
“It is not just pride, father,” Klaus protested. “You were a fine king…the finest there was. Denmark deserves a great ruler...It deserves you.”
Niney felt a bulge in his throat. His sons devotion was admirable. But he could not allow himself to support such folly. It was too dangerous.
“Son, I am sorry that it must come to this…”
Two guards entered. Klaus turned around.
“What is this?” he demanded.
The guards grabbed Klaus firmly. He struggled against their grasp.
“What are you doing?”
Niney shook his head.
“I am putting you under house arrest, until you come to your senses!”
Klaus struggled. “What? No! Father, have you gone mad?”
“Take him away,” Niney said, avoiding his sons gaze, full of guilt. Klaus was dragged out of the room kicking and screaming. It was difficult, but it had to be done. Niney sighed and grabbed an ink and quill. He had removed the head of this plot, but there were other conspirators. Now Niney had to write to Bryce and warn him of it.

Bryce

Bryce stood looking out at the icy waters of the North Sea, his generals and advisors by his side. Soon, the cold waters would be filled with hundreds of Byzantine war ships, containing thousands of enemy soldiers here to claim his kingdom. What little information he had managed to gather on his enemies all pointed to DR, his favourite ho, as the leader of the unjust invasion. How she had managed to secure the support of Emperor Willis was a mystery, though Bryce had a few ideas. One or two specific favours for the old guy, Bryce suspected.
The Norwegian and Danish king could call on a few thousands soldiers for the upcoming battle. The Byzantine invasion force contained almost twice that number. This war would seem like a foregone conclusion to most. But numbers did not guarantee victory. The enemy invasion force was travelling a long way from home. They would not be used to the bitter cold of the Norse lands. And they did they know the country as well as Bryce and his men. He would not make it easy for DR. Oh no. If she wanted to be queen of the land of ice and snow, she would have to really fight for it.

Robert

Robert sat alone in his feast hall. He had been locked away in his keep since the black feast, only allowing the odd servant to make the daily rounds about the place. The people of Oxford had only caught fleeting glimpses of him. Robert was hiding. He was hiding from his shame and guilt. His people feared him. They believed he played a key role in the massacre that had happened within his walls. Little did they know he had been used as clueless as the poor souls who had fell victim to Curtis’ diabolical plot.
Supporting the new emperor had given Robert everything he had been working so hard for, and much more. Not only was he Duke of Oxford, but he had been named King of Wales too.
And yet, he had nightmares every night. The same one. Curtis stood before him, holding out his hand. Robert would take it, and then look down to see his own hand dripping with blood. Then he would look up to see that he wasn’t shaking hands with Curtis anymore, but Satan himself, as fire burned all around him. Rob sometimes wondered if Curtis really was the devil incarnate. Nobody deserved the fate dealt to Paulus and his followers. The grisly business of getting rid of the bodies had been hard. Rather than bury them and give a dignified burial, Curtis had ordered them to be fed to the pigs. Such needless cruelty.
As he was lost in his thoughts he felt a tapping at his shoulder. He turned around abruptly to see a timid looking servant.
“S-sorry your grace,” he said. “Did I disturb you?”
“No…not at all.” Robert said. He could see the fear in his servant’s eyes. No doubt he thought of his master as a monster.
“Your grace…there is…a message for you.”
The servant produced a letter and handed it to Robert, his hand trembling.
“Thank you,” Robert said, dismissing him.
Robert opened the letter. It was from the new Lord of Mercia, Roos. Robert shuddered. If Curtis was the devil, then Roos was the right hand. He had been in on the Black Feast. Robert had watched him keenly kill FF0, as well as several others. Robert had no idea what he was writing for. He read.

All my friends Robert! Or should I call you your grace?
I hereby invite you to visit me in Mercia!
We haven't seen each other since the feast, which is a shame!
We are neighbours now. Neighbours should be friends!

Robert groaned. An invitation to visit Roos. That was one of the last things he wanted. Perhaps satans right hand had been instructed to check up on him? Robert sighed. He had no choice. If he didn't show his face, Roos would know something was up for sure. Maybe this invitation was harmless. He had to go.

Jeffrey

In a port in Gloucestershire, Jeffrey was feeling desperate.



“Oh men!” Jeffrey exclaimed as a mean sailor pushed him away in disgust.
“Stay away you damn leper,” he spat. Jeffrey scuttled away. He was trying to buy his way onto a ship going as far away from England as possible. He had the money Paulus had given him outside of Oxford. But so far his search had proved fruitless. Upon taking one look at him, everyone had pushed him away in terror.
He had wandered the port all day, to no avail. There wasn’t anyone left to try.
“Oh men oh men, how will I ever get a boat out of here?” he said wistfully.
“You there,” came a wispy voice. Jeffrey turned to see an old gypsy woman in a dark alley.
“Oh men, me?”
“Yes...you look lost and troubled? What is your problem? Tell me, and maybe I can help you.”
Jeffrey approached the gypsy woman cautiously.
“Well I have all this money,” Jeffrey said, holding the fat bag of coins up to show her. “But nobody will let me on their boat!”
The gypsy woman eyed the bag of coins greedily.
“I…I can help you!”
“You can?!” Jeffrey exclaimed. "Thank you!"
“Yes…but first, you must give me that bag of coins there, close your eyes, and count to hundred.”
“Okay!” Jeffrey said, handing her the coins without hesitation. He closed his eyes and began counting.
"1…2…3…4..."
Jeffrey opened his eyes for a quick peek, only to see the gypsy woman running away with all his money.
“Oh men oh men oh men! She tricked me!”
Jeffrey rushed back out into the port after her. She was surprisingly fast.
"Ohhhh meeeen."
She was weaving in and out of people as Jeffrey struggled to keep up.
"Stop that woman!" Jeffrey exclaimed. Nobody listened.
Then to his surprise she was knocked to her feet by a familiar looking man....Kiwi!
Jeffrey rushed over, breathing heavily. Boc appeared by Kiwi's side.
“Jeffrey…it has been a while,” Boc said.
“Boc!” Jeffrey spat. “Go away! I don’t want to join the secret club again! I am getting a boat out of here like I promised Paulus! Leave me alone!”
“How do you propose to do that Jeffrey?” Boc asked, "Without this..." Boc reached down and wrestled the bag of coins out of the gypsy woman's hands.
"Get out of here," Boc told her. She ran off, giving Jeffrey a venomous look.
Jeffrey stood gob smacked.
“Give it back!"
Boc threw it to Jeffrey without hesitation.
Kiwi squared up to him. "The king gave you that money and you almost lost all of it to a thief! You disgrace his honour!"
Jeffrey bowed his head in shame.
"Oh men...sorry Kiwi...but you disgrace the kings honour too."
Kiwi was taken aback.
"What do you mean?"
Jeffrey pointed at Boc.
You are travelling with one of those who betrayed him!"
Kiwi smiled and held his hands up.
"You got me there."
“I won’t deny I played my part in turning everything to shit," Boc said. "But I was fooled by Curtis. The ginger tyrant is...very persuasive.”
The three stood on the busy port, stewing over their mutual hate for the Emperor. Boc eventually broke the silence.
“Jeffrey, it is a stroke of luck we found you. And perhaps also an opportunity.”
Jeffrey narrowed his eyes. “An opportunity?"
“Hear me out Jeff. We all hate Curtis, and we are destined to live a life on the run if we don't find a way to depose him. People like us...we must stick together.”
Boc eyed Jeffrey’s bag of money.
“That is a lot of money Jeffrey. It will buy more than just a ship away from here. It can buy swords...armour...men.”
Kiwi sighed.
"I know where this is going."
“Quiet Kiwi,” Boc said. “Don't you want to avenge Paulus?”
"The emperor is untouchable," Kiwi protested. "He is due to marry the Queen of France, he has all the kings and lords of Britannia under his wing...what chance do three fugitives have against him?"
"A better chance than those who would give up and surrender," Boc countered. "Come on Kiwi...I know you have fight left in you."
Kiwi paused and gave Boc a dark look.
"If I agree to go along with this insanity...I have just one condition..."
"Name it," Boc said.
"When the time comes...I will be the one to butcher the butcher."
Boc smiled.
"Deal."

...

The trio got a ship from the port later that day, headed for the Scottish highlands.

TBC...

From here on, those silly pictures that accompany the story will be removed. They are unnecessary for the continuation of the story. Also, the end is in sight. And I am actually going to finish the entire thing unlike my inexplicably more popular counterpart, George RR Martin. His series is shit. Why do you all like it? He stole like every single idea from me.