Sixteen minutes into episode eight of season three of House of the Dragon, I realized I was tired. Not sleepy tired—tired of Westeros finding new people to declare king, new factions to form, and new reasons to keep this story going.
And tired of how humorless it all is. Game of Thrones had humor everywhere—intentional humor, accidental humor, straight-up jokes, even slapstick. House of the Dragon has taken all of that humor, wrung it out like dirty laundry, and apparently thrown it away with the wash water.
So I gave myself a writing challenge: find a faster way to get from House of the Dragon to Game of Thrones.
This is my solution.
I suppose technically it’s fanfic. But considering how I was feeling about the show when I wrote it, I prefer antifanfic.
Sheepstealer brooded, licking his wounds.
He surveyed the cave he was in.
Grumble grumble grumble grumble.
Which basically meant: Goddammit, I hate those people.
After ten days, he managed to kill a sheep and eat it.
After fifteen days, he got two more.
Testing his strength, he flew for maybe a mile. Then he found a cow.
Well. That was new.
He ate that too.
Unfortunately, some guys with pointy things chased him.
He didn’t like that.
Sheepstealer was still a little too weak to do much about them, so he took the cow and flew back to his cave.
Grumble grumble grumble grumble.
Which basically meant: Oh, man. That cow gave me heartburn. I don’t want to do that again.
Still, once the indigestion ended, he felt stronger.
Maybe he should cook the next one first.
That had been a lot of fur.
Grumble.
Go with me.
Sheepstealer flew to another patch of land where he knew there were cows. This time he saw the guys with pointy things and the cows in the same place.
Well.
Cook it.
He flamed.
The guys with the pointy things fell down.
The cows fell down.
And they smelled pretty good.
Sheepstealer picked up the cows and flew back to his cave.
Grumble grumble grumble.
Yeah.
That was better.
After thirty days of this, Sheepstealer had learned something.
He didn’t like guys with pointy things.
He didn’t like other dragons that tried to kill him.
That was it.
He was going to do something about this.
Grumble.
Sheepstealer was Sheepstealer no more.
Cowstealer flew from his cave toward an area where he knew there were lots of guys with pointy things and maybe some cows and goats.
There was also a big kind of cave thing with jagged edges.
Grumble grumble grumble.
Somebody called it a castle.
Is that what it was?
The guys with pointy things rushed toward him.
Cowstealer made barbecue out of them.
Not the kind you eat.
The kind that makes the land smell good.
Then he ate some cows and goats.
Something interesting happened while he was using his fire.
Part of the big stone cave fell down.
Cowstealer stared at it.
Grumble?
That was interesting.
Cowstealer slumbered.
Then he woke to a weird sound outside.
“Arooga! Arooga! Arooga!”
Grumble grumble grumble.
Go away. I’ve got a stomachache.
“Arooga! Arooga! Arooga!”
Grumble.
Sigh.
What do you guys want?
Cowstealer looked outside.
Oh, goody.
Lots of guys with pointy things. Some were mounted on those horsey things. They had big pointy things.
And they were charging at him.
Here we go again.
Cowstealer let out the biggest stream of fire he’d managed in months.
They all fell down.
That worked pretty well.
But Cowstealer had a thought.
Maybe more would come.
And he wanted to sleep.
Grumble grumble grumble grumble.
Find a new place?
No.
Why should he move?
This was his cave.
They had to move.
Cowstealer traced the passage of the latest band of pointy things. There was a lot of mud, so that was easy.
Eventually he found another one of the big stone caves.
That was a very big cave.
People were running along the top of it.
Cowstealer didn’t care.
He roared.
And roared.
And roared.
His strength was back.
He was happy about that.
Cowstealer looked at the stone cave.
Grumble.
Cave fall down.
Cowstealer tried to sleep a little more.
More noise outside.
More arooga.
Grum.
Here we go again.
I should’ve moved.
Outside were more guys with pointy things.
But this time they had some kind of wooden thing with a big arrow in it.
A really big arrow.
Grumble?
What the heck is—
The arrow came toward Cowstealer.
Surprised, he let out a roar.
The arrow burned up in the air.
Cowstealer stared.
That was fun.
More big arrows came.
He kept roaring until all the pointy sticks hit the ground.
The guys hit the ground too.
So did some of the horses.
They didn’t smell quite as pleasant with the horses mixed in, but still.
Cowstealer turned toward his cave.
He was going to have to move.
Grumble grumble grumble!
No.
I will not move.
This is my cave.
They have to move.
Cowstealer followed the muddy trail left by the pointy-stick people.
Another enormous stone cave appeared.
Grumble.
Cave fall down.
And it did.
Seventeen cows later, along with several goats and a few sheep for dessert, Cowstealer had a nice long nap.
Then more men with pointy things appeared outside his cave.
More than ever before.
Cowstealer was almost bored when he roared them out of existence.
Unfortunately, the ground wasn’t as easy to trace this time.
Cowstealer was tired of having his sleep interrupted.
Grumble grumble grumble.
Fly around.
Find pointy-thing caves.
Roast all.
Maybe then sleep.
Cowstealer flew.
He burned several of those caves.
The pointy-stick people didn’t seem to like it.
What did he care?
He wanted his sleep.
Eventually he saw an odd pointy-thing cave. Its stones were darker than the others, almost black. Nothing grew properly around it.
Cowstealer did not know why.
I did.
It was Blightkeep, the Withered Castle.
People had once lived there.
They stopped.
Those who remained too long grew weak. Their stomachs emptied themselves. Their hair sometimes fell out. Their skin reddened without flame touching it.
Children were born strangely.
Some never lived at all.
Cows birthed twisted calves. Sheep delivered lambs that could not stand. Animals around the castle sometimes grew in ways animals should not grow.
People who left sometimes became well.
People who returned became sick again.
There could be only one explanation.
Blightkeep was cursed.
Cowstealer knew none of this.
He knew it was another big cave.
Grumble.
Cave fall down.
He rampaged.
He burned.
Walls fell.
Cowstealer was hungry, so he ate whatever he had roasted.
Then he flew home and took a nap.
Cowstealer woke slowly.
That had been a good nap.
No noises outside.
Good.
Something bothered his nose.
Cowstealer snorted.
It didn’t help.
Then he sneezed.
A tremendous bellowing sneeze shook him.
No fire came out. Cowstealer had learned to control that a long time ago.
But the cave lit up.
Cowstealer blinked.
Grumble?
The light wasn’t yellow.
It was blue.
Cowstealer knew colors.
He was a good dragon.
Grumble.
Blue.
Another tickle.
Another mighty sneeze shook him.
This time some fire did shoot out.
It hit the mouth of the cave.
Not only did the cave light up, but it lit up more.
And stayed lit up.
Cowstealer stared.
The stone seemed to…
Melt?
Stone wasn’t supposed to melt.
Grumble.
New fire.
Then Cowstealer heard sounds in the air.
I know them as trumpets.
Cowstealer knew them as annoying.
He stepped outside, avoiding the hot side of the cave wall.
There stood the biggest group of pointy-stick people he’d ever seen.
This might be beyond a simple roar.
Cowstealer was up to it.
Arrows flew at him.
Then came the big pointy flying arrows.
Cowstealer roared at them.
They exploded in midair.
That was fun.
More came.
More exploded.
Very fun.
Then Cowstealer turned his roars toward all the pointy-stick people.
Their horses were already running away, so the people mounted on them had little choice but to go too.
Good.
He didn’t need to smell burning horse again.
Cowstealer roared.
His fire came out in a lovely new shade of blue.
The people lit up like little torches.
They ran around for a second.
Then they fell down.
Grumble.
New fire good.
Cowstealer decided to be stealthy.
As stealthy as a very large dragon could be.
He flew high while the horses kept running. The guys who managed to stay mounted didn’t try so much to control them as hold on and see where they went.
Cowstealer followed.
They stopped every now and again to camp and eat.
Cowstealer had to find food elsewhere.
He didn’t want them to know he was around.
Grumble.
Stealthy.
Three days of this, and finally they reached the biggest pointy-stick cave Cowstealer had ever seen.
It stood along the coast.
The pointy-stick people called it Casterly Rock.
Cowstealer called it big cave.
He didn’t care about water one way or another, although he was curious whether his new fire could burn it.
He’d have to try that later.
First:
Big pointy-stick cave.
Cowstealer roared.
And roared.
And roared.
Cave fall down.
Towers melted. Walls collapsed.
The pointy-stick people ran.
Then Cowstealer landed.
There were openings in the rock.
He stuck his head inside one.
Cave.
He went farther.
More cave.
Then more cave.
Caves everywhere.
Grumble.
Big cave have caves.
There were shiny yellow rocks in the walls.
Cowstealer tried his blue fire on them.
The yellow rocks shone.
Pretty.
He liked that.
New cave good.
Cowstealer tried his fire on the water.
Water did not burn.
Darn.
It bubbled a lot.
Some of the people from the big cave ran away.
They didn’t have pointy sticks.
Cowstealer didn’t follow them.
No pointy sticks.
No problem.
He went into his new cave and napped.
Then a whole bunch of pointy-stick people showed up.
That was annoying.
When are you going to let me nap, stupid pointy-stick people?
Cowstealer launched himself almost vertically.
He could do that now.
He was strong.
The pointy-shooting things fired.
They couldn’t reach him.
He was fast too.
At the top of his climb, Cowstealer rolled over and came back down.
He roared.
Blue fire raked the entire mile in front of his new cave.
It left a great gash in the earth.
Cowstealer circled above it.
Grumble grumble grumble.
People with sticks were really getting on his nerves.
Then Cowstealer had a thought.
People without pointy sticks could get pointy sticks.
No people.
No pointy sticks.
No problem.
Grumble.
Nap first.
When he awoke, Cowstealer was Cowstealer no more.
He was Pointy-Stick Killer.
PSK decided to plan.
Fly up in sky.
Fly all over.
Find all caves.
Some places, he noticed, weren’t really caves, but they had people on them.
Some had pointy sticks.
Some didn’t.
Didn’t matter.
People without sticks could get big sticks.
No people.
No problem.
PSK flew.
And flew.
He roared.
And roared.
Big caves fell.
Smaller caves fell.
Little caves fell.
Little patches of land with no caves on them fell too.
PSK ate when he wanted.
He discovered kebab when one of those big pointy flying sticks skewered a cow while he was roasting it.
That was fun.
He flew and roared and flew and roared.
For two weeks.
Until almost all of Westeros was glass.
Pointy-Stick Killer was tired.
Very tired.
He had eaten his own weight in cow during his two-week mission.
There had been sheep.
There had been goats.
There had been another kebab.
But now PSK wanted one thing.
Sleep.
He returned to his cave with the shiny yellow walls.
He curled up.
Grumble.
Good cave.
Good nap.
And Pointy-Stick Killer slept.
He slept while rain fell on the glass.
He slept while wind and weather slowly broke it.
He slept while earth returned.
He slept while plants returned.
He slept while tiny things lived in the water and took whatever they needed from the land that had been destroyed.
And among those tiny things, life began doing some very strange things.
Years passed.
Fish appeared.
Among them appeared a face.
A face I recognized, though Pointy-Stick Killer would not have.
It was Aegon II.
Unfortunately, Aegon’s face appeared on a very ugly bottom-feeding fish.
The other fish took one look at him.
They ate him.
Years passed.
The fish continued to breed, taking whatever they needed from the land.
Eventually came lizards.
Among the lizards appeared another face I recognized.
Aemond.
The other lizards looked at him.
Not on my watch.
They ate him.
Years passed.
Small mammals appeared.
Some had fur.
Some did not.
A few appeared without skin.
They died immediately.
Never mind those.
Eventually appeared something you or I might recognize as a rat.
Most had ordinary rat faces.
One looked like Daemon.
The other rats agreed:
Not this guy.
He was killed and eaten.
Years passed.
Small monkey-like creatures appeared.
Their faces seemed normal.
Then one appeared whose face I recognized.
Oh my God.
Rhaenyra.
The other primates had developed something of a society by now.
They communicated.
They lived together.
They had rituals.
Unfortunately for Rhaenyra, they had also apparently developed a ritual for this.
There was gathering.
There was noise.
There was eating.
Too bad.
Evolution continued.
After the monkeys came creatures that walked on two feet most of the time.
They were still hunched over, but they walked.
They picked up sticks.
They picked up rocks.
They rubbed rocks against sticks.
Not to any effect, but whatever.
Then one was born with a face I still recognized.
Jacaerys Targaryen.
Jace.
The other two-footed primates looked at him.
They had eaten the fish.
They had eaten the lizard.
They had eaten the rat.
They had ritualistically eaten the monkey.
They looked at Jace.
Meh.
They left him alone.
Very alone.
None of the females would breed with him.
Years passed.
The hunched-over walking people bred.
Their children stood a little straighter.
Their children’s children stood straighter still.
Then one was born with the face of Aegon III.
I recognized him.
His peers recognized something too.
They felt threatened.
Or afraid.
They closed in for the kill.
Jace stepped between them.
They attacked.
Jace protected Aegon with his own life.
When it was over, Jace was dead.
The others looked at him.
Then they looked at Aegon.
If someone would sacrifice himself for this one, perhaps this one was worthy.
They let Aegon live.
The first mistake of evolution had been made.
Remarkably, Pointy-Stick Killer had slept through all of this.
PSK might have continued sleeping, but eventually the rumbling in his stomach woke him.
Grumble grumble grumble.
Good nap.
He poked his head out of his cave.
He looked around.
Huh.
People again.
Pointy-stick people without pointy sticks.
Maybe it was okay.
He sniffed the air.
Then he listened carefully.
No trumpets either.
Grumble.
Maybe okay.
His stomach rumbled.
There were cows.
Definitely maybe okay.
PSK ate a few.
He surveyed the land.
Farms appeared.
The not-caves became larger.
People gathered into settlements.
Still no pointy sticks.
Good.
PSK flew around.
People saw him.
They didn’t know what he was.
There were stories, perhaps, of an enormous flying creature from long ago. A creature whose back shone blue and whose roar could melt stone.
Some thought him a god.
PSK didn’t care.
They weren’t bothering him.
He flew west toward the islands.
Maybe fish today.
PSK discovered that blue fire was excellent for roasting fish.
He liked fish.
Not as much as cow.
But fish was good.
Eventually PSK returned to Casterly Rock.
People were rebuilding on top of his cave.
There were pointy sticks again.
Grumble.
But nobody attacked him.
PSK went back into his cave.
Maybe okay.
Then one day came trumpets.
PSK opened his eyes.
Grumble.
Trumpets.
People approached his cave.
They carried pointy sticks.
They knelt.
They chanted.
They brought offerings.
They intended to worship him.
PSK did not know that.
He knew:
Trumpets.
Pointy sticks.
People approaching cave.
PSK roasted them.
The survivors fled.
The people decided the great creature beneath Casterly Rock was a vengeful god.
His cave was sacred.
No one should enter.
PSK went back to sleep.
Grumble.
Finally.
People learned.
Years passed.
Farms became villages.
Villages became towns.
Pointy sticks became better pointy sticks.
Stone caves rose again.
PSK occasionally emerged.
People bowed.
PSK ignored them.
Sometimes he ate a cow.
Sometimes he flew west for fish.
The people left his cave alone.
PSK left the people mostly alone.
It worked.
For a while.
Then, one day, PSK wanted fish.
He flew west.
He found a large school swimming in water that looked shallow.
PSK circled.
Grumble.
Fish good.
His back began to glow blue.
PSK roared into the water.
The water boiled.
Fish cooked.
Far below them lay something PSK could not see.
An old ship.
It had sunk many years before.
And it carried something extremely unpleasant.
Wildfire.
PSK’s blue fire reached it.
The sea exploded.
The old ship shattered.
Timbers shot upward with tremendous force.
PSK had survived dragons.
He had survived arrows.
He had survived enormous pointy flying arrows.
He had survived armies.
He had survived the destruction of Westeros.
One piece of timber pierced his wing.
Another struck his chest.
Another his belly.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
PSK fell into the sea.
For a moment, blue light glowed beneath the water.
Then it faded.
Pointy-Stick Killer had finally been killed.
By pointy sticks.
