Fire and Mud: a GoT parody

A Song of Kings and Hilariousness

The newly crowned King Joffrey Baratheon of Westeros sat upon the Iron Throne with a smug smirk as his mother stood by his side, looking rather more cheerful than usual. Her husband had just died. This was not unexpected. He was a glutton and a drunk: his liver and stomach had unanimously decided to commit treason once the first opportunity arose, before either of them exploded, and the queen had been of a similar mind ever since Joffrey had been born.

As it turned out, none of the above had to do a single thing.

Robert Baratheon had been with his court shortly before the tragic accident, where they had been discussing various matters with his newly appointed Hand, Eddard Stark, when Varys arrived twenty minutes later than usual.

“You’re late,” King Robert snapped. “What’s your excuse this time? One of your little birds shit on you?”

“Hopefully not this time, your grace,” Varys said apologetically. “I have news of the Targaryens. They have formed a rather unusual alliance with one Khal Drogo of the Dothraki tribes.”

“You told me they were planning this already,” he said sharply. “What of it?”

“The arrangement... did not go as foreseen.”

“What? Oh,” he said dully, holding a hand over his eyes, “he’s got her up the duff already, hasn’t he? They have no standards, these people.”

“Far from it, your grace.”

“Eh? What do you mean? Speak up!”

Varys paused and decided for the sake of the fragile minds of the court to approach the king and whisper in his ear instead.

King Robert listened carefully, one eyebrow raised.

Once the story was told, the room was silent.

Then King Robert started laughing.

And he didn’t stop laughing, even when his heaves turned to gasps, then to hoarse whispers, then finally to trapped wind escaping as the court quickly called for Maester Pycelle and two strong men trained specifically for the task of carrying fat men long distances at the behest of a foresighted Littlefinger.

One day later, Joffrey had been crowned king and was currently executing people for very little reason under supervision from the queen regent, who paid him very little attention.

“And why, pray tell,” asked Joff patronisingly, “did the lyrics of said song contain only two semi-intelligible syllables and a strangled cough?”

“’Cuz the king laughed himself to death, sire,” the minstrel muttered.

“Do you think this is suitable conduct on the days following your beloved king’s death?”