Northmen soldiers march along the vast rolling hills of Westeros. The thistle crunching under their heavy boots can be heard for miles, but alas, silence is their true companion. The minds of the men never travel to the realm of battle. They just focus on the march. Never stopping. Never slowing.
Towards the middle of the pack, a young man in his mid-20s, wearing a plaid shirt and black-rimmed glasses, peeks his head out of formation. This is Ser Jordan of Los Feliz. He clears his throat and the entire company halts, turning to him expectantly.
"Sorry to be 'that guy,' but are we going to march the whole way?" Met with silence, Ser Jordan looks around for support. "Is it me? If it's just me, I'll shut up."
The company resumes their march, ignoring Ser Jordan.
Under his breath Jordan muses, "Okay, so I guess we're not answering questions anymore? That's cool." He ducks back into formation, the weary traveler bereft of enthusiasm, and checks his phone.
"Uh, Apple Maps is saying to take a left here. Guys? We might be running into some traffic if we go down the King's Road. It's coming up all red on my phone."
The Northmen march on.
* * *
Ser Jaime Lannister, in all his dominating glory, easily defeats his opponent in the annual Tournament of King's Landing. As the poor foe is dragged off, Ser Jordan is helped on with his armor. He refuses the lower half, claiming his corduroys are "stain resistant." Ser Jordan is the only one who chuckles.
Ser Jordan is presented with his sword, which promptly collapses to the ground.
"Oh nice, we're using swords?! I played Legend of Zelda for like 10 years, so I'm pretty much a pro." Ser Jordan looks around. "Where's my controller? Or wait -- does my sword act as sort of a Wii Remote?"
Off the headshakes from his Seres, Ser Jordan groans, mutters "whatever" to himself, and lowers his facemask. It's time for battle. He heads out onto the field.
He immediately turns back, opening the facemask, breathing labored.
"Oh my God, have you guys tried this thing on?! I know you know I'm asthmatic. I put it on the insurance liability form." He removes the helmet. "Let's get a helmet that breathes, then we can do this." His Seres scurry off. Ser Jordan sets about working on a new Vine.
Ser Jaime Lannister, confused, crosses his arms. This Ser Jordan of Los Feliz is quite the gamesman.
* * *
The Wall, imposingly made of ice and snow, looms large against the backdrop of the Seven Kingdoms. The Night's Watch stand patrol, ready to fight whomever, or whatever, dare beckon at their door.
Ser Jordan stands nearby, incredulous.
"So wait -- the whole thing is just made out of ice? Doesn't really seem like it'd be structurally sound."
Ser Jordan takes a loud bite of his apple, turns, and starts to walks off to the confusion of several members of the Night's Watch.
* * *
King Joffrey sits atop the iron throne. The boy king stares daggers at Ser Jordan. This is not a King any man would want to cross.
"You think you can run your mouth and I won't cut it off? Throw it to the birds or the peasants, both of whom haven't had a decent meal nigh on a fortnight? I can and will if you don't shut your stupid mouth, and respect the authority of the King and his throne," commands Joffrey.
Ser Jordan, an obstinate man by nature, doesn't back down.
"Look, all I'm saying is, Jurassic Park is a comparable metaphor to dragons. I'm not saying they are dragons. I mean -- I'm not dumb."
King Joffrey stands, heated, exclaiming, "Do you dare call me dumb? I am King Joffrey of the House Beratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Do you understand me?!"
Ser Jordan rolls his eyes and looks to a nearby maiden. "Clearly trying to make up for some lacking in the downstairs dungeon, am I right? I had a friend just like this. Well, more of an acquaintance. Met him at a house party last summer. I think he worked for William Morris."
Ser Jordan takes a bite of his now present apple. Where does he keep getting those from?
* * *
Lord Varys paces, distraught, while Ser Jordan drinks some wine.
"Just so you know, Ser Jordan, while you're guzzling down all my wine, there is a plot afoot to kill Tyrion Lannister!"
Ser Jordan stares blankly back at Varys.
"Tyrion Lannister, Tyrion Lannister... I'm sorry, which one is he again? I am TERRIBLE with names. And I know everyone says that, but I really am."
"Tyrion Lannister is the dwarf," Lord Varys repeats for the millionth time.
Ser Jordan, slapping his hand to his forehead, remembers. "Duh! I always mix him up with Tywin because it sounds so much like 'tiny.'" Lord Varys rolls his eyes. Jordan continues, "No need to worry though Verne -- assassination isn't supposed to happen for a while."
Lord Varys is puzzled. "How do you know that? I have thousands of spies in my employ, and I didn't uncover that cabal." Varys takes a very lengthy pause. "And it's Varys, not Verne."
Ser Jordan drinks his wine. "It was all over Twitter this morning. It's basically trending. Don't worry, you'll get there." Lord Varys frowns. Sir Jordan continues, "Hey, this wine's pretty good. Did you get it from Trader Joe's?"
Lord Varys frowns more.