The Hound

Half-consumed by flame
and half-consumed by ire,
assuming a fearsome name
and so fearful of fire,
he drinks deep of wine
and the dregs of despair,
serving a green-eyed line
that is golden of hair;
despising his butcher brother,
that slaughterer of men,
and loving no Father or Mother
or any among the Seven.
In both court and in war
he barks like a beast,
fed on table scraps for
guarding those at the feast
until the chained fires light
upon the blood-soaked bay,
burning away the night
to make a hellish day
over the Blackwater
while he flees the flame,
coming to the daughter
of the man who lost the Game,
taking from her a kiss
and asking for a song,
tears falling with a promise
to do her no wrong.
Thereafter he flees
as a stray on the run
as smoke stains the breeze
and the kingdom comes undone,
the war raging on
within and without his heart,
but in the War for the Dawn
what will be his part?
He steals a wolf pup
in the hope of a job,
but sees her brother sup
headless within a mob
and then, by the Trident,
he meets a gang of cutthroats
all vicious and strident
whom he slaughters like goats,
but not before injured
by a blade in the thigh,
his heart not so inured
from the thought he will die,
and so he asks for ease:
for the Stranger’s gift,
but the pup grants no release
and gives but short thrift,
taking his gold, and his horse,
and leaving him without pity
to set a seaward course
to Braavos, the free city.
He dies, in a sense,
from the rot growing within
and is reborn in the silence
on an isle of holy men.
Living once more
as a gravedigging cripple,
he walks the quiet shore
and counts each ripple
sent out from the war
that he has forsworn
to atone for misdeeds
and the guilt he has borne
for all of his deeds.
But there will come the day
when he must leave the isle
and enter again the fray
to fight for the Dawn while
facing down his own death;
when the Night descends
and he sighs his final breath
as the daylight ends.
Will he say a prayer?
Or utter just a word?
Maybe a gruff puff of air
or just “Little Bird”?

Game Of Thrones TV Character Critique Haikus

Edgelord supreme, you
killed many men, but died of
cringy dialogue.

Veritas varies,
but the truth heard in the flame
meant nothing at all.

Jon Snow
Dead from betrayal
by the inept screenwriters—
remained dead plot-wise.

I thought you would change
to a villain with time, but
also with reason.

“The smartest person”
literally no-one says—
entitled yas-queen.

You lost half your nose
in your nosediving plot arc,
and half of your brain.

The Three-Eyed Raven
saw all, and did not one thing
except bait and switch.

Shortchanging others
as the most frequent sellout,
now master of coin.

The Night King
Your hand shatters steel
and downs dragons, yet cannot
pierce Stark plot armor.

All season in the
Red Keep—or in the red wine?
Just window dressing.

Who would have thought that
the Kingslayer would be killed
by Lord Hightower?

Snuffed out all at once
in the dark, then stoked larger
in ashes later.

Grey Worm
Failing to avenge
his queen in court, he must have
no brains and no balls.

Having twice the eyes
he has in the books, he still
lacks half the vision.

GOT Story Arcs For Seasons 5-8
The Mummer’s Dragon
lost its stage curtain wings while
Winter came and went.

Hodor, Hodor, Hold
the door, Hodor, Hodor, Holed
up their own asses.

Game Of Thrones Riddles

As soot among the trodden snow
forgetful of the extinguished flame,
he knows not his joyous name
while the winds of winter begin to blow.

Dancing along the bladed water
and blinded by vengeance’s charnel channels
of black and white, and wartime’s annals—
she is a needle-tongued daughter.

The little bird in the gilded cage
bethought her life silk to sew,
but found her castle made of snow
and her fairytale darkened with a turning page.

To escape the shadow of the tallest mountain
he drank wine and killed for sport,
finding himself drawn to a bird in court,
hounding her by the moonlit fountain.

To ascend the sky he had to fall,
shattering his mind upon many species
and scattering himself among the weir trees
to answer Summer’s green-throated call.

The bear and the maiden fair
do not always dance well, I can tell,
nor can he abide the flames that swell
in his cavernous heart— that exile lair.

Proud, golden-maned lion upon his rock,
having a hand in most everything hitherto,
and an unblinking glare that could wither, too,
though it did not save him from pointed talk.

Writ so small, yet shadow so giant in cast,
he tumbled for fun, up and down the rung
of the ladder, plying his witty tongue
to politics, and prostitutes; his mind vast.

A peach stained his grim mind
as he stood against his vine-entwined brother,
unwilling to give his claim to another—
he ground his teeth upon an unseen rind.

Hapless, but not helpless, he had a master
whom, like himself, no one wanted,
but upon the blackwater, in battle undaunted,
he helped save half a man from complete disaster.

Pale eyes like the ice-eyed Wights,
he was a man of a mold to the extreme
who let his blood run rather than teem,
unlike his son, a rabid dog that bites.

Through dire straits he traveled,
carrying bulbs beneath stone, without light,
costing him three fingers to become a knight,
and learning to read as his banner unraveled.

Misgivings of marriage, as a stagnant river
that has been rounded into a moat,
feeding itself on love and anger, as a knife to a throat,
even after Death, that failed peace-giver.

Upon a river the stag hammered a lizard
down into the rushing tri-fork
only to be slain by a bellyful of pork
before the gathering of the Great Blizzard.

As if centaur, part man and part horse,
and victories braided in his hair
as he mounted a dragon so womb might bear
a black stallion upon a dreaded course.

Having thought his destiny in hand,
he found love in his mirrored double
only to lose it all to some wartime trouble—
now no gold can compensate; nor title or land.