[b]Part 6[/b] The march on Twatty Castle had been a long one for Prince Barming. And indeed the rest of his retinue, if retinue was the right word, which I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Gang. Sure. “Squiddington,” Barming hailed his octopedal companion. “How much further must we heft this baggage? Any cell will do.” “Why not toss him in with this lot?” the squid queried. “They could use the meat. And I could use… uh, should stop quoting Halo 2.” “What baggage?” hollered one of the Nojoy ...the only Nojoy chap. “Your cock,” Ramher Bolt-On chortled. “Although I’d hardly call it ‘baggage’: it’s no bigger than my little finger.” “Your Graces,” irished Lord Baelful. “We should listen to potatoes… Prince Barming. See what he has to say on the matter.” “Thank you,” Barming nodded. “Uhh, whoever you are, because you weren’t in my last scene. Y’know what, lads and ladies because of the two slammin’ hotties riding… brrrrrh, gonna need new underwear. Anyway, yes, this ride has been rather gruelling, so what say we take a little break and have a Kit-Kat Chunky or eight?” “Hard to have a little break with a Chunky,” remarked Tyranny Bannister. “Are you suggesting we keep riding until our arse cheeks are redder than rose blossom?” Margaryan TytheknotwithalltheyoungBannisters giggled. “Think I’d be down for that.” “I never thought I’d say this,” Tiramisu Because Tyranny Implies He’s Bad began. “Better never have I more wished to be one of my nephews.” “Enough of this disgusting discourse,” hissed his sister, Cerveysays, also popping into this scene despite not having been present before. “Prince Barming, shall we make our camp?” “Can you all please stop teleporting in?” Barming barmed. “This is supposed to be fantasy, not sci-fi.” “Could be good ol’ fashioned magic,” shrugged Vasectomy Barbaryan, because I couldn’t think of a good pun on Daenerys. “Even so, none of you are helping,” Barming gestured hopelessly. “Cerveysays, you won’t fight, you’ll just drink, drink, and drink some more.” Tiramisu laughed heartily. “Blood may be thicker than water, dear sister, but wine is sweeter than both.” “I can handle a socially-stunted child with a vitamin D deficiency,” Cerveysays wasped. “If his bawling handservants don’t put you off first,” Tiramasu returned. Cerveysays rolled her eyes. Barming clapped his hands. “Right, then, well, then, camp, then.” “Wait,” Douchenozzle said. “Look around you. It’s all hilly; we’re near the Eerie Eyrie. Bandit territory.” Tiramasu shifted uncomfortably on his saddle. Oballs-he-blam!-edthatup Wal-Martell ambled his horse between Lady Margaryan and D’nowhattocallher. The ladies blushed and then covered their horse saddles with moisture, before Oballs glared at the hills. “THEY’LL -blam!- HER. THEY’LL MURDER HER. THEY’LL KILL HER CHILDREN.” “wat” “Damnit, cover’s blown.” “WAT” “Only joking!” A clownish buffoon leapt from the rocks ahead, sporting an eagertistical grin, that’s a word I’m inventing for myself, but no, this guy isn’t meant to be me, that’d be Barming with his silly narcissism. Well, I say clownish: on closer inspection, he appeared to be garbed in a checkered flag, with jet black hair getting in his eyes and making him say ‘Ow’ a lot. Also, he seemed to have recently tried to eat a stapler, judging by the metal on his lips. “You,” Barming said, pointing his sword, Tarty’s Wrath, which was actually what I called my warhammer in Skyrim, at the weirdo. Commas. “You are one of… That guy we’re going to kill’s men.” The emo laughed, which was unsettling because he hadn’t done it in a couple of years. So it sounded more like a gurgling mountain goat, if you see what I mean. Hear what I mean. Whatever. “You’re not killing anyone today.” “No shit,” Barming said. “We’re still a week away from the place.” “And winter is cooming,” Don Slow reminded him. “That won’t help.” “And that thing too, yes.” “Okay… well, you won’t be killing anyone… ever again? Does that cover it?” Barming’s group of Game of Thrones parody characters nodded, satisfied. Well, Ramher was a bit miffed by this premature declaration. As was Toffrey. And Tyrant Bannister. And Wander Fray. And Allisern Thorne-inJon’sarse. And Aryakiddinme. And George RR Martin himself. In fact, there was only a few people in both Westerncontinent and Essisforsex that weren’t at least a little peeved. “Anyway, here’s why: “My lord has an army,” the boy began, grinning darkly. “The largest army this world has ever known. Forces from all over the world have come to our aid against your cruel, judgemental king, and we shall not be cowed into rolling over dead simply because you don’t like us. We have always kept to ourselves. But now you march on our city with the intention of destroying us, simply because you don’t like us? We will stand, and this world with us, to defy your arbitrary culturcide, and allow the peoples of this land to leave as they wish, in peace and happiness.” “Culturcide,” Boy Nojoy said. “You made that up, didn’t you?” “No, it’s a word. Google it. I did, when I wrote that speech.” “Pfft,” Nojoy pffted. “Don’t believe you.” “You don’t have to,” the boy said. “It’s true.” “Don’t care,” Nojoy ploughed on. “There’s ...like, at least 8 of us, and one of you. Two, if you count your little pussy king.” “Pussy king,” the emo messenger considered. “That’s a good title.” “Taken,” Tiramisu smirked. “Jointly,” Oballs added. “We’ll beat the shit out of yeh,” Nojoy concluded triumphantly. “Oh yeah,” the messenger nodded sarkily. “Yeah, our army is in fact me, His Precociousness, and a potty-mouthed gnome called Terry. He’ll have you, so he will, unless of course Oballs kicks him over first. Yeah, no, we’re going to get annihilated. Oh dear. I should go warn my king. You mean, mean moodies. I… You’ll… [i]-blam!- off[/i].”