"The Hedge Knight" and George R.R. Martin's Unfinished "A Platter of Pork and Bacon"

Chapter #1 of  G.R.R.M's unpublished "A Platter of Pork & Bacon", a WIP magnum opus centering around death-lust for Samwell Tarly and Martin's obsession with synonyms for "pig"

Virtually nobody remembers that George R.R. Martin wrote "The Hedge Knight" in 1998, only two years after A Game of Thrones was first published.  It was a stark departure from the large number of character perspectives found in AGoT, instead focusing predominately on the misfortunes of Samwell Tarly's character.  In fact, because of the novel's bizarre (and frequently sadistic) infatuation with Tarly, Martin even had a working title for the book: "A Platter of Pork and Bacon".  

Years later, Martin expressed a lasting venom for Tarly's character, saying, "In virtually every way, I feel that he [Samwell Tarly] is a repugnant character. He's fat, unclean and 'craven' and completely devoid of charm.  As he bumbles through Westeros, the only thing that keeps him alive is this overwhelmingly pitiful quality--it exploits our pathos and, although we might hold the rock above his head--and although we may hit him with it again and again--we cannot bring ourselves to deliver the killing blow.  

"Because of this, I'd like to think that I knew I was making a mistake when I first committed him to paper.  All of these characters who are slated for the chopping block, and here is one that transcends death.  You've heard of Pandora's Box?  Well imagine opening the box and finding it brimming with Samwell Tarly's shit, because he's been shitting in this box for a thousand years and just waiting for somebody to open it.  It's spilling over the sides and ruining everything it touches, including yourself.  You've released him into [Westeros] and you'll never get him back in, so now you just have to figure out how to hurt him--to make him pay for simply being."   

~*JON*~

"But we can't go out there!" Samwell protested, his jowls jiggling like succulent slabs of hog fat; even after he stopped begging Jon to heed his advice, they continued to tremble until he put his hands up and stilled them.  When he pulled his fat sausage-fingers away, fat sausage-shaped indentations striped his face.

"Gotta do what I gotta do," Jon brooded melancholy, wincing as the cold frost licked at his eyelashes.  "I'm thirteen, Tarly--and a man needs to know when to defend his honor and be a man."

The words were intended to cut Samwell down, yet he ignored them.  "But...Ser Thorne! He'll catch us before we even make it to Mole's Town!" Spittle ran down his blubbery pink worm-lips.

"Quit bein' craven," Jon snapped, snatching Samwell by the ruff of his disgusting, sweaty cloak.  "Ungh, Seven Hells!"  He instantly grimaced, loosening his grip and leaning away from the boy--months of grease and filth and grime had collected in the coward's clothing, making Jon think that he would go up like a candle if even a single cinder came in contact with him.  Maybe it wouldn't even have to touch him, Jon thought coldly.  Maybe the craven fumes would serve as all the tinder necessary to immolate this coward.  The thought of Samwell stumbling around, a living flame, made Jon smile faintly.  It warmed his cockles. "We. Are. Going."

Samwell practically dug his feet into the snow as he was pushed toward the gate.  As they marched, Jon found himself glancing down at their feet.  Were Samwell's tracks two-toed?  No--no they were not. 

"WHAT ARE YOU TWO SHITLICKS DOIN'?!" Alliser Thorne's voice cut through the air like a thunderclap, physically knocking Samwell off his feet.  He gasped as tears welled up in his eyes.  Jon looked over his shoulder and watched as Ser Thorne leapt over the third-floor balcony and--without breaking eye contact with either of them--landed in the snow like a white meteor.  He then got to his feet, an elegant creature, smiling terribly, eyes wide and wild and the color of dragonglass.  "Gonna make water in the fat one! You disgusting, fat fucking pig! You're my toilet now!"

Alliser strode up to them like a horrible blond golem, somehow making eye contact with both of them simultaneously.  The knight's hands searched his beltline and for a terrible moment, Samwell could not discern which sword he would unsheathe.  But then the glimmering steel of a longsword appeared, and Samwell felt strange relief that he might only get his head cut off rather than having to gaze upon another man's genitals.  

Pictured:  One of three dozen named characters with "eyes like flecks of onyx", "long, black hair", "thin, sharp features", and "skin like mother's milk".

~*ALLISER THORNE*~

Whimpering, Samwell grabbed handfuls of snow and rubbed it on his face.  It instantly melted to slush as it touched his warm, pink flesh.  "Be gone...b...be gone..." he bleated.  The stink of Alliser Thorne clung to him like a blond phantom, haunting his every thought.  It smelled like sweat and coriander, like old leather and black grease.  If only he could wash it off--

"I beseech both the Old Gods and the New, grant me mercy and free me of Thorne!"  Even as the words left his mouth, they were weak and unconvincing.  His face was sufficiently drenched in frigid snowmelt, but still he could detect the odor.  It formed a finger and flicked at his ear, causing him to jerk his head away and gasp.  But when he looked over his shoulder, there was nothing--

"PIG BOY!" Thorne suddenly bellowed, materializing behind him.  Half of his body was still invisible, wrapped in a magick cloak that turned the wearer transparent as air--only the nude upper-half of Ser Thorne was visible, a torso floating above the snow like a ghost.  "Prayin' to the God of Pork again, eh?"

Hadn't Jon killed him?  Samwell searched his memories but they were a panicked jumble.  He remembered Ser Thorne grabbing him, he felt the world rush up to greet him...he remembered the taste of mud and snow.  Thorne must have spared him the sword and instead rained merciless blows down upon him.  And there was screaming.  Jon's?  Thorne's?  His?  

Without warning, Alliser rolled his shoulders, causing the cloak to fall to the ground and reveal the rest of him.  First there was the creamy white skin and an endless forest of rough, tangled, blond hair.  Then there were the black leather pants, impossibly tight.  Amidst the weeping wounds Jon must have inflicting on him, there were strange marks--symbols?

Samwell fell backwards into the snow and began backpedaling as Thorne stalked after him, intoning:   

"We, the proud Thornes,

we grow all the corn

Corn for the pork,

and pork for your fork"

"W-what?" was all Samwell could stammer.  

"I was a pig farmer--" Alliser's steely gaze pierced Samwell's feeble spiritual defenses and he could instantly feel the man's spirit invading his plump innards, dining on his soul-sap from ten paces "--a THOUSAND SUMMERS AGO."

And then Ser Thorne and his terrible canvas of symbols were upon him.

~*SAMWELL TARLY*~

Saucer-eyed Samwell Tarly's lips quivered as he beheld the crate of delicate pastries that sat before him.  Repulsive stock like Sam didn't experience the emotional milestones of ordinary men...except, here were these milky white legs spread wide, granting him unencumbered access to all the moist cakes, delicate cream horns, decadent strudels, and mouth-puckering tarts he could take into himself.  This must be how other men feel when they first lay eyes upon a beautiful woman, or a glimmering pile of jewels, he thought to himself, tingling at the thought of how it must be feel to be a real human being. 

As he stood there--a mere swine momentarily glancing over the filthy trough, past the fence, and up to the heavens, he glimpsed god's flesh: It was tender and flaky and baked.  He began to breathe heavily, and a prickly heat swept across his face.  

Samwell took one step forward, and then another.  His feet felt as heavy as boulders yet, when he lifted them, they were simultaneously light as air; unseen culinary-magicks drew him forward.  He clumsily dropped down beside the crate and inhaled an intoxicating aroma of sugars, butters, and spices; it made him dizzy, and he had to brace himself against the crate to keep from keeling over.

"How did you get here?"  The crate offered no answers.  It was undoubtedly a mistake, intended for some lord or lady of the North; not for him, never for him.  Yet it had somehow ended up at Castle Black.  "...how did I get here?"  He heard his own voice--it was slow and slurred, as if he were drunk.  

With surprising speed and dexterity for somebody so corpulent, he plunged a hand into the crate and snatched a Danish free from the pile.  Wrestling with the excited tremble of his hands, he lifted the treat to his face until his nose was pressed against its gooey crimson innards.  Go on, it said to him. Dine upon me, Lord Tarly.  Eat your fill.  The sudden rush of saliva made his jaw ache.  

An angel's kiss of sugar sat on the tip of Samwell's broad, upturned nose.  He inhaled deeply and held his breath for what felt like an eternity, his secret prisoner, before reluctantly releasing it.  It smelled of ripe strawberry fields, hot, bubbling butter, and...an indescribable noise escaped his lips without his consent.

He tested the quince cheese with a single fat finger and, sensing its vulnerability, continued to probe it with additional fingers.  "There are...secrets--secrets hidden deep inside of you, and my mouth will...my mouth will release them," he hesitantly cooed to the pastry.  His forbidden lover.

At that very moment the door burst open behind him with such ferocity that it broke free of its heavy iron hinges and collided with the wall, shattering into a thousand-thousand pieces; bits of wood and splinters rained down on him.  "WHERE'S MY BOY-HOG?"  Ser Thorne's voice.  

The food!  Was it an elaborate trap set by Ser Thorne?  Or was the instrument of betrayal its own perpetrator?

Tears reflexively welled up in Samwell's eyes and his bottom lip began quivering.  He stumbled and scrambled away on both hands and feet, but corners and dead-ends met him at every turn.  "You don't understand!" He scooted under a robust wooden table.  "The food, it's never spoken to me before--it speaks! God is in the food! God is in the food!"

Alliser ignored him, beholding "you're eating well" in a tone that stood somewhere between raw contempt and wicked exhilaration.  He strode towards Samwell, shaking the earth with each step and knocking dust from the rafters. 

"The food speaks to me, the food speaks to me!" Thorne mocked Samwell.  "It would seem that my food speaks to me as well."

~*KHALEESI*~

"Khaleesi, I beg of you, do not sacrifice yourself for the sake of your Khal," Ser Jorah Mormont pleaded with the nubile young albino woman named Daenerys Stormborn, stopping just short seizing her delicate wrists and shaking her loose of her intense determination.

Her pink rodent eyes were cold and her face was a mask of raw, youthful anger as she said, "I know what I must do, Ser."  She practically spat the words at the aging knight, causing him to visibly shrink in fear.  Observing his reaction, she thought to herself, how curious that the man becomes the child as the child becomes the man.  Their love was like that, though: It was a constant, restless swirling of reversed roles, a chase of cat and mouse.  Yet neither truly knew who was which.

Daenerys then climbed upon the Khal's funeral pyre, thrust the torch high above her head and held it there so that the Gods might see.  The two made eye contact once more before she pitched it straight down into the straw beneath her feet.

Instantly the pyramid of kindling went to flames, surrounding the woman in a twister of golden flame.  It swirled around her hypnotically, engulfing her for hours before finally sputtering and dying.  In the end, all that remained was a diminished mound of blackened ash and the Khaleesi's tiny white figure, crouching in the dirt like a sun-bleached spider.

"By the Gods," Ser Jorah gasped as he approached her. 

Through the smoke, he could see that she cradled a small creature in her arms; two more clung to her hair and shoulders.  They had the bodies of grotesque cherubs, yet their heads were enormous--nearly adult-sized.  As he drew closer, he could see more of their awful features.  Each possessed the bloated visage of a frightened boy, with a wreath of thin, black hair ringing their necks where a chin and throat should have been.  Their cheeks and eyes were obfuscated by soft, pink rolls of flesh, and a messy tangle of greasy brown hair crowned each of their gigantic heads.

One of them made fleeting, uncomfortable eye contact with him, and Ser Jorah's heart skipped a beat.  "You frightened me, m'lord!" the creature stammered.  "You haven't seen Ser Alliser Thorne, have you?"  Yet the mention of the name set all three into a hideous sobbing, and instantly Ser Jorah felt the overwhelming urge to scream, to beg Khaleesi to abandon these triplets to the desert; he struggled to form the words to shout at her followers, "find more tinder!  The pyre must be relit!  Throw yourselves on the flames if you must!"

But all he could manage was a strange, defeated sound.  

~*PETYR*~

"You might say this is a Game of Thrones-changer," the weaselly Petyr Baelish practically twirled his perfect mustache as he revealed his latest contraption, the "Combustible Metal Bearing Launcher".  It was a terrible device fashioned from riveted bronze and iron, with a long octagonal barrel and needlessly complex set of optical instruments affixed to the top of it.   "I'm certain that it's gonna kill so many pissants."

Varys puckered his lips and gave an indecipherable mmm that neither man could discern as approval or doubt.

"Watch this," Baelish commanded.  Nimble fingers set about adjusting the various lenses and knobs.  "Even got that twisted old man, Pycelle, to build me a miniature telescope for it.  Such a fogey!"

After a few moments, he winced and yanked down violently on the trigger.  A jet of flame instantly exploded from the barrel and a heavy brass ball launched across the Godswood.  A second later, part of a Weirwood's face exploded in a cloud of splinters and smoldering detritus.  "GOT you, you fucking tree!"

Varys's eyes lit up and his jaw dropped.  "Ahh!" he screamed excitedly, throwing his arms into the air and waving them frantically.

"You can't use it, though," Petyr said softly and without varnish.  

"What? Why?" Varys sputtered, grabbing at the weapon with pale, powdery hands.

"Because," he growled, pulling it away from the eunuch.  "You're a miserable dork.  You're smug and you grin like a dork."  He said the words in a very matter-of-fact tone, but then added with irritation, "And my god, Varys, have some decorum."

"Well...at least..." Varys paused to search the Godswood before he spotted something, "...shoot that bird!"  He thrust a finger toward the sky, pointing at a tiny black speck drifting on the breeze.  "That one right there! Shoot it!"  It would be the furthest Lord Baelish had ever aimed the device.

Evidently happy with that concession, Petyr gnawed on his lip and began readjusting the optics.  "Gods, Pycelle's such a fogey.  He kept trying to warn me about the telescope, like it was complicated or magick or something.  And then I totally pushed him and he fell over and I could see his dick under his robe and everything!"  Petyr broke into shrill, ear-splitting laughter.  "It was foul!"

Finally satisfied with his settings, he lifted the weapon and peered through the delicate lenses. "Wait...what in the world?"

"What is it?  What is it?" Varys asked excitedly.

"That can't be right.  That looks like...Castle Black?"

Varys pushed him to the side and forced his moon-face against the lens.  What he saw took his breath away: It was indeed Castle Black...but he could also make out a paunchy, disgusting boy standing out in the snow, alone.  As he watched, the boy seemed to look around and, after a moment, began meddling with his soiled black pants.  A fat hand disappeared under the fabric before reemerging several seconds later and taking an immediate trip to his nose.

"Sorcery," Varys breathed, vexed.

"No!  You mustn't use the 'Eyes of the Crone' like this!" Pycelle burst into the room.  "The 'Eyes' are imbued with terrible magicks!  You two fools have no idea what you are doing!"

Varys angrily shushed the Maester. "Quiet!  Be still!"  He licked his lips. "I think...I think he can see us!"

"Of course he can see us!"  Pycelle continued, half-limping, half-running toward them.  "When you peer into the 'Eyes'...the 'Eyes' peer into you!  They open up a door between 'to' and 'fro' in a manner that mere mortals were never intended to use!"

"Speak true, old man!" Petyr snapped, slapping Pycelle with a vicious, downward strike that knocked the Maester to his knees.

Varys held his breath as the disheveled, porcine stranger seemed to turn his head and look straight at him.  He felt like he could even smell the boy, a foul stink of old cheese and sour fear that burned his nostrils.  It was almost like he was--

"Right there!" Petyr shouted.  Varys stumbled back, still clutching Petyr's weapon with clammy hands.

Somehow the boy in black was standing in the middle of the Godswood.  His eyes were bright with terror, and he instantly lowered his head and hunched over like an ape trying to figure out how best to flee.  His hair clung to his bulbous forehead in thick, greasy tangles, and his wobbly gut was visible even under the soiled black clothing of the Night's Watch.  And the stink--the stink radiating off of him was rapidly worsening: Sweat, piss, and soil mingled with other indescribable notes, causing Varys to reflexively cry out in pain.

"A black swine-cherub!  A portent of dark days ahead!" Pycelle wept.

Without thinking, Varys yanked on the trigger.  The weapon barked once again; the boy's tremendous gut split open like an overripe peach.  Slippery red entrails spilled out of the wound as the boy let out a soft moan, stumbled, and collapsed.

END OF CHAPTER 1