I Wrote THE WINDS OF WINTER for George R. R. Martin


George R. R. Martin has announced that “The Winds of Winter,” the next book in A Song of Ice and Fire, will not be finished before the next season of Game of Thrones debuts—meaning the show is outpacing the books. I can appreciate Mr. Martin’s time constraints, being a famous author, so I went ahead and wrote The Winds of Winter for him.

Please note, I have only read the first book and seen a few episodes of the show.


Peter Dinklage awoke just after dawn, while the sun still shone cool upon the fading majesty that were the white pillars of a once great city now in decline. He looked out over the ruins, as dirty, toothless mothers carried their dirty, toothless children towards ships that they might flee the coming menace. At least they have a family, thought Peter Dinklage. Peter Dinklage had no family.

“I have no family,” said Peter Dinklage. “I am just an imp.”

“But you are an imp with money and power,” said Peter Dinklage’s bodyguard friend. “And a man needs neither height nor family when he has money and power. For men are the sum of their power, are they not.”

“Men,” agreed Peter Dinklage.

“Aye,” said his bodyguard friend.


A handsome new hero appears. He is young, wise and brave. 

“Do you want to be king?” the people ask. 

“No,” says the stranger. “Those who desire power are not worthy of it. For one to be good at being a king, one must first be …”

Everyone leans in closer to listen to him.


Everyone is amazed by the stranger’s kindness.


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Daenerys Targaryen took off all of her clothes and stood nakedly in her bedchambers, with no clothes on.

“My queen,” came a voice from outside her private bedchambers. “It is time to talk of plans to take the Iron Throne.”

“You may enter,” said Daenerys as she turned towards the door, her bare breasts jiggling luminously as she did so. “But do not speak to me of taking the Iron Throne. It is already mine, because I am a queen.”

In walked the captains of her army and her advisors. They were all very impressed with how powerful and naked Daenerys was.

“Yes,” the handsome soldier who was in love with her said. “But we still need to take the Iron Throne, because nobody wants to give it to you or even really knows who you are, except us and especially me.”

“The next person who says ‘Take the Iron Throne’ will have his head cut off and be fed to my dragons,” Daenerys shouted nakedly.

“Yes, my queen,” said everyone. And Daenerys arched her bare back towards the seven heavens, stretching her bare arms akimbo of her lithe, pale body as her breasts bobbled in the candle light. Normal queen stuff.



Jon Snow was cold. It was always cold at The Wall. There were stories of times it had gotten so cold that men had cut out their own hearts just so they could plunge their hands into the warmth of their chests.

“Winter is coming,” said Jon Snow’s friend, the Game of Thrones version of Sam Gamgee.

“Yes,” said Jon Snow. “That is how seasons work.”

“Are you going to forsake your vows?”

“I will never forsake my vows.”

“But you’ve already forsaken your vows.”

“I only forsake my vows sometimes, but not now.”

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

But Jon Snow already knew that he knew nothing. Indeed, that was the only thing anyone ever said about him.

In the darkness and snow of the forest beyond them, a rider appeared from beyond The Wall.

“What is your business?” cried Jon Snow.

“I come with a warning. My age is beyond reckoning. I have traversed time and space, and many worlds to come here.”

“You may enter,” said Jon Snow. “I am Jon Snow.”

“Ahhh,” said the stranger. “Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“How did you know that?”

“Everyone knows that. You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

“You know that winter is coming,” said the Game of Thrones version of Sam Gamgee helpfully.

“Shut up,” said Jon Snow. “Just shut up.”


The stranger walks into a brothel, where men pay money to sleep with young, beautiful women. That is the thing about men. They are great, but sometimes their greatness leads them to do terrible things. 

“Are you here to have take a prostitute?” asks one of the men, grinning as women climb all over his body. 

“No,” says the stranger. “I am here to give them away.” 

The stranger takes out a sword and kills every man in the brothel and sets all the prostitutes free. 

“Why would you do this?” ask the prostitutes. 

The stranger is silent, as he thinks of his beautiful wife and twenty children, far over the western sea, waiting for his return. 

“Because…” he says softly. “Just because.”



Sansa Stark, the girl who had the worst life ever, was thrown from a cliff, forcibly married to a goblin king, given only spiders to eat, saved from the goblin king only to be forcibly married to a colossal squid, placed in a catapult and flung into a vat of old mustard, all before being turned into a starfish for three years.

“This is what it is to be a queen in Westeros,” Queen Cersei told her.



Bran woke from another nightmare. It seemed even more real than last time. All his dreams seemed real, even when they were not real. How could they be? But they were. That was what the old maest—


“Come,” said the boy from Almost Famous. “We have to go North.”

“Come along, Hodor.”




Stannis was conflicted. It is the eternal burden of man to be conflicted, and that is what Stannis was. Who should he listen to?

“My King,” said his friend with only four fingers. “Let’s make a good plan, get some other armies to help us, and then go take the Iron Throne for you. I am a good friend, and one of the few people in your life who displays any sense whatsoever.”

“My King,” said the red lady. “Wear your clothes inside out. Tie a hammer to your head. Kill your friends. This is how you’ll be a king. The Lord of Light commands it.”

“Hmmm,” said Stannis. “This is a difficult decision. I must think on it.”

“Have you considered your family?” said his four fingered friend, clasping his hands.

“Have you considered boobs?” said the red lady, taking off all of her clothes.

Stannis felt tortured, body and soul. They both made good points, but who made the better point? If he would ever be king, he must choose wisely. Such was the price of power.

“This,” Stannis declared regally, “is a toughie.”


The stranger is walking in the forest, minding his own business, when he is suddenly beset upon all sides by fifty bandits. They beat him to death, chop off his head and mail it to his wife.

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1 Comment

  1. I’m really looking forward to seeing this play out on the show. XD


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