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A Game of Hodor: Chapter II

Wolfswood. Charming.  Home of direwolves, regular wolves, escaped Wildlings and disease-bearing ticks.  I’m loathe to imagine a less hospitable place.  But of course we’re traveling north to the Wall, so less hospitable is all we have to look forward to, as far as I am aware.  I suppose it’s possible that we’ll wander upon some manner of delightful feast or perhaps a park covered in slides made of water, but I find it exceedingly unlikely as such things don’t even exist.  Fanciful dream of mine, that is.

If my memory of geography serves me well, we’re not too far off from Deepwood Motte.  Not as unappealing as the marshes around the neck, but still not my cup of tea.  Mmm, a cup of tea would go over well right now.  But instead we had some ditch water for breakfast and a handful of berries.  Lovely.   I had thought to point out how I outweigh everyone here by well over 10 stone and thus could perhaps benefit from a more hearty meal, but instead I said “Hodor.”  Of course.

I never trusted that Theon Greyjoy.  In point of fact I always thought he looked a bit like a rat boy but of course no one would listen to me because when I tried to vocalize these concerns all I ever said was “Hodor” and once I grunted.  I can grunt.  So not only do I miss out on meals I tend to let valuable information just slip right by.  I tried writing once, thought perhaps if I carried a pen and ink with me I could suitably warn others of my concerns, voice my opinions, request a second helping of ham, that sort of thing.  This is what my writing looks like;

 

Do you see that?  Do you?  Looks like chicken scratch, a turd and a book with a face.  That’s my name!  How?  How is that possible?  It happens every bloody time!

Alas, I have given up on meaningful communication, it’s just not for me.  The gods see fit to grace us all with different skills and my skill seems to be related to being the size of an ox and somewhat less efficacious at speaking than one.  I suppose I should be grateful, most other families in the world would have thrown me into the woods when I was a child rather than raise me but let’s be honest, had I been tossed in the woods I would have likely been raised by wild beasts and would be a legendary beast man haunting the forest and eating people’s faces right now.  And that would be a little less degrading than what I currently do.

I suppose helping my liege Lord’s cripple son navigate the woods when we’re in peril isn’t that unworthy of a stable boy, but who do you think needs to hold the boy ever so slightly off the ground when he poops, hmm?  Just holding him like a meaty hat rack as he wipes himself on leaves I have to pick.  Me.  I collect shit tickets out here in the woods and I keep them in my pockets because I know later Bran will have to shit and then he’ll have to wipe and as we head further North and there are fewer and fewer deciduous trees, what will we be wiping on?  No one else thinks of these things and of course I can’t say anything.  Gods, I’m a poop maid.  Walder, how did you get yourself into this mess?

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