You either win or you die. Unless you don't play in the first place.
Come to think of it...why DOES anyone play?
A cold wind whipped down through the valley, tangling his hair and carrying with it the sharp, biting scent of cold and snow. Above birds still sang, but their numbers grew thinner each day, and their songs less frequent and more lonely.
"You know, winter is co-"
"SHUT. UP. Seriously. You're like one of the Maester's ravens. All day long, 'Winter! Winter! Winter!' I KNOW ALREADY."
"I'm just saying we should brace our-"
"BRACE OURSELVES, YES. I HEARD. A MILLION BAZILLION FREAKING TIMES. Go to whichever of the seven hells is the worst, man. Just leave me alone."
"I knew I should've left to be a knight."
"Do you have any idea what that entails? We're pig farmers, Larry. You don't just waddle into the nearest castle and sign up to be highborn. This is an ancient, vaguely medieval time. By pure happenstance we happened to be born skewered firmly on the s&^% end of the stick."
"I could've joined the fighting."
"You know what's gonna happen with all that fighting? A bunch of dudes are gonna die, a different colored flag will be just barely visible in the distance, and still no one will come within 1,000 miles of us because we're pig farmers and we have the perma-stink of pig crap embedded in our skin."
"I just thought a great war of kingdoms would seem more interesting."
"Yeah, well not everyone gets to be special. Some of us are just pig farmers."
Wear this shirt: Into glorious battle.
Don't wear this shirt: While watching thinly-veiled softcore pornography on HBO.
This shirt tells the world: "It doesn't sound as thrilling to charge into a fight in the school cafeteria shouting, '456 MEADOWVIEW LANE!'"
We call this color: Beware the Blackened Man
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