Pulling tongues out of people's faces, slapping Joffrey, banging Roz, throwing darts at a picture of Ramsay Bolton's face, HODOR, supplying axes to Shagga, being the STALLION THAT MOUNTS THE WORLD, scooping moose faeces north of the wall (a man must have moose faeces), looking for Tywin Lannister to the East on the third day, roaming the land questing for Varys' withered scrotum, shuddering when Varys mentions his "gash", slapping Joffrey again, HODOR, gazing innocently at Margaery and Daenerys and thinking bowchiggachiggabow bow bow, getting gloves for Coldhands (AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA), spreading the word of Hot Pie's identity as the secret Targaryen heir, watching on the wall, roasting the pussy-ass bald witch Pryat Pree, waiting for Theon to finish his speech and go "nyahhhhhh!" before slapping him with a spear, taking milk of the poppy, and training my direwolf. HODOR.
A POSSIBLE ENDING FOR THE ENTIRE SERIES-
Just as planned, thought Hodor. The realm is mine for the taking. Tywin dead, Roose strung up by the collar, the kings in their graves and the queens too busy fighting over that bastard on the Wall to see it coming. No one can stop me now. Not even Patchface or Butterbumps. They'll all soon learn the price of underestimating m--
"What's wrong, Hodor?" inquired Lord Bran cheerfully, seated high upon the throne of New Winterfell.
"Hodor," assured Hodor, with an enigmatic smirk. You'll find that out soon enough, you mind-invading little pissant...
HOW ARYA SHOULD DEAL WITH THOSE PESKY FREYS
1. Arya will eventually return to the Riverlands and meet her undead mother, Lady Stoneheart. Stoneheart is waging a guerilla war against the Freys and the Lannisters in Riverrun and the Twins. Arya will be horrified with her mother's undead character, and will go off for some soul-searching.
2. As she mourns Robb, her brothers, and her mother, she remembers her wolf, Nymeria, with whom she has maintained a spiritual connection, even when thousands of miles apart. In anguish,she howls, looking up at the moon. Her howl is answered, and up bounds Nymeria, flanked by hundreds of other snarling wolves. A huge pack gathers, under Nymeria's authority. Arya and Nymeria are overjoyed to be reunited. Arya gathers the Brotherhood Without Banners together-they prepare for battle. The hundreds (perhaps even thousands, as has been hinted) of Brotherhood Knights assemble, along with Nymeria's wolves.The two factions maintain an uneasy but mutual alliance.
Arya will mount Nymeria (given that Nymeria is goddamm humongous and Arya is an 11 year old girl), and she will draw Needle. The Knights of the Brotherhood Without Banners form motley ranks in front of the Twins, and stand to attention. The Freys, who, by now, have suffered grievous losses of family members to the vengeful lynchings of the Outlaws glimpse the Brotherhood's brave but small army outside their gates and seize their opportunity to avenge their murderer family members. The drawbridge to the Twins is lowered, and all the troops that the Freys can muster begin marching out to do battle with the Brotherhood. Lady Stoneheart stands at the head of her Knights, her hood raised, staring at the men who murdered her son, his army, his men, and herself. The Freys, encouraged by the seemingly pitiful lack of men rallied against them, begin whooping, and start a charge. Roaring, Black Walder Frey and the limping, treacherously cheerful Lothar Frey spur on their horses at the head of the Frey knights. The Freys are delighted, laughing and cheering at their apparently easy victory, and the chance to crush the wretched Brotherhood. The Brotherhood tense themselves, the Freys almost upon them.
Suddenly, a single horn blows from the woods on the flanks. The horn's mournful note does not waver, but blows for a long time, deep and sonorous. The Frey charge falters. Gradually, an immense and rising tumultous cacophany of bloodcurdling howls then join it, getting louder and louder. The Frey men's confidence ebbs, and their knights yank the reins of their horses and stop, looking to the woods on their sides, from which the howling and the horn are coming. The men begin to mutter worriedly amongst themselves, turning round on the spot, the howling seems to surround them, the forests are echoing and resounding with it. The awful howling and the horn reach an ultimate crescendo, and from out of the trees, hundreds, no, thousands of wolves erupt explosively from the dark undergrowth, racing with impossible speed toward the ranks of Frey men. Snarling, snapping, with long and wicked fangs bared, the charge of running wolves are led by an immense, ferocious-looking Direwolf, twice the size of a horse, with a girl astride her, sounding the warhorn, with a small sword raised high above her head.
The Frey line wavers, officers bark out nervous commands. A few arrows are loosed at the oncoming tide of wolves, but it does not falter. A few Knights bravely spur on their horses and ride into the fray, and both they and their horses are engulfed, swallowed by the rushing swarm, a spray of blood and their limbs hurled into the air as they are torn to shreds. The first man throws down his spear and turns tail, running, terrified, back to the keep. A wail starts up, and dozens of others soon join him, their weapons discarded, moaning with horror as the wolves gallop towards them with relentless bloodlust.
"Stand and fight!" barks grim Black Walder, turning in his saddle, drawing his sword. "You cowards!"
Lothar Frey attempts to rally the running men, as he had for Robb at the Whispering Wood. He seizes the Frey banner and begins galloping to bring them back. An arrow whistles through the air and punches into him, taking him in the throat, and he tumbles from his horse, blood pooling round his corpse. The Brotherhood give a great battlecry and charge forward, firing volleys at the fleeing Frey men-at-arms, hacking down those that remained with terrible vengeance. Ragged outlaws tackled heavily armoured Knights, their blades rising and falling; the uncountable horde of wolves swarmed over the fleeing men, who screamed in terror as the great beasts surged over them, fangs sinking into flesh with a terrible and savage fury. Black Walder could be seen, parrying and slashing at any Brotherhood Knights that came too close, attempting to rally the broken Frey line to his banner.
"To me! To me!" He cried. He waved his sword in one hand, and the standard of the Twins in the other, looking back at the Frey troops that were fleeing for the drawbridge, doggedly pursued and picked off one by one by the swarming feral wolves. Groaning, he turned back to the battle, to see the enormous direwolf hurtling towards him, flying through the air, propelled by a leap that cleared straight past two ranks of Frey knights. Black Walder gave no thought to raising his sword, all that bravery, all that training- for nothing. The last thing the Bastard of the Twins saw was an immense mass of snarling blood, fur, claws and teeth and the dazzling shine of the sun, reflected off a small but bloodied blade.
Almost like a Needle he thought to himself. He could have laughed, but instead he screamed.
The Frey army's men strewn across the ground, their bodies being worried and torn at by ravenous wolves, the Brotherhood charged over the lowered drawbridge into the two castles, and a great and terrible slaughter took place. The treacherous House Frey was utterly exterminated, purged from the land with an awful fury, and all record of them was burned. Their famous two castles were disassembled, stone after stone was hurled into the Trident, to sink to its murky depths. Other members of House Frey were hunted down throughout the land by Northemn, Rivermen and Brotherhood Knights alike, the King in the North finally avenged with horrific justice. Only Old Walder was spared, forced to while away his last wretched days in Riverrun's dungeons- the last of his formerly great line. The old man, to whom legacy, family and power were everything, was broken, and wept in utter anguish, in the knowledge that his sons, his daughters, his grandchildren- all were dead, and his house in smoking ruins.
An old man, alone, unloved, filled with regret, he sat there, surrendering himself to bitter tears, waiting to die.