THE HANDOVER

PART 2

RE-HANDED

HEY, GUESS WHAT DICKHEADS

THIS SHIT HAS RETURNED ANEW, WITH AN ABUNDANCE OF IDIOCY AND EXCESSIVE SHIT

OKAY, SO FOR YOU GUYS WHO DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IN THE FIRST INSTALLATION OF THE HANDOVER, THEN YOU CLEARLY ARE NOT 'IN THE KNOW', WHICH IS A SHAME, CONSIDERING THAT THIS MAY WELL BE THE MOST IMPORTANT PIECE OF LITERATURE EVER WRITTEN

SO I'D RECOMMEND THAT YOU GO CHECK THAT SHIT OUT

WHAT'S THAT? YOU CAN'T BE ASSED? WELL, OKAY THEN. FAIR ENOUGH. I'D BE THE SAME IF I WAS IN YOUR POSITION.

SO HERE'S A QUICK PLOT SYNOPSIS:

SHIT WENT DOWN IN WESTEROS, JAIME'S HAND WAS STOLEN, THE RAGTAG TEAM OF TYRION, BRONN, POD AND OBERYN WENT TO GO FIND IT, UNORTHODOX SHIT HAPPENED, FOUND HAND AT MUNICH BEER FESTIVAL FOR SOME REASON, AND ALL IN TIME FOR SEASON 4 EPISODE 3

YES, THIS SHIT IS CLEARLY CANON, WHAT DO YOU EVEN WANT FROM US?

BUT NOW, THE WHOLE PLAYING FIELD HAS CHANGED SINCE WE LAST SAW OUR LOVEABLE CREW

FOR EXAMPLE, OBERYN HAS BEEN AFFLICTED WITH A SLIGHT CASE OF FRAGILE HEAD SYNDROME, AND THUS IS OUT OF COMMISSION FOR THE TIME BEING

BRONN TOTES GOT MARRIED TO A NONDESCRIPT LASS

POD IS GOING AROUND WITH SOME BLONDE LASS

AND TYRION PARTOOK IN THE MUCH-LOVED PAST TIME OF MURDERING HIS LOVED ONES AND ALSO HIS SASSY DAD, AND THEN SAT IN A BOX AND GREW A BEARD AND COMPLAINED A BIT AND ALSO VARYS WAS THERE BUT THAT'S NOT RELEVANT TO THIS SHIT

ALSO, LITTLEFINGER IS IMPORTANT, AND HE'S OFF GETTING SOME O' THAT SWEET UNDERAGE PUSSAAAY

AND THERE'S ALSO A DUDE CALLED BARON SPOOKUS, BUT THE LESS SAID ABOUT HIM, THE BETTER

WE'D LIKE TO DEDICATE THIS CHAPTER TO ALL THE FANS OF THE FIRST INSTALLATION OF THE HANDOVER, FOR MAKING US DO MORE OF THIS SHIT

AIGHT, LET'S CRACK ON

Chapter 1: The Smelly Face House

It was a sunny morning in… somewhere in Westeros, assumedly. Everyone's favourite sellsword Bronn (known as Bronn Quixote to his friends, although he didn't know why) was jiving along the beach, throwing rocks into a large body of water (because he hated water), whilst some boring wench talked about some unimportant stuff. No doubt Bronn was totally ignoring her, as his hatred of water was a much more pressing issue. His eyes were caught by a sexy beast in hot red leather practising his squats across the water from him. No doubt his wife noticed to, on account of her asking him who the stylish hunk of a man was.

With his usual eloquence, Bronn said, 'It's Jaime fookin' Lannister.' And then he gallivanted over to him.

After Jaime said some boring shit and Bronn sent his lass away to go do something or other, Bronn and Jaime started hittin' the shit. Jaime had a plan! And you may be thinking, 'But writer of this magnificent and totally canon tale! We know all this! They're gonna go off to Dorne and rescue Marcella or some boring shit like that!' WRONG. There's a reason that this story is called 'The HANDover', not 'The BLANDover'! (Wordplay!) This is what really went down:

'Hey dude,' started Jaime, wiggling his eyebrows. 'I heard that you're pretty satisfactory at acquiring hands, on account of you getting my hand a year ago'. He gestured towards his giant-ass golden hand. 'You may not know this, but we executed Grand Maister Pycelle to use his room for my extensive collection of hands. It's pretty swaggin'. But my collection is not yet complete. There exists a curio, an artefact, a vestige of a time gone past. It is the Hand of the Handless Harmonica Player!' Bronn gasped.

'The legends say that it is five foot tall, encrusted with all manners of precious stones, and holds a gold-plated harmonica on each finger,' continued Jaime. 'This is where you come in. I will pay you a ridiculous sum of money to form together your old crew and get me this hand.'

'Well how tha fook d'ya expect me to do that?' asked Bronn. 'Tyrion's fooked off somewhere, Pod's fooked off somewhere, and Oberyn's fookin' dead!'

'It has come to my attention that, with Oberyn's unseemly demise, his infamous transportation vehicle no longer has an owner. I'm sure that you'll be able to find use for it,' said Jaime with a dastardly wink. 'Also, if you're looking for my brother, I put him in a box as a dastardly prank and shipped him off across the Narrow Sea. And Pod's off bumbling around near the Vale with Brienne of Tarth.' Jaime winked some more. 'Now ssh, you didn't hear me say any of this! You know how fucking insane Cersei gets when I try and organise a get-together with my dastardly scamp of a little bro!'

Bronn nodded to himself. 'Where is this fookin' hand then?'

Jaime tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. 'Look to the finger that points to the heart, and all shall become clear! And with that, I must be off. Send my regards to Tyrion, won't you? Tally ho!' He wiggled his eyebrows once more, and then leapt into the lake. Bronn didn't spare Jaime a second thought; he knew that Jaime's allegiance to the mudmen would guide him home along the waterways. He took no time waiting to rush into his castle. (Yeah, apparently he has a castle now. Well, if you listened to the dialogue in the show, he doesn't, but that's probably not canon. It was probably a mistranslation from the Icelandic source material. Yes, you heard us right, George R R Martin is actually a secret Icelandic, but don't tell anybody!) He grabbed his Munich Beer Festival hoodie and his packet of Khal Drago's Home Brand Peanuts, and rushed out the door, completely ignoring his wife.

It was a muggy afternoon in… a field, wherein two individuals sat. One, a glorious man with excellent hair, was Podrick, and was doing a great job at frying some bacon over a roaring fire, whilst humming to himself. Now, you may not know this, seeing as the show neglected to feature it, but Pod's eyes are now entirely white, after an exorcism to get the ghost of Syrio Forel out of his body. Fortunately, Pod was not fazed by this discrepancy, and continued to be a stand-out chap. One person who did not appreciate his wonderful efforts was Brienne of Tarth, who spends the majority of her time moping that the Stark lasses don't really need her. She had taken to wearing excessive levels of eyeliner and listening to edgy nu metal.

It was at that moment that Pod's tranquil bacon-frying ceremony was interrupted by a loud crashing and clanging noise. A huge shape put the world in shadow, as a mechanical monstrosity loomed over the horizon.

'No', muttered Pod. 'It cannot be!' Brienne snapped out of her self-inflicted pessimism and reached for her sword, gifted to her by the enigmatic beauty queen that is Jaime Lannister. Pod put a hand in front of her. 'No, no, don't,' said Pod, reaching into his pocket and feeling an oh-so-familiar branch of a certain Christmas tree. (Go read The Handover Part 1, although it doesn't make sense there either). Pod knew this machine as the transportation device of the late Oberyn Martell, known as 'The Moving Brothel', with its full crew of dancing bears and burlesque prostitutes (but not burlesque bears, that would be obscene and oddly lecherous).

'Stay here, Breadbin', said Pod, having obviously forgotten Brienne's name. 'I'll be back after completing this wacky quest, at which point we can promptly continue whatever it was that we were doing. You just simmer down and eat your bacon, I'll be back in a jiffy.'

The Moving Brothel came to a halt, and the latch at the top opened up. 'Hail, Pod, you bespangled bollock-breaker! We've got another fookin' job to do!' Pod smiled.

Tyrion was in a carriage. He'd been complaining about this shit excessively, to coincide with his new nihilistic outlook on life. He'd killed his dad (no doubt after playing too many violent video games), been victimised by his conformist older (but undeniably magnificent) brother by being put in a box as some sort of lame joke, grown an alright beard, and been sent off to Pentos with Varys, who did nothing but speak in poorly thought out riddles and read tabloid magazines. Tyrion was about to finish his 16th Um Bongo carton when he heard a ruckus on the horizon. Gee willickers, he thought to himself. As if life couldn't get any more LAME.

He gave a fleeting glance out of the window in order to reaffirm his belief that whatever was outside was no doubt relatively bogus, and was throughly surprised! A huge hulking machine lumbered across the plains towards them. This would have attracted the attention of every person within a hundred yards, were it not for the fact that The Moving Brothel was as sneaky as a snake. Tyrion sighed. He doubted he could fit an adventure into his busy schedule of running from the law and moping and Um Bongo drinking.

The Moving Brothel quietly screeched to a halt, and two glorious men clambered out of the bear door. 'Oi Tyrion, ya fookin' bastard! We're goin' on a fookin' adventure mate! Get ya shit in ordah!'

Tyrion frowned. 'You don't understand, man. I'm not the charismatic punslinger that I once was. Now I'm little more than a husk of a man, a mere Um Bongo addict.'

'But Tyrone, you don't understand!' cried Pod. 'We have another hand-related quest to partake in! Surely you wouldn't want to miss any of the hand-filled action!'

'Yeah, what say you, ya jammy bastard!' added Bronn, wise as always.

Tyrion thought for a second. 'But guys, I'm a wanted dwarf! How will I go undetected on this here quest!'

'Don't you worry yo little stumpy ass!' responded Bronn. 'I came prepared fo' this shit. Surely none o' the hired mercenaries would be expectin' ya to be wearin' a Munich Beer Festival hoodie!'

Tyrion gasped. Of course! It was a genius foolproof plan! He grabbed the hoodie and pulled it over his head, now fully disguised and ready for questing.

'Don't worry Varys, I'll be home in time for tea!' cried Tyrion, as he boarded The Moving Brothel.

And so, the three adventurers travelled onwards, into the sunset. HOWEVER! Elsewhere in Westeros, trouble and treachery was afoot! (Or should that be, A HAND!?) Petyr Baelish looked on in his crystal ball, watching The Brothel traipse through the grasslands. He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. 'My oh my, this shall not do! A trio of veteran adventurers, searching for the very hand that I need to sway my lady wife and also to do other menial but nonetheless evil things with?! This shan't do at all! I better go construct an undead mercenary to go kill them. Yes, this seems to be a sufficiently evil plan.' He chuckled to himself. Evilly, of course.

And also, faraway in a death fortress carved like a giant skull, a familiar looking antagonist with a skeletal face and stylish top hat, looked at his crystal ball, and saw Petyr Baelish looking at his own crystal ball. He grinned at the meta nature of this multi crystal ball action. I mean, you wouldn't have been able to tell that he was grinning, but trust me. He totally was grinning. And then he let out a cackle, and no children in Westeros slept that night. Which is unfortunate.

OH SHIT, WE FORGOT TO MENTION THE SMELLY FACE HOUSE THIS CHAPTER

BUT DON'T WORRY, THAT'LL BE FORTHCOMING

SO THAT'S CHAPTER 1 OF A GRAND TALE

TELL YOUR FRIENDS, AND TELL YOUR GRANDPARENTS TOO I GUESS

FOLLOW IT IF YOU WANT, IT'LL BE KIND OF ALRIGHT I GUESS, MAYBE

FUCK IT, WHATEVER