Dusk_Rainbow_Burrito.txt

Once upon a time, in the land of Westeros, there was a knight named Burrito. He was a swashbuckling adventurer from the far-off kingdom of Mexico, where the sun always shone bright and the women were as hot as the peppers that grew in the fields. His armor was a deep crimson, adorned with golden eagles and emeralds that glimmered like the brightest eyes. A greatcoat of black velvet covered his chest, and his helm was shaped like a sombrero, with a long black plume that streamed behind him like a banner.

One day, as he rode through the rolling hills and green forests of the riverlands, he came upon a small tavern nestled in the heart of a wood. The sign above the door creaked in the wind, bearing the image of a fat man in a red hat. Burrito dismounted his horse and tied it to the hitching post outside, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The common room was dimly lit, with only a few candles burning to chase away the gathering dusk. The patrons were a rough lot, rougher than any Burrito had ever seen. There were black brothers in the white hoods of their order, and sellswords with scars and missing limbs. A fat man in a red hat sat at a table near the fire, talking loudly and drinking heavily. He was a boisterous fellow, red of face and balding, with a great white mustachio that curled up at the ends like a pair of great white worms. A serving wench was pouring him a mug of ale from a foaming horn, while a younger man looked on with sullen resentment.

Burrito was about to approach the bar when a voice called out from the shadows, "I'd advise against that, if you value your life." He turned to see a dwarf standing in the corner, clutching a mug of ale in one hand and a longsword in the other. His face was pinched and sour, his beard a tangled black mess. He was dressed in leather boots and breeches, with a black woolen cloak with a hood to keep the chill off his short neck. A silver hand was sewn on the sleeve of his cloak, glinting in the candlelight. "That's my seat," he said, gesturing to the stool beside him. "Sit down, and maybe I won't gut you like the pig you are."

Burrito drew his sword and pointed it at the dwarf. "I'll have your guts for a belt, little man,” he said in perfect High Valyrian. “Or perhaps I'll stuff them up your arse and watch you fart them out, one by one.” The dwarf sniggered. “You'll do no such thing,” he said. “You'll put your sword away, and you'll sit down, or I'll send your head back to your mother in a bucket.” He raised his voice. “And I'll have no trouble doing it, thank you very much. I've killed bigger men than you with my eyes closed, and I've never needed a second stroke.” He took a swallow of ale. “Now, are you going to sit down, or do I need to teach you some manners?”

Burrito sheathed his sword and sat. “I am Burrito, the knight of the Vale,” he said. “Who are you, that you should dare address me so rudely?” The dwarf snorted. “I am Tyrion Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. And you, my good knight, are a swashbuckling adventurer from the far-off kingdom of Mexico, who has ridden all the way to Westeros to win the heart of some highborn maiden.” He took another swallow of ale. “Well, I hope she's worth it. I hope she's worth all the gold you've stolen and all the men you've murdered.” He spat. “I hope she's worth all the tears you've made her cry.” Burrito frowned. “What do you know of it?” Tyrion Lannister laughed. “Why, I know everything, you ignorant pig. I know why you ran away from home, and I know why you came back. I know why you stole that horse, and why you murdered that innkeeeper. I know why you sold your sister to the Night's Watch, and why you raped that little girl in the village. I know why you—” “Stop!” Burrito shouted, his face red with rage. “Stop, or I'll kill you where you sit!” Tyrion Lannister laughed again. “Oh, I'm shaking in my boots, you big lummox. Go ahead and try it. I dare you. I double dare you.

I triple dare you.” He raised his mug in a mocking toast. “To your honor, knight. May it be your undoing.” Burrito reached for his sword, but it was too late. The dwarf was on his feet, the longsword in his hand. “I'll take that,” he said, and he plunged the blade between Burrito's ribs, up under the arm, and out the other side. Burrito felt the cold steel bite deep and true. He tried to speak, but only a thin red thread of blood came out between his lips. He slid off the stool and collapsed to the floor, his eyes wide and staring. The dwarf stood over him, panting heavily, his face red with exertion. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and sheathed his sword. “I hope you died happy, knight,” he said. “You were so big and strong, I thought it would take me all night to kill you.” He spat on the body.

“You were so big and strong, I thought you might last until morning.” He turned and walked away, whistling a tune. The serving wench looked at the body and began to scream. The fat man in the red hat sat for a moment, staring at the sight before him. Then he got to his feet and staggered out of the tavern, singing a bawdy song. The patrons who had been with him at the table followed close behind, all but the young man who had been looking on with sullen resentment. He sat for a moment, staring at the body, then he too got to his feet and followed the others out. The black brothers in white hoods left quietly, one by one, without a word. The common room was empty except for the body of the knight and the serving wench, who was still screaming. She ran to the door and flung it open, then turned back to look at the body. She saw the blood, and she fainted. She fell to the floor, right where Burrito had been sitting just a few moments before. She did not move or make a sound.

The last thing she saw was the longsword, lying on the floor where the dwarf had dropped it. It was wet with blood. She dreamed of the knight all night, and when she woke the next morning, she was still shaking. She never went back to that tavern again. The fat man in the red hat never came back either. He was found a fortnight later, half-mad with drink, in a brothel in the Fingers.