[ Writing Prompt ] A day in the life of Hodor . Go .

'Aaaaaaaand... *cut*.' 
 
 Those halogen bulbs came to life and the sickening lack of shadow that befell the expansive studio set obliterated every bit of `` movie magic'' that the designers had worked so tirelessly to create. 
 
'Ladies, gentlemen... that's the cut that'll make it onto the show. *That right there, * was... *Shakespearean. *' 
 
 The director sprang from his chair and scurried toward the cast members, who now stood idly among the papier-mache willow trees and styrofoam bouldery outcrops. The director's withered frame seemed liable to have a systems failure at any time. 
 
'You can all take your well-earned break now. There's a buffet car in the parking lot, complete with champagne buckets. Treat yourselves.' 
 
 The actors and actresses bumbled off the set and meandered toward the studio's hangar door exit. One of the actors was a particularly large individual; he'd been floating around at the rear of the set behind a shrub made of shredded cardboard. This individual made for the exit but was stopped by the director, who wagged a commanding index finger at the gargantuan gentleman. 
 
'Not you, Hodor. You and I need to talk.' 
 
 Hodor sighed; a hollow tune of disappointment and defeat. He'd had enough of being victimised, vilified, made to feel inferior, and a good part of him wanted this to be it, to be the severance he'd been waiting for - but a residual fear seemed to dim his hopes and amplify his anguish tenfold. 
 
'Yes, sir... what, uh, what... is it?' 
 
'Hodor... how would you describe your interpretation of... well, yourself. Your character, I mean.' 
 
 Hodor scratched his chin and the fabrics of his potato-sack coat of rags rubbed together, giving birth to an ear-piercing and infuriating sound. 
 
'Well, boss... I guess I'd say that he's a giant.' 
 
'Right, he is.' 
 
'And I'm... *he's*... not the sharpest tool in the shed.' 
 
'He certainly is not.' 
 
'But he's kind-hearted. Loyal in the most relentless fashion. I'd say he's misunderstood, but doubtlessly an integral player in the future of the Stark family... right? *Right? *' 
 
 The director frowned. 
 
'Hodor, I think you're overshooting a little bit. We value you on the set, we do... but we feel that given the show's darkening thematic elements, it's appropriate that we discuss just how we're going to end Hodor's involvement in the series.' 
 
 Hodor felt distant traces of anger, traces that felt like they might've each been the mere width of a blood cell - cancerous, cantankerous traces - welding themselves to his central nervous system. Hodor was sure that this was another of the director's attempts at B-listing him. At belittling him. 
 
'See, Hodor, you're what we in the biz call *comic relief*... you're there to cut the tension.' 
 
'I see.' 
 
'Now, give me some wiggle room here - this is just a preliminary idea. I think Hodor should die defending what remains of the Stark family from a pack of Whitewalker-lead direwolves. What say you?' 
 
'Sir, is this all necessary? I... I mean, Hodor does n't actually die... you know, *in the books*.' 
 
 The director chuckled warmly, and to complement the look of admiration he was giving Hodor he ran the back of his hand across Hodor's neck. It was an intimate yet humiliating gesture; there was more than a twinge of guilt-fuelled pity behind it. 
 
'Hodor, Hodor, Hodor...' The director sighed.'You know we have n't read the books.'
