The following is a combination of the endings of Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien, and A Dance with Dragons, by George R.R. Martin (what’s up with the RRs, btw?)

Sam got up. He was dazed, and blood streaming from his head dripped in his eyes. He groped forward, and then he saw a strange and terrible thing. Gollum on the edge of the abyss was fighting like a mad thing with an unseen foe. To and fro he swayed, now so near the brink that almost he tumbled in, now dragging back, falling to the ground, rising, and falling again. And all the while he hissed but spoke no words.

The fires below awoke in anger, the red light blazed, and all the cavern was filled with a great glare and heat. Suddenly Sam saw Gollum’s long hands draw upwards to his mouth; his white fangs gleamed, and then snapped as they bit. Frodo gave a cry, and there he was, fallen upon his knees at the chasm’s edge. But Gollum, dancing like a mad thing, held aloft the ring, a finger still thrust within its circle. It shone now as if verily it was wrought of living fire.

‘Precious, precious, precious!’ Gollum cried. ‘My Precious! O my Precious!’

And as his eyes lifted up to gloat on his trophy, Frodo got up and charged with a speed greater than Sam thought possible. With a yell he smashed into Gollum, and the bloody finger, ring still on it, dropped to the floor. Gollum stumbled back, toppled, wavered for a moment on the brink, and then with a shriek he fell. Out of the depths came his last wail, “Precious,” and he was gone.

Frodo picked up his prize. The pain from missing finger seemed not to trouble him. “It is mine,” Frodo crooned. “My…”

…precious, he meant to say. When the blade plunged through his chest, the word turned into a grunt. Frodo put his hands to his ribs, and blood welled between his fingers. “Sam?”

“For the Shire.” Sam pulled the sword out. Frodo turned around slowly and dropped to his knees. Sam backed away and let go of the weapon, his hands upraised as if to say, Not me, it was not me. Frodo reached for the ring, but his remaining fingers had grown stiff and clumsy. He could not reach it. Sam stood there before him, tears running down his cheeks.

“For the Shire,” he sobbed, then looked warily at the ring.

Frodo lay on the ground as his friend approached. The Mountain’s ashen rock was red hot beneath him. “Sam,” he whispered again. Pain washed over him. Sam gave a yelp and with a kick sent the finger and ring spinning into the depths below. There was a roar and a great confusion of noise. Fires leaped up and licked the roof. The lava’s throbbing grew to a great tumult, and the Mountain shook.

Sam collapsed, lying next to his master and staring at the dark sky above him. “It’s over now, sir. This is the end for both of us.” Sam wept as the Mountain roared around him.

Frodo never felt Sam’s hand take his. Only the heat…