In GoT, Tyrion describes his ideal death as “aged eighty, in bed with a woman of questionable morals, belly full of wine and her mouth wrapped around my you-know-what”. A man who came relatively close to this dreamed ending, was Attila the Hun. Granted, he did not make it to eighty…
But, after a lifetime of war, conquest and victory upon victory against his rivals and foes, Attila had made it to the for his era and tribe impressive age of around fifty-three. He married, once more, to a much younger spouse. She was a gorgeous red-haired lady. It was their wedding night.
Attila had some drinks. Perhaps, a lot. And he laid with his wife. On his beautiful Khan-sized bed. It was a magical moment. Within a few months he planned to once more march upon Rome, and end the Western Roman Empire once and for all. Oh, he was on top of the world! At the peak of his power. The man.
So he made sweet, sweet love to his new wife. He kissed her. Did what lovers do, so to speak… and then, on his peak, his moment of greatest extacy… he expired. Like a boss.

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