Here’s Ketchum, the clear second to Jimmy in the hierarchy of Brad Wesley’s goons and his successor upon his death in much the same way that the unspecified entity Gothmog assumed control of the assault on Minas Tirith following the death of the Witch-king of Angmar, getting dragged out of the Double Deuce on his ass into the dirt parking lot outside. Bumpty bumpty bump, right down the front steps, squealing and mewling over his injured ankle all the way. In a matter of seconds, Dalton thwarted his assassination attempt, caught his leg in midair, ruthlessly twisted it, yelled “You’re too stupid to have a good time!” right in his face, toppled him to the ground, and dragged his ass, literally, into the dirt, also literally. Such is the indignity of this forced exit that, get this, his extended free leg is actually what opens the right-hand door (facing the building) while Dalton shoulders open the left. He is forced to facilitate his own humiliating defeat.

Now in addition to being the most anonymous of Wesley’s core goons, Ketchum is also the least sympathetic. My guess is that the two phenomena are interrelated. Can’t feel sympathy for a guy you can’t remember!

But recall that in the world of the story, Ketchum is a thought leader, a ring general , a man to whom the Tinkers and Bleeders and sister-sons of the world are supposed to look for guidance. Both Tinker and O’Connor—Tinker! and O’Connor!—fare better in their fight against Dalton than Ketchum does in his. Dalton beats Ketchum like a mule. To keep up the ring-general jargon, bahgawd ref, stop the damn match.

Later in the film, Ketchum murders Wade Garrett.

“They’re not my brothers,” Jon snapped. “They hate me because I’m better than they are.”

“No. They hate you because you act like you’re better than they are. They look at you and see a castle-bred bastard who thinks he’s a lordling.” The armorer leaned close. “You’re no lordling. Remember that. You’re a Snow, not a Stark. You’re a bastard and a bully.”

“A bully?” Jon almost choked on the word. The accusation was so unjust it took his breath away. “They were the ones who came after me. Four of them.”

“Four that you’ve humiliated in the yard. Four who are probably afraid of you. I’ve watched you fight. It’s not training with you. Put a good edge on your sword, and they’d be dead meat; you know it, I know it, they know it. You leave them nothing. You shame them. Does that make you proud?”

Jon hesitated. He did feel proud when he won. Why shouldn’t he? But the armorer was taking that away too, making it sound as if he were doing something wrong. “They’re all older than me,” he said defensively.

“Older and bigger and stronger, that’s the truth. I’ll wager your master-at-arms taught you how to fight bigger men at Winterfell, though. Who was he, some old knight?”

“Ser Rodrik Cassel,” Jon said warily. There was a trap here. He felt it closing around him.

Donal Noye leaned forward, into Jon’s face. “Now think on this, boy. None of these others have ever had a master-at-arms until Ser Alliser. Their fathers were farmers and wagonmen and poachers, smiths and miners and oars on a trading galley. What they know of fighting they learned between decks, in the alleys of Oldtown and Lannisport, in wayside brothels and taverns on the kingsroad. They may have clacked a few sticks together before they came here, but I promise you, not one in twenty was ever rich enough to own a real sword.” His look was grim. “So how do you like the taste of your victories now, Lord Snow?”

“Don’t call me that!” Jon said sharply, but the force had gone out of his anger. Suddenly he felt ashamed and guilty.“I never…I didn’t think…”

“Best you start thinking,” Noye warned him. “That, or sleep with a dagger by your bed. Now go.”

—George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones