The Chronicles of Theon Pastajoy: The Ballad of the Ultimate Cringe

Theon Pastajoy dragged out his miserable existence, tethered to a dog bowl of dry pasta and constant humiliation. His new “apartments” were located in the dampest and coldest part of the Dreadfort dungeons, but even there he found no peace. Ramsay Bolton seemed to relish every breath his new pet took. One morning, when the sun barely poked through the filthy little windows, Ramsay decided it was time for some physical labor to dispel his boredom. — Pastajoy! — Ramsay’s voice echoed through the corridor, making Theon flinch. — Stop gnawing on those dry shells like a rat. I need cleanliness. You will go to the stables and muck out all the waste from the horses. The whole manure pile, down to the dirt. And make sure it smells like… not you! — Theon, quickly swallowing a couple of dry noodles, hobbled to the stables. The work was humiliating, but it offered a temporary oblivion from constant fear. He took a crude wooden shovel and began methodically shoveling the fresh, still-warm manure. At first, he worked like a hunted beast, trying to get the job done as fast as possible. But as he tossed piles of earth and horse dung, his mind, exhausted by torture, began to look for something else — something that could distract him from the gray reality. His gaze accidentally fell on a small hollow where the ground was wet from seeping water. And there… There, thin, slippery, the color of wet clay, earthworms were writhing. For Theon, it was a revelation. They moved. They were alive. Their movement was smooth, organic, completely unlike the sharp, stinging pain he was used to feeling. They just stretched, reacting to the moisture and the dark, knowing neither Ramsay nor fear. Theon froze. The shovel fell from his weakened hands. He sank to his knees, forgetting the stench and the work. He reached out with trembling fingers toward one of the worms. Sensing the warmth, it began to retreat into the ground, but Theon managed to catch it. The worm stretched, endlessly stretched, resisting, but there was no aggression in this struggle, only instinct. Theon carefully placed it in the empty pocket of his tattered breeches, next to the last couple of dry penne noodles. Then he found another. And another. He was fascinated by their silent, springy life. They were real, not ghosts of the past or curses of the present. He sat like that for perhaps an hour, collecting every worm that crawled out. He didn’t think about Ramsay. He didn’t think about who he was. He just gathered small, slippery knots of life. Meanwhile, Sansa Stark, who was kept in the castle as a prized prisoner to “inspire” the Boltons, was walking accompanied by guards, whom Ramsay had sent to check on the “perfect order” in the stables. Sansa, always observant, noticed the strange figure in the corner of a stall. Theon, leaning over a damp patch of earth, was intently picking through the mud with his fingers. Sansa, possessing an impeccable memory, couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t cleaning manure, but gathering something small. She stepped closer, drawn by the strange silence surrounding him. — What are you doing, Pastajoy? — She asked quietly. Her voice was cold, but it held curiosity rather than rage. Theon jumped so sharply he nearly fell. He tried to cover his pockets. — Nothing! I… I was just… inspecting the ground, Lady Stark. Looking for… artifacts — Sansa smirked. — Artifacts? In a pile of horse shit? You forgot that you have no gold left. Or did you decide that these «artifacts» also need to be paid for? — — N-no! — Theon stammered. He felt his pocket squirm. Sansa ignored him and looked closer at the ground. She saw fresh tracks where someone had carefully, painstakingly collected something living. She didn’t call the guards, but her mind was already working. She knew Ramsay wouldn’t forgive a distraction from work. When Theon finally finished the job (though he hadn’t cleaned the entire stable as required), he hurried to his cubbyhole to hide his tiny collection. But Ramsay was waiting for him at the threshold. He was mounted on his favorite horse, and next to him stood a new, massive pile of earth, specifically brought in on a cart. This dirt looked unnatural; it was loose, moist, and suspiciously dark, clearly brought from a particularly fertile ravine. — Pastajoy — Ramsay wasn’t smiling. — You were slacking. I was told you were meditating over dung instead of working. You must not be distracted from your calling. You are my property, and property must be productive — Theon turned pale. He knew what was coming. — But… I… I finished almost everything — — You finished part of the work. But you owe me something in return, Reek — Ramsay pointed to the new pile of dirt. — This soil is from the south bank of the Misty River. It is full of those lovely, slippery creatures you are so fond of — Ramsay pulled a small but sharp hunting knife from his belt and plunged it into the pile. — You have a new task. You will dig through all of this earth. With your bare hands. And you must count for me exactly how many of these little wriggling creatures you find — — But… Ramsay, that’s impossible! They hide! — Theon groaned. — You are Pastajoy! — Ramsay barked. — You came from the Iron Islands! Or have you forgotten how to pick mollusks off rocks? Collect them all. I want an exact count — Ramsay had no intention of letting him go until he was finished. He gestured for the guards to lead Theon to the new pile and move to a safe distance so as not to get dirty. Theon sank down before the mountain of earth. He opened his pocket, releasing the 12 worms he had managed to collect, and looked at them like his last friends. He placed them in a small, dried-out track left by a piece of pasta lying nearby. Hours dragged on. The sun rose high and began to bake. Theon’s hands were quickly covered in mud, torn skin, and cuts from sharp stones. He dug. He searched. Every time he found a worm, he felt a fleeting relief, but as soon as he put it in his improvised “piggy bank,” he realized the next one had to be sought in the depths. While he struggled, Sansa, under the pretext that she felt stifled, watched him from a tower window. She was sure his search would end in failure. She decided to count for herself, estimating how many he might collect. She began to calculate, weighing the density of the soil and the average number of worms per square foot. She took a pencil and a small scroll she always carried. By evening, as the shadows lengthened, Ramsay returned to check the “catch.” Theon looked like a living statue of clay and fear. His hair was matted, his eyes red from strain, and his hands were shaking. — Well, Pastajoy — Ramsay’s voice was full of anticipation. — How many souls have you extracted from this filthy womb? — Theon raised his head. He was afraid that if he told the truth, Ramsay would decide he had stolen the rest. He swallowed nervously and exhaled his verdict, based on a shaky count and panic. — One… one hundred and three, my lord — Ramsay frowned. He walked up to the pile and nodded carelessly to the guards. — Bring me Sansa — A few minutes later, Sansa Stark, forced to come down, stood next to Ramsay. — Lady Sansa — Ramsay gave her the same smile he gave Theon, but much more ghastly. — You were a witness to his struggle. You are so attentive to detail. How many worms, in your opinion, should he have found in this pile? — Sansa, looking at Theon, who was now staring at her with a plea in his eyes, calmly replied: — I have not studied the soil density of that river, Ramsay, but by my estimates, in this volume of earth there should be at least one hundred and ten… or thereabouts. But I am sure Theon made a mistake. He is too tired — Ramsay turned to Theon, his face twisting with rage. — You pathetic piece of shit! You couldn’t even correctly count what you gathered! You think I don’t know you failed to find them all? You were hiding them! You lied to me! — — No! I… I lost count! — Theon screamed. — You don’t lose count! You always know how to count when it comes to betrayal! — Ramsay punched him in the face. Theon rolled across the ground. — Since you couldn’t find them all, Pastajoy, you will become them! You will absorb this filth! — Ramsay stepped to the pile of earth. He thrust both hands into the dampest middle. He scooped up a massive, wet, heavy mess of mud, silt, remnants of last year’s leaves, and, of course, dozens of living, writhing worms. — You don’t value your life, Theon Pastajoy — Ramsay hissed. — You will value mud — He grabbed Theon by the hair, forcing him to lift his head. — You will smear this on yourself! All of this stinking, living mass! From head to toe! Let your skin remember what it is to be a worm! And until you are dry, you dare not take it off! — Theon shrieked, but the cry drowned in his throat as Ramsay began to rub the wet, cold, rot-smelling earth onto his face. Worms, living and dead, crawled into his hair, his ears, under his clothes. Ramsay methodically coated him, sparing no strength, until Theon turned into a moving, slimy statue of brown mud, with thin, white veins of worms crawling out of the clumps of dirt. Sansa turned away, barely holding back a gag reflex, but she managed to notice one of the worms, crawling out of the wet mud on Theon’s neck, slowly moving toward his ear. — Now — Ramsay stepped back to admire his creation. — You will stand here until morning. If you brush off even one worm, I will make you eat it. And don’t you dare take this off until the sun has dried every millimeter of your skin — Theon stood. He couldn’t move. The mud was cold and heavy. He felt the tiny creatures, his “friends,” crawling over his body, and the sensation was so surreal that he stopped feeling fear. He felt only weight, filth, and absolute, all-consuming nothingness. Ramsay, satisfied, returned to the castle, laughing at the new “Pastajoy Sculpture.” LOOL. The next twenty-four hours Theon spent in the backyard like a disgusting scarecrow. When the mud finally dried, it turned into a thick, cracked crust. He felt like a stone. When the guards relieved him, he slowly, painfully scraped off the dried crust, revealing skin inflamed from dirt and fury. Among the fallen dry clumps of mud, he found his empty “piggy bank” — the track of the dried pasta where his first 12 worms lay. They were all dead. He clenched his fist, containing only dry earth and dead worms. He didn’t cry. Theon Pastajoy simply knew that tomorrow Ramsay would find something else to turn him into refuse that couldn’t even correctly count its own food or its companions.