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

Morning in Dreadfort began for Theon not with the singing of birds, but with a sharp kick to the ribs. The mud from yesterday’s «worm» punishment still clung to his skin in crusty patches, despite his attempts all night to scrape it off in the freezing water of the stable trough. His new name — Pastajoy — was already firmly stuck to him. Even the dogs seemed to bark at him in a special, mocking way. Ramsay Bolton entered the cellar where Theon was trying to clean himself up. In his hands, Ramsay held neither a whip nor a knife, but a heavy wooden box decorated with intricate carvings and upholstered in faded turquoise leather. — Get up, Pastajoy — Ramsay commanded cheerfully. — I have a task for you that requires a certain… delicacy. A distant relative of mine on my mother’s side — one of those Boltons who fled across the Narrow Sea and settled in Pentos — sent me a gift. Apparently, she thinks we in the North still walk around in raw mammoth hides — He slammed the box down onto the floor. — There’s trendy clothing from Essos in here. Silks, lace, some kind of feathers… basically, everything that would make you a king on the Pastajoy Islands if you people weren’t so destitute. Your task: clean my favorite hunting boots to a mirror shine, and then unpack this box. Sort the items by type: tunics with tunics, trousers with trousers, accessories separately. And not a single wrinkle! If I see one crumpled feather, you’ll be eating that feather for dinner instead of your favorite dry pasta — Ramsay left, leaving Theon alone with the boots and the «treasure chest» of Essos. Theon set to work. His fingers, missing several nails, trembled as he rubbed the rough leather of the boots. Trying to please his master, he used some fat he found in a corner, but in his terror, he mixed up the jars and began rubbing the boots with something that smelled of lavender and rose water — evidently, some kind of perfume from the same box. The boots started to smell like a brothel in Lys, but they certainly shone bright. Then he moved on to the box. When Theon opened the lid, the scent of exotic spices, mothballs, and something sweet hit his nose. He had never seen such things. Inside lay piles of fabrics in colors that simply didn’t exist in the North: lemon, fuchsia, soft turquoise, gold. Theon’s trouble was that his PTSD and constant humiliation had turned his mind into a strange mechanism that looked for a hidden trap or order in everything. He looked at these things and didn’t understand what they were. Fashion in Pentos was eccentric, and Ramsay’s relative clearly had… specific taste. Theon pulled out something that looked like a huge pink skirt with many layers of lace. — This must be a ceremonial cloak for the shoulders — Theon thought, remembering how proudly the lords wore capes. Next, he found narrow silk trousers that had strange slits on the hips and were embroidered with peacock feathers. — Battle leggings — Pastajoy decided. But the most difficult part was the headgear. It was a massive turban decorated with a stuffed bird of paradise and hanging strings of pearls. Theon turned it over in his hands for a long time. He remembered Ramsay talking about «sorting.» In his feverish brain, an idea was born: to better sort the things and make sure they weren’t wrinkled, he should… try them on. No, not just try them on — he should show Ramsay how to «properly» wear these overseas gifts. He wanted to prove he was useful, that he understood luxury, after all, he once lived in Winterfell. Two hours later, Ramsay Bolton returned. He expected to see Theon gloomily digging through a pile of rags or, at worst, crying over ruined silk. But what he saw when he opened the door made him freeze on the threshold. In the middle of the cellar stood Theon Pastajoy. And it was the pinnacle of his shame. On his feet, Theon had donned those same silk trousers with feathers, but he had put them on backward, so the slits on the hips exposed his dirty, thin knees. Over them, he had pulled that same pink lace skirt — but not onto his waist; he had poked his arms through it, deciding it was a complex ruff collar. As a result, the skirt hung from his shoulders in a huge, ridiculous cocoon, from which his emaciated neck protruded. But the crown of the image was the turban. Theon had pulled it so low that the stuffed bird hung right over the bridge of his nose, and with every movement, the bird’s glass eyes stared into Theon’s own. To «complete» the look, he had wrapped an orange scarf of translucent fabric around his neck, the ends of which trailed on the floor like the tail of a beaten dog. In his hands, Theon solemnly held Ramsay’s boots, which now fragranced the entire cellar with roses. — Master… — Theon croaked, trying to mimic a majestic bow. The bird on the turban swayed and pecked him in the forehead. — I… I sorted them. This is the battle attire of the great princes of the East. I prepared it for your greatness — Ramsay stared at this spectacle for ten seconds in complete silence. His face first stretched, then turned red, and his eyes began to water. Theon, taking this silence for anger, began to tremble, causing the pink lace on his shoulders to flutter like the wings of a giant, clumsy butterfly. — You… you… — Ramsay squeezed out. And then the silence of Dreadfort was shattered by a laugh the likes of which these walls had not heard since their founding. Ramsay wasn’t just laughing — he was howling. He clutched his stomach, doubling over. — Pastajoy! — Ramsay screamed through tears. — Oh gods, you… you look like a cross between a Lysene whore and a plucked peacock! LOOL! — Theon, not understanding what was happening, tried to take another step to present the boots, but got tangled in the orange scarf and collapsed to his knees. The pink skirt-collar flew up, covering his head entirely. Now, only legs in feathered trousers and hands still clutching the boots protruded from the pile of lace. Ramsay was laughing so hard his legs actually gave way. He couldn’t stand and literally collapsed onto the stone steps of the threshold, breathing heavily and continuing to shake with convulsions of laughter. His face turned purple; he slapped his palm against his knee, unable to stop. — I… I was going to kill you today, I swear! — Ramsay groaned, wiping tears with his sleeve. — I was going to skin the soles of your feet for smelling like worms! But this… this is gold! ROFL! Theon, you are the funniest creature in Westeros! You’ve outdone all of King Joffrey’s fools! LMAO! — Theon cautiously poked his head out from under the pink lace. The stuffed bird on his turban had now slid to the side and looked as if it were drunk. — Y-y-ou… you won’t beat me? — He asked quietly. Ramsay, still snorting with laughter, wiped his face and looked at Theon. His anger had vanished completely, replaced by a kind of perverted delight. — Beat you? Pastajoy, if I hit you, you might stop being such an idiot, and I don’t want to lose this spectacle. No, today you stay in this. All day! You will walk around the castle in this… Eastern outfit. And the boots! — Ramsay snickered again. — The rose-scented boots! You will carry them before you on a pillow like holy relics — He stood up from the steps, still slightly staggering from how much his breath had been hitched. — Go, Pastajoy. Go and show everyone in the courtyard the «Pentos fashion.» If anyone asks, tell them it’s your official costume for eating pasta. Gods, this is the best day of my life! — Theon, staggering under the weight of the pink cocoon and the turban, trudged toward the exit. The pearls on his head jingled melodically, and the peacock feathers on his pants swept the floor. He was disgraced in a way no lord in history had ever been disgraced, but this time, he was alive. When he stepped into the courtyard, the Bolton soldiers first went silent, and then one by one began falling over with laughter. Theon walked, holding the lavender-scented boots high, while a trail of orange silk followed him. He was Theon Pastajoy. And on this day, his only weapon against death was his own absolute, perfected absurdity. He became a living joke, a legend of shame, a man-noodle in peacock feathers, at whom even the stones of Dreadfort laughed. And Ramsay, watching him from the window, rubbed his stomach for a long time — it still hurt from laughing — and thought that perhaps Jaime Lannister had done him a great favor by turning Greyjoy into this magnificent, absurd nothing..