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

An unexpected and sharp jump in time hit Dreadfort like a sudden blizzard. Winter, which Theon Pastajoy had almost become accustomed to considering his constant companion, suddenly retreated. The cold, damp air was replaced by a cool breeze that smelled distinctly of autumn leaves and pumpkins. Theon sat in the corner of his hovel, gnawing on the last, hardest noodles from his old sack, when he was called by Ramsay’s personal servant. — Pastajoy! Get up! Ramsay demands your presence! — Theon, barely moving his swollen legs, appeared in the Great Hall. Ramsay sat on the throne, looking completely unlike his winter self: he wore a light tunic, and his face was glowing with impatience. — The weather has changed, Geyser! — Ramsay announced happily. — It is autumn again. We missed whole months of shame, but that is fine. A great holiday is approaching! A feast of harvest, of the dead, and of everything most disgusting! Halloween! — Theon, whose memory of the past was fragmentary, froze. He remembered something vague about pumpkins and bonfires, but now he only remembered one word that Ramsay had likely uttered in some dialogue he himself had forgotten. — H-heel… Heel-o-ween? — Theon whispered, trying to catch at least some word. Ramsay slapped his thigh. — Exactly! Halloween! But you, Geyser, always find your own version. Anyway, I am going to King’s Landing. I need to drag Cersei, Tyrion, and that one-armed joker Jaime here for our celebration. It will take four days there and four days back — He changed his tone to a commanding one. — In these eight days, you must turn this dull, gray castle into the creepiest abode in the North! I want the guests, seeing the decorations, to remember the most terrible tortures ever devised in King’s Landing! When I return, there must be Halloween here! — With these words, Ramsay jumped on his horse and galloped away, leaving Theon in complete confusion. Theon knew he had to do everything perfectly. But he had forgotten the word «Halloween.» He only remembered his own distorted word: «Heel-o-ween.» Panic returned a brief flash of mental activity to Theon. He ran straight to the Maester’s chambers. — Maester! What does «Heel-o-ween» mean? What kind of holiday is that? — Theon blurted out, still smelling of the remains of his carrion bag. The Maester slowly raised his glasses. — Heel-o-ween? Hm. It is an ancient term, Pastajoy. It refers to ‘heeling’—taking very fast, frequent steps. Like you are running, but with tiny, tiny steps. Mincing. To walk rapidly while barely lifting your heels from the ground — «Shuffling your feet! Frequent, tiny steps!» — this phrase pierced Theon’s brain. He realized that «Heel-o-ween» was not about pumpkins and dead people. It was about movement! A holiday dedicated to fast, tiny movements of the legs! Theon rushed to carry out the task, interpreting it as literally as possible. First, he went to the gallery where portraits of the Bolton ancestors hung. His plan was brilliant in its idiocy. He found black paint used for underpainting. He methodically painted over every portrait in black, leaving only… the legs untouched. Every lady, every lord, every fierce Bolton ancestor was now depicted as a black silhouette with their painted, but perfectly clear, legs sticking out from the bottom. Then he took on the decor. He crumpled up pieces of the old white cloth he had been fed lately and drew feet and shins on them. He stuck these «artworks» all over the castle. Corridors, the banquet hall, even the privies — images of legs were hung everywhere, looking as if they were about to start shuffling. The peak of his creative impulse was the stage. He found old, warped boards lying behind the forge. In half an hour, forgetting hunger and pain, Theon, driven by manic energy, knocked together something resembling an improvised platform and set it right in the middle of the Great Hall of Dreadfort. He climbed onto this shaky construction, took off his shoes (to better feel the «shuffling» movement), and waited. He wore only his filthy rags. Four days later, when Theon had almost collapsed from exhaustion on his stage, the gates of Dreadfort opened. Ramsay returned accompanied by a retinue, among whom the elegant but cold Cersei, the cynical Tyrion, and, to Theon’s horror, Jaime Lannister, stood out. The guests rode into the courtyard and saw the castle. Instead of the expected creepy decorations — skeletons, cobwebs, pumpkin heads with glowing eyes — they saw LEGS. Hundreds of legs. Black, strange, ink-stained legs sticking out of frames. Cersei raised an eyebrow, and a flash of contempt crossed her eyes. Tyrion laughed out loud. — Ramsay, dear — Tyrion said, taking off his cloak. — Your relative from Pentos seems to have forgotten to send you instructions on how to celebrate this holiday. This is… quite specific. Did you decide that we are all ballet dancers here? LOOL! — They entered the hall. And then they saw the stage. And Theon. Theon Pastajoy, standing barefoot on the shaky boards, with dirty heels sticking out of his rags, looked like a ghost of madness. Ramsay Bolton froze. His joyful face instantly turned pale, then flushed with the color of rage. He saw his castle turned into an abstract art gallery dedicated to lower limbs. — PASTAJOY! — Ramsay roared, but his voice was drowned in the laughter of the guests. Jaime Lannister, seeing Theon, covered his face with his palm, and then his shoulders began to shake. He recognized in this madness something familiar — pure, unadulterated, absolute stupidity. — Ramsay, friend — Jaime croaked, trying to stifle his laughter. — This is… this is brilliant. I thought you liked to scare, but you decided to just humiliate human anatomy! LMAO! — Theon, deciding that this was his finest hour, took a pose. He threw back his head and began to shuffle. Fast, moving his bare feet in tiny steps across the wooden boards, he made a characteristic slapping sound. Slap-slap-slap-slap! And he sang, improvising based on his distorted understanding of the holiday: — Heel-o-ween! Heel-o-ween! Legs are fast, that is the deal! Slap-slap on the boards, shuffle with zeal! Ramsay, you gave an order, I did not let you down! Heel-o-ween! Heel-o-ween! — The sound of bare heels slapping against the wood, mixed with his high, hysterical voice, was too grotesque. Cersei, who had maintained icy calm until then, could not hold it. She let out a sharp, uncontrollable sound, as if she were being choked in silks. Ramsay Bolton stood motionless. His face went through the whole gamut: rage, shame, disbelief, and finally… an explosion. He began to shake, clutching his sides. His laughter was wild, inhuman; he fell to the floor, bouncing, unable to breathe. — Stop! — He screamed between fits. — Stop, Pastajoy! You… you will kill me! ROFL! — Jaime, seeing that even Ramsay himself had lost control of the situation, approached the stage to save his face and Cersei’s from further shame. — Theon, for heaven’s sake! — Jaime shouted, trying to speak seriously. — You won. You have defeated us. Stop! — Theon, seeing his master lying on the floor, was afraid that punishment would follow. He stopped abruptly, and the silence in the hall became absolute. Ramsay slowly rose, wiping away tears. He was pale, but a strange, maniacal smile played on his lips. — You… — Ramsay croaked, pointing at Theon. — You destroyed my dignity, Pastajoy. You made Cersei look stupid and Tyrion over-drink. You disgraced my castle! — He paused. — But… it was so disgusting, so meaningless, and so stupid… that I can not punish you. — Ramsay shook his head, smirking. — Take off those rags, Pastajoy. Tomorrow we will make you repaint those cursed legs. But today… today you will serve the guests. You will wait on them while they laugh at your «Heel-o-ween.» — And so, Theon Pastajoy, having avoided death once again, was doomed to spend the entire holiday in the role of a living reminder that even the most sophisticated evil can be defeated by absolute, all-consuming stupidity. LMAO!