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

Autumn in Dreadfort was truly insane. After the failure of «Heel-o-ween» and the shameful slapping of heels on the stage, Theon Pastajoy’s mind had finally turned into a jelly of disconnected fragments of greatness. And then, technological progress arrived. By order of Ramsay, who loved clever devices for extracting liquids and screams, a strange construction was brought to the castle cellar. It was a huge copper bowl on an iron frame with a massive handle and a system of gears. The Maester called it a «centrifuge» and explained that it was needed to spin people in it. But Theon, passing by while collecting fallen leaves under guard (Ramsay had ordered him to collect exactly 10,000 leaves and arrange them by shades of yellow), overheard a conversation between the guards. — They say this thing spins so fast it changes the very essence of things — one said. — Yeah — nodded the second. — From mud it makes clean water, from a weakling—an athlete. A center of power, you see? — Something clicked in Theon’s head. «Changes the essence… Center of power…» His traumatized brain built a perfect—as it seemed to him—logic chain: «If I get inside and spin, my essence will change. I will stop being Pastajoy. I will become a Greyjoy again. No, higher! I will become the King! The Iron King of all Westeros!» — Well, we’ll see, Ramsay, who has the last laugh… — Theon whispered to himself, stuffing a yellowed oak leaf into his mouth. — You’ll see how a new monarch emerges from this barrel… — At night, when Dreadfort plunged into a troubled sleep, interrupted only by the snoring of drunken guests, Theon decided to act. To make sure he wasn’t recognized on his way to greatness, he found an old, dirty burlap potato sack. He put it over his head, hoping the sack would hide his identity and make him invisible to the guards. He didn’t bother making eye holes because, according to his logic, if he couldn’t see anyone, then no one could see him. Talk about peak cringe. Navigating by touch along the cold walls, the «Sack-Man» moved toward the cellars. Near the stairs, he slammed full force into something soft that smelled of exotic perfume. — Oh, you poisonous snakes! — A sharp female voice rang out. It was Ellaria Sand, who had come out of her chambers to find some wine. She stared in horror and disgust at the bony creature in the stinking sack poking her in the stomach. — What kind of sack-demon are you?! — Ellaria unleashed such a choice stream of Dornish curses that even through the burlap, Theon’s ears turned red. — Get out, you filthy brat! If you touch my dress again, I’ll feed you to my hounds! — Theon, terrified, tried to back away, but the sack slipped down his face completely. He lost his orientation and, taking a step back, went tumbling down the steep cellar stairs. Thump! Crash! Ouch! Theon counted every step with his ribs until he landed on a pile of straw right in front of the centrifuge. — This is a royal trial… — He groaned, pulling the sack off his bloodied face. — The road to the throne is thorny. — He approached the centrifuge. It was huge. Theon turned the handle with all his might, starting the flywheel. The gears began to sing, and the bowl began to spin, gaining speed. When the hum began to resemble the noise of a storm on Pyke, Theon, closing his eyes, took a running jump inside and grabbed the edges of the copper basin. He started to spin. At first, it was fun. «I’m flying! I’m becoming a King!» he thought. But the centrifuge was gaining speed. Centrifugal force pinned him to the walls so hard that his face was flattened like a pancake. The clock hand in his head went haywire. At some point, his stomach, full of pasta, fallen leaves, and yesterday’s water, couldn’t take it. Theon started to vomit. But because he was rotating at an insane speed, his vomit didn’t just fall down—it flew in a circle, creating a «hellish carousel» effect inside the centrifuge. He was spinning in his own eruption, which at that speed turned into a sticky mist. The mechanism accelerated to the limit. The iron frame began to vibrate and hop on the floor. Suddenly, the centrifuge hit a jammed bolt, and a catapult effect occurred. Theon, covered in vomit and completely disoriented, was simply launched out of the bowl at a tangent. He flew across the entire cellar and, by pure chance, landed in a huge haystack prepared for Daenerys Targaryen’s horses (she had arrived with her retinue and demanded the best care for her steeds). Theon hit the hay with his back, knocking the last of his breath out. — Am I… am I the King? — He croaked, looking at the stars spinning before his eyes. From the terrible stress, nausea, and the blow to his back, something in Theon’s head snapped again. A primitive, animal hunger seized him. He crawled out of the hay on all fours and saw a trough. There was something red and juicy there. It was raw meat—choice beef with blood, which Daenerys had ordered for her horse (rumor had it her horses were as fierce as dragons). Theon, beside himself, sank his teeth into the raw piece of meat. Blood flowed down his chin, mixing with the remains of vomit from the centrifuge and the dirt from the sack. He munched and growled like a stray dog. Everyone ran to the noise of the machinery and the crash of the fall. Ramsay was the first to burst into the cellar, holding a torch. Behind him shuffled Tyrion, Jaime, Cersei, Daenerys with a frightened face, and Ellaria Sand, who was still fuming. They froze. The scene was epic: in the middle of the cellar stood the smoking, vomit-coated centrifuge. And nearby, in a haystack, sat the «Sack-Man» (the sack now hung around his neck like a bib), who with insane eyes was devouring raw meat from the horse trough, making strange growling sounds. Tyrion was the first to break the silence. — Ramsay, I understand the North is a harsh place… but why are you forcing your Pastajoy to cosplay as a berserk butter churn? ROFL! — Jaime Lannister just leaned against the wall and began to slowly slide down it, covering his face with his hand. His shoulders were shaking. — Did he… did he try to blend himself? — Jaime managed to choke out. LMAO! Ramsay Bolton, who at first wanted to rage over the ruined equipment, suddenly looked at Theon’s legs, which were still twitching in the rhythm of the centrifuge, and at his bloodied face chewing the horse’s lunch. Ramsay began to turn pale, and then he burst into such a shrill laugh that it scared even the horses in their stalls. — A King! — Ramsay shouted, pointing a finger at Theon. — Look! It’s the King of the Meat Grinder! Pastajoy has passed the initiation rite into kitchen appliances! LMAO! ROFL! — Cersei disgustedly covered her nose with a handkerchief. — How revolting. Daenerys, it seems your stallion is now without dessert. This… appliance ate his lunch. — Daenerys Targaryen looked at Theon with undisguised horror. — Is this your famous Theon Pastajoy? I thought the Greyjoys were sea wolves, not… basement blenders. — Theon, finally realizing he wasn’t on a throne but in the hay, and that all the high society of Westeros was standing around him, slowly dropped the piece of meat from his mouth. He looked at his hands, then at the centrifuge, then at the laughing Ramsay. He didn’t become a King. Instead, from that day on, he earned the new, honorary title of «The Human Blender». And every time he passed the kitchen, the cooks would start turning the handles of imaginary mills and offer him to climb into a pot to «reach the right consistency.» Theon’s shame was so great that he even forgot how to shuffle his feet. Now he just walked in circles, still feeling the world around him rotating clockwise.