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

The Dreadfort hall was shaking from drunken laughter. After the story of Theon Pastajoy’s gut making its triumphant return, the lords of Westeros were in a state of hysterical delight. Ramsay, wiping away tears, was about to order a new dish when suddenly the doors of the hall swung open. Jeor Mormont entered the room. He looked imposing: a heavy black cloak, a gray beard, thick eyebrows, and a gaze full of stern wisdom. In the North, the Lord Commander was respected, and his appearance at the feast seemed lucky, even though he was supposed to be at the Wall. He silently sat at the table, pulled a goblet toward him, and scanned those present with a heavy look. — Having fun? — Jeor’s voice sounded like the crack of breaking ice. — Allow me to contribute my share to this evening. I will tell you three stories from my life. About how this old Bear was tempered! — Silence fell over the hall. The lords prepared to listen. Story One: Bear Island Slop — Life on Bear Island is no walk through the gardens of Highgarden — Jeor began, staring straight ahead. — Everything there smells of salt, pine, and hard labor. When I was a child, no more than ten name-days old, I was a curious pup. On that day, which I remembered for life, there was an unusual heat for our lands! The air was sticky! My mother, Lady Mormont, was a woman of steep temper. She did not tolerate disorder in the house. In the kitchen, they had started a big cleanup: they were scrubbing the cauldrons in which they had boiled fatty venison, entrails, and vegetables for a week. That whole mess had turned into a thick, foul-smelling slurry—a mixture of rancid fat, vegetable peelings, soapy lye, and boiling water. This vat had stood on the fire for half a day, bubbling and emitting vapors that killed flies! I was playing in the inner courtyard, right under the kitchen windows. I was building a castle out of mud and stones, imagining myself a King of the North. I did not hear my mother approach the window. She did not see me behind the thick bushes of blackberry. A sharp sound rang out—the heavy cast-iron vat hit the stone windowsill. And in the next moment, the sky above me vanished. A huge wave of scalding, sticky slop crashed down. It was not just hot water. It was thick, boiling death! At first, I felt no pain. There was only a sensation of incredible weight and heat that soaked my clothes in an instant. And then the scream came. I felt the boiling fat stick to my skin for good, seeping into the pores. I rolled in the mud, trying to throw this hot slime off me, but the slop was everywhere. Onion peels stuffed my mouth when I tried to breathe, and the hot lye burned out my eyes! Mother ran into the courtyard when she heard my howl. She grabbed me and threw me into the cold stream that flowed nearby. The ice water brought relief, but when it started to wash away the slop, I saw how, along with the fat and peelings, the skin was coming off my shoulders and back—in flaps, like the scales of overcooked fish. The whole yard was flooded with this pink mixture of my flesh and kitchen waste. For a week I lay in a fever, and the smell of boiled meat—my own meat—haunted me in nightmares for years. From that day on, I learned: danger does not always come from an enemy with a sword. Sometimes it pours on you from the window of your own home, just because someone decided to clean up. — Mormont finished, laughing. The lords exchanged glances, but laughed out of politeness. LMAO! Story Two: Bird Feast and Revenge on a Sister Jeor took a sip of wine, and it seemed as if it evaporated the moment it touched his lips. — Years passed. I became a youth full of pride and anger. My sister, Maege, was always a thorn in my side. She was just too observant, and she constantly told me that I would end my days on the Wall. «You were born for the cold, Jeor,» she would say, laughing in my face. «You will command thieves and rapists, and your home will be made of ice.» I hated those taunts. I wanted to be a great lord, a warrior, not a nanny for society’s dregs. By the time I was eighteen, my hatred for her words reached its limit. That winter was fierce. Birds froze right in flight. I went into the woods and found dozens of corpses of crows, pigeons, and gulls. They lay in the snow. Brrr! Stiff, with glazed eyes, some had already started to rot under the layer of frost. One day, I gathered a full bag of these fallen birds. Like your Pastajoy, only without the fingers in stock. ROFL! I built a fire in a deep ravine, far from the castle. I plucked them, feathers flew in all directions, black and gray, mixing with the dirty snow. I skewered these thin, blue carcasses on spits. The smell was unbearable—the stench of burnt feathers and old, decaying meat. Fat dripped into the fire, hissing and emitting blue smoke. But I did not stop. I roasted them until the flesh was black, hiding the rot and the emaciation. In the evening, I returned to the castle. I prepared a tray, decorating it with remnants of greens to hide the misery of the dish. I told Maege that this was rare game, sent to me secretly from Essos, «sun birds,» whose meat strengthens the spirit. She was hungry. She ate greedily, tearing off pieces of black meat. She praised the taste, saying it was «a bit bitter, but gives strength.» I sat opposite her and watched her swallow the remains of dead birds that only yesterday were pecking at the same dead carrion until they died themselves. When she finished, I slowly told her the truth. I described every corpse I found in the snow. I told her how larvae fell out of one crow when I gutted it. Maege turned pale, she vomited right on the table, on my hands. But even then, wiping her mouth, she looked at me with her wolfish eyes and whispered: «You think this is cruel? On the Wall, Jeor, you will be glad for such a feast. You are training yourself for your destiny.» I hit her then, but her words stayed in my head forever. I fed her death, and she saw in it only a confirmation of my future shame. — Story Three: Silver Death in the Red Keep Jeor went silent, and the silence in the hall became so thick it seemed it could be touched. The guests stopped chewing. Even Joffrey stopped plucking the strings of his crossbow. — But the peak of my life happened very recently — Jeor’s voice became quiet, almost tender. — I was at the Wall. There I met Jon Snow. A boy I considered my heir, my right hand. He approached me under the cover of night and whispered that he had found a secret passage into the mines under the Red Keep. He said that a forgotten Targaryen hoard lay there—bags full of precious stones that Maegor the Cruel had hidden from the world. I, an old fool, believed him. We went down into the dungeons. The air there was heavy, stale, smelling of mold and old stone. Our way was blocked by guards—Gold Cloaks, but not those who patrol the streets, but silent shadows guarding the secrets of kings. They did not want to let me in. But Jon knew how to solve the problem. I had a bottle of old wine from Essos, black as midnight and strong as steel. I gave it to them as a bribe. They let the Bear into his last den. Jon pointed to the far corner of a niche. A heavy leather bag lay there. «The stones are there, Lord Commander,» he said. «Take them.» I stepped forward. The bag was suspiciously cold. I grabbed it by the edges and pulled it toward me. But I did not know that inside the bag, Jon Snow had beforehand hidden a huge glass jar, filled to the brim with mercury. Heavy, liquid, living silver death. When I yanked the bag, the glass inside shattered. Sharp shards instantly sliced through the old leather of the bag. In the next moment, the world for me became silver. Mercury poured onto me—heavy, incredibly heavy, penetrating through my clothes. It coated my skin, flowing into my boots, under my collar. It was not like boiling slop. It was a cold that burned from within. Mercury vapors instantly filled my lungs. I felt my blood thicken, turning into lead. My muscles failed. I fell to my knees, and the silver puddle continued to spread around me, reflecting my own distorted face. I looked at Jon Snow, but saw only his cold smile through the veil of heavy vapors. I died there, in the mine under the Red Keep, flooded with liquid metal, cheated by the one I loved most. My body still lies there, having become part of the silver hoard that never existed. — Jeor Mormont went silent. He slowly scanned the hall. Tyrion Lannister dropped his goblet, and wine flowed across the table in a red puddle, resembling blood. Jaime turned pale. Cersei gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. The lords looked at each other. The meaning of the last words began to dawn on them. «I died there…» They looked at the chair where Jeor Mormont had just sat. The chair was empty. There was no cloak, no man, no smell of wine. Only a slight chill and a barely perceptible metallic smell of mercury hovered in the air. Jeor Mormont had not been among the living for a long time; his story of death was the truth. But how had they all just seen and heard him?! Ramsay Bolton, whose face twisted from a mixture of horror and delight, slowly turned his head to Theon, who was still sitting on the floor, clutching his empty dog bowl of pasta. — Hey… Pastajoy… — Ramsay whispered, and his voice broke. — Did you… did you see him? Did you hear the Bear? Was he really here or have we all gone mad? — Theon raised his head. His face was wet with tears, snot was bubbling at his nose, and the «bald hedgehogs» on his forehead were pulsing, making him look like an alien insect. He looked at the empty spot, then at Ramsay. In his eyes there was not a drop of understanding—only an endless, scorched desert of pain. — I… — Theon sobbed, and a large tear fell on his dirty hand. — I am Reek… And bears go «grrr.» They don’t belong in the castle, master… — He covered his face with his hands and sobbed out loud, shaking in sobs that echoed through the suddenly empty and cold hall of Dreadfort. — I am Reek! I am Reek! — He cried, choking on tears, unable to bear the weight of others’ stories or the emptiness of his own soul. The lords began to hastily rise from the table, knocking over chairs. Pastajoy’s shame for today was in the background—now they were possessed by primitive horror before the ghost who had just told them about slop, rotten birds, and silver death. Ramsay Bolton, seeing that this time the Geyser had not just disgraced himself but become an involuntary witness to an otherworldly revelation, decisively frowned. The atmosphere in the hall was too gloomy, too solemn for Dreadfort. Mormont’s ghost had left behind a trail of icy dignity, and Ramsay felt that his «pet» risked being infected with this greatness through tears. — Well, enough, Pastajoy! — Ramsay barked, jumping from his chair and slamming his empty goblet aside with a crash. — Stop with the wet works! The old Bear has gone to his mine, and you’re still here. And since you listened to his ravings so carefully, I’ve decided to reward you. You are a prince, after all, Theon? Heir to the Iron Islands? And a prince should not crawl in the mud without a loyal steed! — Ramsay walked over to Theon and with mock respect lifted him from his knees. Theon, whose «bald hedgehogs» on his forehead were still moistly glistening from tears, looked at his master with disbelief. — Now you will go to the great horse market at White Harbor — Ramsay proclaimed, winking at the guests. — I give you gold… or rather, silver, worthy of your current status. You will buy yourself the best horse in Westeros! — With these words, Ramsay placed into Theon’s trembling palm three bent, blackened silver stags—a sum for which, on a market day, you couldn’t even buy a dead rat, let alone a stallion’s hoof. — But there is one condition, my knight — Ramsay bared his teeth. — You will go there on foot, but not as a beggar. You will go like a noble ser at a tournament! You must imagine that beneath you is an invisible warhorse, and you are a champion of the North. You will «gallop» down the road, lifting your knees high and making hoof sounds with your mouth. And gods help you if someone at the market doesn’t recognize you as a great buyer! — Ramsay ordered the servants to bring the «armor.» They put a rusty colander on Theon’s head, threw a holey horse blanket smelling of horse urine over him instead of a cloak, and placed a piece of a mop into his hands—his «knight’s lance.» — Go, Ser Pastajoy! — Ramsay commanded under the renewed laughter of the Lords. LMAO! — Gallop after your dream! — Theon, whose mind had finally capitulated before madness, suddenly straightened his back. Under Ramsay’s hypnotic gaze, he actually believed that he was a knight. He pressed the «lance» to his side, lifted the edges of the blanket, and began to ridiculously jump across the hall, slapping his bare heels against the stones and shouting: «Clop-clop! Out of the way! A great lord is going for a horse!» The whole way to the market, Theon spent in this image. He galloped along the roadside, forcing occasional peasants to cross themselves and jump into the ditch. When he finally burst onto the market square of White Harbor, his appearance was monumental in its misery: the colander had slipped over one eye, covering one of the «bald hedgehogs,» the blanket was trailing in the manure, and he himself was breathing heavily, continuing to imitate neighing. Total cringe.