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

By the fireplace, shrouded in a foul-smelling steam from his drying rags, Theon had finally fallen into a heavy stupor. His body, exhausted by hypothermia, stopped obeying him, and he plunged into a deep, feverish sleep. However, the warmth of the fire brought him no peace, as his consciousness was immediately sucked into the abyss of a new, even more terrifying vision. In this impenetrable gloom, a nightmare awaited him so sophisticated that all his previous humiliations seemed like distant, unimportant trifles. Theon Pastajoy, with his insatiable thirst for knowledge, went out into the courtyard of his castle and saw a strange pipe. Theon didn’t stand before the pipe for long. It beckoned him like an ancient artifact hiding unknown secrets. But something changed. The air around the pipe seemed to tremble, and the metal radiated a faint, unhealthy glint. Theon, as always, ignored his premonitions. People often tossed drainage pipes into his yard that no one needed, and Theon always blew the contents out to find out what was inside. He brought the pipe to his lips, took a deep breath, and blew. This time, nothing flew out. Not even old dirt. Only a faint metallic aftertaste touched his tongue. — Strange… — Theon thought. But suddenly his mouth filled with bitterness, as if he had swallowed a piece of rusty metal. His eyes darkened, and a sharp pain pierced his body. He coughed, trying to get rid of the disgusting taste, but it was too late. Theon felt something changing inside him. Blood boiled in his veins, bones burned, and his skin was covered in strange blisters. He understood. There was… uranium in the pipe. Radioactive uranium, and now it was inside him. Panic overwhelmed Theon. He ran, stumbling and falling, toward his castle, hoping to find any salvation. But with every step, it only got worse. Hair began to fall out in clumps, his vision blurred, and blood trickled from his nose. He reached a mirror and froze in horror. His face was distorted with a grimace of pain, his skin had turned green, and his eyes filled with insane fire. He was turning into something… else. Soon Theon fell to the floor, writhing in agony. He felt his body falling apart, the radiation devouring him from the inside. The last thing he saw before dying was his own reflection in the mirror — mutilated, green, glowing in the dark. Ultimate Cringe. A few days later, a squad of soldiers arrived at the castle courtyard. They found Theon’s body. Or rather, what was left of it. A green, glowing sludge spread across the floor, and the disgusting smell of metal filled the room. The soldiers retreated in horror. They knew this place was cursed. The legend of Theon Pastajoy, who found uranium in a pipe, would be passed from mouth to mouth, warning against curiosity and reminding everyone that some secrets are better left unsolved. And the pipe was buried deep underground, a warning that blowing into unknown things is dangerous. — A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A! — Theon jumped up by the fireplace, knocking over the poker and slamming his back into the stone masonry. He was breathing heavily, his forehead drenched in cold sweat, and his face twisted with terror. The shame was already waiting for him. In the Great Hall, despite the late hour, Ramsay, Jaime, Cersei, and Sansa were still sitting. They were drinking wine and discussing how they would use the new portion of scattered coal tomorrow. Theon’s scream made them all flinch, and Jaime spilled wine on his golden doublet, causing him to curse with a choice royal oath. — Again?! — Ramsay Bolton slammed his fist on the table. — Pastajoy, if you scream like a pig under a knife one more time, I’ll order your mouth sewn shut with your own returned gut! — Theon, oblivious to the threat, crawled toward them on all fours. His pupils were dilated, and from his nose, just like in the nightmare, a thin stream of blood began to flow (likely from the pressure drop after the frostbite on the roof). — Uranium! — wailed Theon, grabbing Ramsay by the boot. — Master! There was a pipe! I blew into it! I turned green! I melted into sludge! I saw myself in the mirror, I was glowing! Save me, I’m glowing from the inside! — Jaime Lannister disgustedly pushed Theon away with the toe of his boot. — What is he babbling about? What the hell is «uranium»? Is that the name of some Northern god or a new disease he caught while licking stones? — His PTSD had reached a new level — now he was afraid of pipes. ROFL. Theon, completely losing his mind from the remnants of the dream, jumped up and started running around the hall, peering under the tables. — Where is the pipe?! It’s here somewhere! If I blow into it again, I’ll finally become slime! — He ran up to Sansa Stark and, falling on his knees before her, began to breathe frantically on her hands. — Look, Lady Sansa! Am I glowing? Are my teeth still in place? I can taste the metal! — Sansa, whose patience had long since evaporated, looked at him with such infinite pity and disgust that Theon froze for a second. — Theon — she said quietly. — You’re just a fool. You dreamed up some nonsense. No such thing as «uranium» exists. There is only you, your stupidity, and this room. — But Ramsay Bolton had already found a way to profit from this. He slowly stood up, walked over to Theon, and grabbed him by the collar. — Green sludge, you say? Glowing in the dark? — Ramsay bared his teeth. — What an interesting idea. And you know what we’ll do tomorrow? Since you’re so afraid of becoming slime on the coal, we’ll test how well you can collect that coal with your bare hands. — Ramsay turned to the guests. — Tomorrow our «Uranium Pranker» will be collecting coal all over the grounds. And if he doesn’t find that very «pipe» among the black stones, I’ll personally make him blow out every single drain in Dreadfort! LMAO! — Theon started sobbing again, smearing sweat and blood across his face. He had embarrassed himself so thoroughly that even Jaime Lannister, who had prompted him to get the «tan», felt it was a bit much. — Go to sleep, little Pastajoy — Ramsay tossed, pushing Theon back toward the fireplace. — Sleep and hope that no «radioactive suitcase» comes to you in your dreams. Tomorrow, a lot of black, cold coal awaits you. — Theon curled into a ball, trembling with fear. He was afraid to close his eyes because in the darkness he could still see that same green glow. He became the first person in Westeros to receive radiation sickness solely through his imagination, and this shame would now haunt him until his death, until he actually turned into sludge — if not from uranium, then from Ramsay Bolton’s endless mockery. Ultimate Cringe. Cersei, turning off her Tik-tok, smiled contentedly. — Views are hitting records. People in Essos are asking if Pastajoy can be used instead of a lamp in the mines. Tomorrow’s coal day will be legendary! LMAO! —