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

The black dust of Dreadfort had settled so deep into Theon Pastajoy’s pores that no amount of icy water could wash it away. Sitting in his dark corner by the cooling fireplace, Theon stared at his feet in horror. After a whole day of gathering coal, they were pitch black, gleaming in the twilight like they were coated in a layer of obsidian. In Theon’s feverish brain, poisoned by nightmares of uranium and green sludge, a terrifying truth was born. This wasn’t dirt. This was rot. Radioactive, metallic rot that had begun to devour his body. — They’re turning black — he whispered, biting his lips. — My feet are dying. Soon they’ll fall off, and I’ll be a legless stump glowing in the dark… — He listened. From above, from the living quarters, a characteristic sound drifted down. Slap… Slap… Slap-ski-slap… It was the sound of Ramsay Bolton’s footsteps. Ramsay had a unique anatomical feature that Theon had learned like a prayer. His feet were incredibly long, narrow, and flexible, resembling a pack of overstretched sausages or giant skis. When Ramsay walked down the corridor, his feet always “arrived” three seconds before the rest of his body; the tips of his toes would appear in the doorway long before his torso. That slapping sound of long «skis» hitting the stone triggered heart failure in Theon. Those feet were a symbol of power and health. They weren’t black. They weren’t rotting. And then, Theon had an epiphany. A plan, as brilliant as it was insane, matured instantly. — I’ll take his feet — he croaked. — I’ll take them off like old boots and put them on myself. And my own, rotten and uranium-infested ones, I’ll put on him. Let him feel the metal eating his flesh. Let Ramsay Bolton know what it’s like to be sludge! — Theon waited until deep in the night. He knew Ramsay slept soundly after hunting and wine. Theon rose from his corner, trying not to make a sound. His heart was thumping somewhere in his throat. Two guards stood by the door to Ramsay’s bedroom. They looked sleepy and bored. When Theon’s coal-black figure emerged from the darkness of the corridor, they didn’t even reach for their swords. To them, he was just a harmless village idiot, the «Traveler» who either shuffled or tanned on roofs in the winter. — Master… — Theon stammered, bowing low. — Master asked… that I sleep in his room. Said he was bored… wants to hear about the worm again — The guards exchanged glances. One of them snickered. — Bored, is he? Well, go on in, Geyser. Just don’t stink too much, or he’ll chuck you out the window before you open your mouth. — Theon slipped into the room. It was warm inside and smelled of expensive fur. Ramsay was fast asleep on a huge bed, sprawled over the blankets. The windows were slightly ajar, and pale moonlight fell across the foot of the bed. There they were. The Great Sausage-Skis. They were so long they hung off the edge of the bed. The pale, sausage-like toes twitched slightly in his sleep. In the moonlight, they seemed infinite. Theon froze, mesmerized by their cleanliness and functionality. There wasn’t a speck of coal on them. — Now… — he breathed out. — Now I shall make us equals — He knelt at the edge of the bed. He carefully covered his own feet with the hem of his rags so the «uranium rot» wouldn’t spread to the master’s sheets prematurely. Theon reached out his black, trembling hands and cautiously gripped Ramsay’s right foot by the ankle. It was warm and soft. Theon expected it to slide off easily, like a wet glove, or unclip like a part of a complex mechanism. He started to pull. First weakly, then harder. — Come on… come off… — he whispered, digging his own heels into the floor. Ramsay’s foot was incredibly elastic. It stretched like rubber, becoming even longer, but stubbornly refused to leave its owner. Theon applied more force. He literally hung off Bolton’s leg, trying to «yank» it out of the socket. At that moment, Ramsay Bolton, whose sleep was as sharp as a predator’s, felt a strange weight. He dreamed his horse was trying to pull off his boot along with his skin. He opened one eye and saw a strange, crouched black shadow in the gloom, puffing and pulling at his toes. — What the hell… — Ramsay croaked, not fully understanding if he was dreaming or hallucinating. Theon, feeling the movement, froze. His brain finally produced a belated biological memo: «Anatomy doesn’t work like that. Feet are not footwear. They are attached with meat and bone.» Peak cringe. — Master! — Theon squeaked, realizing the depth of his failure. — I… I was checking… for uranium! — Ramsay propped himself up on his elbows, his face twisting into a grimace of bewilderment. — Pastajoy? Are you trying to steal my goddamn leg? — Theon didn’t wait for the dialogue to continue. Panic, sharp and cold, pierced him through. He released Ramsay’s «sausage» foot, which hit the bed with a dull slap, and bolted out of the room like a bullet. He ran so fast his own black feet barely touched the floor. He didn’t shuffle—he flew, jumping over steps, heading for the only place he felt safe: the deepest, darkest cellar of Dreadfort, behind the barrels of sour wine. Ramsay sat on the bed for a while, rubbing his aching ankle. His long feet were still vibrating slightly from the tug. He looked at the door, then at his feet. — What the hell was that? — he muttered to himself. He was too sleepy and lazy at that moment to chase the Diarrhea Geyser into the cellars. Chalking it up to another flare-up of Theon’s madness, Ramsay went back to sleep, deciding he’d deal with it in the morning. After all, his legs were in place, even if they were a bit stretched. Morning came. Theon sat in the cellar, hugging his black knees, waiting for death. When the guards came for him, he didn’t even resist. He was led into the hall where Ramsay was eating breakfast, sitting in his chair with his famous long feet propped up on the table. Jaime and Cersei were already there. Ramsay had clearly had time to tell them everything, because Jaime was choking with laughter, looking at his boots, and Cersei was examining Theon with a new level of disgusted curiosity. — Ah, here is our surgeon! — Ramsay purred, cutting a slice of fatty ham. — Pastajoy, come closer. I want to know one thing — Theon approached, not raising his eyes. His brows were twitching. — Why — Ramsay paused, — did you try to unscrew my right leg last night? Did you decide it would look better on you? Or did you want to make a ski out of it so you could slide all the way to the Wall? — Theon sobbed. There was no point in hiding the truth. — Your feet… they are so long and clean, master. And mine are black. They’re rotting from uranium. I thought… I thought that if we swapped, You would rot instead of me, and I would gallop on your ski-like feet and be healthy… — Jaime Lannister couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing, slamming his hand on the table. — Galloping on skis! Gods, Ramsay, did you hear that? He wanted to try on your limbs! LMAO! — Ramsay looked at his feet lying on the table. Five long, pale toes on each. They really did look strange and imposing. — Did you think they come off like clothes? — Bolton asked, and dangerous notes appeared in his voice. — I… I was wrong, master… — Theon whispered. — Anatomy… it is cruel — Ramsay slowly stood up. His face went from mocking to hard. — Since you value my legs so much, Pastajoy, and are so afraid of your «uranium» feet, we will help you distract yourself from the rot. Today you won’t be walking. Today you will crawl after my feet all over the castle and kiss every one of my sausage toes to make sure they are still on me and haven’t gone anywhere — Theon collapsed to his knees. His plan to save himself from radiation had turned into a new circle of humiliation. — And put on your colander! — Ramsay added spitefully. — So everyone can see: here comes the Great Foot-Thief! ROFL! — All day, Dreadfort watched the shameful procession. Ramsay walked ahead, his long feet slapping against the stones: Slap… Slap… Ski-slap… And behind him, on all fours, wearing a rusty colander, crawled Theon, looking with horror and adoration at the infinite heels of his tormentor. Theon Pastajoy’s shame had once again reached a legendary peak—he had become a slave to the very feet he once wanted to steal. LMAO.