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

In the cellars of Dreadfort, among the barrels of sour wine, Theon Pastajoy was plotting a rebellion. His wounded soul, spurred on by the remnants of Greyjoy pride and the resentment from yesterday’s «ski-licking», demanded justice. In his head, like an old play, the same scenario was being performed over and over: he approaches Ramsay, looks him straight in the eye, and lets out everything that has accumulated. — You are a rotting spawn! — Theon whispered into the darkness, practicing his voice. — You are a bastard whose father is ashamed of your very existence! Your feet are a mistake of nature! — He felt a surge of strength. His new eyebrows furrowed threateningly. — Today — Theon thought — I will stop being Reek. I will become Theon Greyjoy! Ironborn! — The First Attempt Ramsay sat in a chair by the fire, carelessly picking at his teeth with a knife. Theon stepped resolutely out of the shadows. He marched with a steady pace, imagining how his words would hit Bolton harder than a whip. — Now! — Theon commanded himself. — Tell him he’s a stinking dog! — He approached closely. Ramsay slowly raised his gaze of faded eyes. At that moment, Theon’s PTSD snapped like a trap. Images of the rack, the eyebrow tweezers, and the frozen roof flashed before his eyes. His mouth opened, but instead of «stinking dog», what flew out was: — Master… your ears… they are curled so elegantly, like two delicate seashells on the shore of the Iron Islands! — Ramsay froze with the knife at his mouth. — What? — he asked, sincerely not understanding. Theon turned red to the roots of his hair. — I… I’m saying they… they are very symmetrical! — he squeaked and, stumbling, ran back into the shadows, hearing Ramsay’s puzzled grunting behind his back. The Second Attempt An hour later, Theon gathered his will into a fist again. — Seashells? Seriously? — he scolded himself. — Oh, no. Now I’ll tell him that his mother was of the lowest station, and he himself is a pimple on the ass of the North! — He saw Ramsay in the corridor. He was heading to the stable, and his famous long ski-feet were slapping against the stones: Slap… Slap… — Go! — Theon urged himself. — Right now! Insult his feet! — He blocked Ramsay’s path. Ramsay stopped, and his long feet were a couple of inches from Theon’s toes. Fear paralyzed his throat. Theon felt his knees start to live a life of their own, trying to fold into a bow. — Master! — Theon blurted out. — I just wanted to say that your toes… they are so long and majestic, like pink sausages prepared for the feast of the great gods! They… they are like the pillars of a temple of beauty! — Ramsay raised an eyebrow. — Sausages for the gods? Pastajoy, have you been eating «uranium» again? — — No! — Theon shouted, covering his face with his hands. — I just… I’m just impressed by their aerodynamics! — And he bolted away, nearly crashing into Jaime Lannister. The Third Attempt All the guests were gathered in the dining hall. Jaime, Cersei, and Sansa sat at the table. Theon realized: this was his chance. To insult Ramsay in front of witnesses—that was the ultimate redemption! He drank some leftover vinegar from someone’s cup for courage and moved toward the main table. — You are a monster! — he rehearsed in his head. — You are a freak in human form! — He stood before Ramsay. The hall went quiet. Theon puffed out his chest, took a breath and… saw Ramsay slowly put his hand on his knife. The world around Theon blurred. — Master! — Theon’s voice sounded clear and solemn. — I can no longer remain silent…! — The hall fell silent for a minute. — Your.. your.. — Theon stammered. Ramsay raised his eyebrows in surprise. — Your ability to cook… it is so beautiful in its cruelty that it reminds me of the first snowdrop pushing through the skull of a fallen enemy! You are like a summer chef, only you smell not of flowers, but of noble death and good soap! — Jaime Lannister choked on his wine. Cersei stared wide-eyed. Sansa slowly lowered her head, unable to listen to this. LMAO! — Noble soap? — Ramsay began to slowly turn red, but not from anger, but from suppressed laughter. The Peak of Cringe Theon was furious with himself. — One last time! — he decided. — Now I’ll go and simply spit under his feet! Even an idiot will understand that! — He burst into the center of the hall as everyone was about to leave. He was as confident as ever. He felt the power of the Kraken within him! He ran up to Ramsay, who was standing barefoot on the rug, stretching his endless feet. — RAMSAY BOLTON! — Theon shouted. Everyone froze. Ramsay squinted. Theon opened his mouth to deliver the filthiest insult in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. But his brain, finally broken by years of humiliation, delivered the final, crushing chord. — Master! — Theon yelled, falling to his knees and pointing a finger at Ramsay. — If I were an earthworm, I would dream of being crushed specifically by your heel! Because it is so soft and anatomically perfect that it wouldn’t be a murder, but a sacred massage! You are the god of sausage feet and the king of my nightmares! I love how you frown, it makes you look like a very angry but very expensive bun! — Dead silence fell. Ramsay Bolton looked down at him. And then he began to laugh. He laughed so loudly that his long feet began to vibrate on the rug. LOOL! — Expensive bun?! — Ramsay wailed. — Did you hear that?! I’m an angry bun! ROFL! Jaime, Cersei! My Geyser just confessed his love to me through a heel massage! — Jaime Lannister simply fell face-first into his plate, shaking with laughter. Cersei disgustedly shook her head: — This… this is the most shameful kind of rebellion I have ever seen. Pastajoy, you can’t even insult a person without turning it into boot-licking. Ultimate cringe. — Theon sat on the floor, covering his face with his hands. He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to be a proud Greyjoy. And instead, he became a creature that compared a maniac to a bun and seashells. — Go to the corner, you bun-worshipper! — Ramsay kicked him with his long foot in the side, but did it almost affectionately, through the laughter. — Today you outdid yourself. You shamed yourself so hard that I’m even too lazy to torture you. LMAO! — Theon crawled to his corner, whispering under his nose: «Seashells… buns… why did I say that…». His «bald hedgehogs» on his forehead seemed to start swelling again from the sheer shame, and all of Dreadfort remembered for a long time the day when the most terrifying prisoner of the Boltons tried to start an uprising with the help of ridiculous compliments.