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

That day, Dreadfort stood in anticipation of an important guest. From Winterfell, commissioned by Sansa — who was still trying to conduct negotiations — arrived Brienne of Tarth. She came to discuss food exchange terms with Ramsay, and Bolton, sensing a profit, ordered everyone to behave decently — as much as was possible in a castle where floors were strewn with coal and a man with a colander on his head crawled through the corridors. Theon Pastajoy watched Brienne’s arrival from a cellar window. His tormented mind, accustomed to caricatured images and eternal fear, gave an instant verdict. He saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure in heavy armor, with short blonde hair and a stern face. — Gods… — Theon whispered, reverently holding a piece of coal. — What a great warrior. What a… what a real man. A true knight! Not like Jaime with his gold hand, but a grim, powerful, iron man! I want to be just like him. I want him to teach me how to be the best knight… — In Theon’s head, a “brilliant” plan matured. To gain the trust of this “mighty sir,” he had to give him a gift. Something that would emphasize his masculinity and knightly prowess. — I will draw him! — Theon decided. — I’ll give him a portrait, and he’ll take me as a squire and take me away from this horrible Dreadfort! — Theon got hold of a huge piece of an old canvas that once served as a tablecloth at a wake, and begged the cooks for some more coal, chalk, beet juice, and a bit of yellow ochre. He drew inspiredly, but his skills were at the level of a five-year-old having a sea-sickness fit. In the center of the canvas, Theon depicted Brienne. But since he was certain this was the most brutal dude in Westeros, he decided to add “characteristic features.” He drew Brienne with a thick, coal-black beard shaped like a shovel and a jaunty curled mustache, like those of Tyroshi mercenaries. The face in the portrait turned out crimson from the beet juice, and the eyes were of different sizes. He paid special attention to the horse. In his imagination, a knight must sit on something monumental. As a result, a creature appeared under Brienne on the canvas with the body of a slouching dog, the paws of a bear, and a huge, sad cow’s head chewing a painted burdock. The armor on the knight resembled a pile of tin cans tied with white ribbons. — Perfection… — Theon exhaled, admiring the bearded monster on the cow-bear. — He’ll be thrilled! — The moment of truth came in the Great Hall. Ramsay Bolton, Jaime, and Cersei were already sitting at the table, ready to sign the treaty. Brienne of Tarth stood before them, straight as an arrow, her hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper. — So, Lady Brienne… — Ramsay began, but he was interrupted by a crash. Theon burst into the hall. He was dragging the huge, unrolled canvas behind him. His face was smeared with coal and beets, and the colander sat on his head again for extra officiality. — Sir! Oh, great knight! — Theon screamed, falling to his knees before Brienne and unrolling his creation. — I have watched you! You are my idol! I want to be just as worthy a man as you! Accept this gift from your loyal fan! — Brienne slowly lowered her gaze to the canvas. A silence fell over the hall, comparable to the silence of a grave. Jaime Lannister, seeing the “portrait,” slowly began to slide under the table, covering his mouth with his hand. LMAO! Cersei just stared wide-eyed at the bearded Brienne riding a cow-dog. Brienne of Tarth looked at the depiction of herself with a bushy beard and Tyroshi mustaches. Her already stern face began to turn red with offense. Her whole path, all her attempts to prove she was a woman and a knight at once, were crushed by this filthy creature in a colander. — I want to be like you — a knight, Sir Brienne! — Theon continued to wail, poking his finger at the painted beard. — Look at how masculinely I captured your stubble! It’s a symbol of strength! — Brienne took a ragged breath. Her voice trembled with embarrassment and rage. — Actually… I am a woman — she hissed through her teeth. Theon froze. His hand, pointing at the cow head of the horse, hung in the air. — Wo… who? — he asked, blinking his new eyebrows. — But… but the beard? I tried so hard… — Brienne wasn’t listening anymore. She felt deeply insulted. Being called “Beauty” as a mockery was familiar, but receiving a portrait where she was depicted as a bearded dwarf on a mutant was beyond her. — There will be no negotiations — Brienne said coldly to Ramsay. — If in your castle you allow such… creatures to insult ambassadors with such impunity, we have nothing to talk about. — She turned abruptly and, clanking her armor, walked out of the hall, not even looking back at Sansa, who tried to call out to her. The grain deal, which the Boltons needed so much, popped like a soap bubble. Ramsay Bolton slowly rose from his seat. His face was whiter than snow. He looked at the ruined deal, then at Theon, who was still holding the bearded portrait. — Pastajoy… — Ramsay whispered, and there was more threat in that whisper than in a Dementor’s scream. — Do you understand what you just did? — Jaime Lannister finally couldn’t take it and exploded with laughter: — Ramsay! Look at the beard! It’s a masterpiece! LOOL! You should hang this in the Great Hall! «Bearded Brienne on a Dog-Cow»! LMAO! Pastajoy — you are a true artist of shame! — GET RID OF IT! — Ramsay roared, ripping the canvas from Theon’s hands and shoving it over his head, tearing through the middle. Now Theon’s head in the colander poked right out of Brienne’s bearded face. Peak cringe. — You are a vile, stinking, stupid mistake of nature! You ruined my food supply! — Theon, tangled in the canvas, fell and began to roll on the floor. — I thought… I thought it was a man… — he sobbed from under the beet paint. — She’s so tall… She has those shoulders… — — You aren’t allowed to think! — Ramsay gave him such a slap on the back of the head that the colander flew into the fireplace. — Crawl to the stable and eat hay there with your cow-dog! From now on, you aren’t a Traveler. You are the Degenerate Artist! And if I ever see coal in your hands again that isn’t for cleaning — I’ll make you eat this whole canvas along with the frame! ROFL! — Theon crawled away, dragging the scraps of his “masterpiece.” The shame of Theon Pastajoy had once again become legendary. He managed to insult the most patient woman in Westeros, ruin a major deal, and forever solidify his title as a man who can’t tell the difference between a bearded guy and a lady in armor.