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

In Winterfell, where the Boltons had moved to finally cement their power over the North, the atmosphere was one of dreary cruelty. Snow, mixed with soot and old grime, lay in the courtyard like a dead weight. Theon Pastajoy, now officially holding the title of «Degenerate Artist», dragged his existence between the kennel and the kitchen, trying not to attract any more of Ramsay’s wrath. One morning, while crawling past an open gallery, Theon overheard the voice of Cersei Lannister. She was, as always, up to date on all the trendy fads from the South and Essos. — You see, Jaime — Cersei drawled lazily. — There’s a new trend among the golden youth in King’s Landing. It’s called a «prank.» You do something unexpected and terrifying to make a person jump out of their skin, and then everyone laughs. It’s a sign of wit and high status. If you can scare someone into hiccups and walk away clean—you’re the king of the party! — Theon froze behind a pillar. The word «prank» entered his brain like a jagged arrow. «King of the party… high status… scare them into hiccups…». In the head of the Degenerate Artist, gears began to turn, lubricated by fear and wild delirium. — A prank… — he whispered, his eyebrows twitching nervously. — I’ll pull a prank. I’ll scare them so bad that even Ramsay will recognize me as a master of horror. — But what could be scarier than anything in the world? For Theon, the answer was obvious — URANIUM. Green sludge. And, of course, his conduit to that world — THE PIPE. Even though the mere sight of cylindrical objects caused Theon bouts of uncontrollable shaking and phantom pains in his «uranium» stomach, he made up his mind. He had to find the Pipe. The scariest, most «radioactive» pipe in the ruins of Winterfell. He searched the nooks and crannies of the castle for three hours, flinching at every rustle. Finally, in a half-ruined stone drain near the old crypt, he saw it. Theon Pastajoy, the prank-obsessed resident of the servant quarters, beheld in a forgotten drainage pipe an inexhaustible source for his cunning schemes. — Aha! — he whispered, a predatory spark gleaming in his eyes. — Now we’ll have some fun! — In Theon’s head, a plan was already forming: plant the pipe near a grumpy neighbor’s door and then play the hero who «saves» the street from her “evil” plots. Peak cringe. He grabbed the pipe, imagining how his «friends» would be gasping with laughter, and took a deep breath, preparing to let out a triumphant cry. But instead of the sound of triumph, a putrid sigh escaped from the depths of the pipe, and then… VROOSH! A cloud of ancient, foul-smelling filth spat directly into Theon’s face. His eyes were instantly clouded by black sludge, his mouth filled with rot that made his teeth ache. Spitting and trying to see through the grime, Theon realized that he probably looked terrible. And then it hit him: he had to stick his hand into the pipe to understand what was hidden in its depths—and perhaps even retrieve a trophy for the future prank. His hand plunged into the fetid, filthy darkness. His fingers touched something cold, sharp… Glass! Sharp shards, likely from a broken bottle, bit into his skin. But that was only the beginning. At that same moment, into the wounds from the shards, began to crawl… Earthworms. Several tiny, cold worms, sensing a fresh, moist environment, began to methodically tunnel their way into Theon’s flesh. He tried to pull his hand out, but it was stuck fast in the narrow passage. And then… everything went wrong. Into the wounds formed by the glass, hundreds, thousands of worms crawled. They writhed, shifted, bloating and increasing in size. Theon’s face twisted in horror and pain. He felt the worms crawling up his arm, penetrating under his skin, filling every vein, every muscle. He felt their slippery bodies, their vile squirming. And then he realized he couldn’t even scream. Into his mouth, nose, and eyes, worms had packed themselves from the debris vomited by the pipe. He tried to spit them out, but in vain. With every second, there were more of them! The pipe, like an insatiable monster, devoured him. The worms penetrated all his organs, decomposing him from the inside. Theon’s face turned into a mess of mud, worms, and blood. His body bloated, cracked, covered with thousands of writhing, crawling creatures. Theon’s eyes grew cloudy. The last thing he saw was worms crawling out of the pipe, emerging from his dying body, and scattering across the courtyard, anticipating new victims. The next morning they found him — a terrifying sight, resembling a shapeless pile of worms and decaying meat rather than a human. Near him lay an old drainage pipe, in which, according to rumors, filth still stirs, waiting for the next prankster. Ramsay Bolton froze in the middle of the courtyard, with undisguised delight and disgust looking at the writhing mass of mud and worms that only that morning had been his favorite pet. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face when he realized that the «Uranium Prankster» had managed to turn himself into a living bucket of bait right under Old Nan’s windows. — I expected a joke, but you exceeded all expectations, Pastajoy! Now you are officially the most shameful pile of fertilizer in the history of the North! — Ramsay roared, disgustedly poking the writhing mass with the toe of his boot. He ordered the guards not to wash away this spectacle, deciding that the sight of Theon, fallen victim to his own prank, would be the best lesson for all lovers of «interesting finds» in Winterfell.