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

The darkness that followed after the worms finally finished off the remnants of Theon’s consciousness in the Winterfell courtyard was not quiet or majestic. It smelled of rusty metal, wet dog, and that very foul-smelling sludge that the «Uranium Pranker» had turned into. Theon felt his soul—resembling a dried noodle in shape—slowly separating from the mess that Ramsay was lazily kicking with the toe of his boot. — Is this… it? — whispered Theon, or rather, what was left of him. — No more pipes? No more bald hedgehogs? — Suddenly, the space around him exploded with salty spray. The air became thick, cold, and distinctly smelling of fish. Theon opened his eyes—or whatever he used to see with now—and found himself standing knee-deep in icy water. Above him loomed vaults made of the bones of giant sea monsters, and the floor was paved with the skulls of those who «did not sow». He had reached the halls of the Drowned God. Ahead, on a throne of coral and the claws of giant crabs, sat HIM. The Drowned God looked imposing: a beard of seaweed, skin the color of a storm sky, and a trident radiating pure marine fury. Around him feasted the great heroes of the Iron Islands—stern men with axes, eternally drinking strong ale and telling tales of raids. Theon, still habitually covering his face with his hands (a habit after Azkaban and the Sansa compliment), scurried toward the throne. He was still in his afterlife rags, soaked in silt. — Oh, great God of the Depths! — Theon shouted, trying to perform a majestic bow, but instead, he slipped on a wet skull and sprawled into a puddle of sea foam. — I am Theon Pastajoy! I have returned to you! — The feasting went silent. Hundreds of stern eyes stared at this disaster. — Theon Pastajoy? — the Drowned God’s voice was like the crash of the surf. — I have heard of you. Are you the one they called «Reek»? The one who tied a sack with his own gut and blew into wormy pipes? — Theon turned red even in the afterlife. — Those were… tactical maneuvers, my lord! Pranks! Have you heard of pranks? It’s the top trend in King’s Landing right now! — — There is no room for pranks here — the God snapped. — Here we drink ale and eat crabs. Sit and prove that there is at least a drop of salt left in you. — Theon was handed a huge goblet filled with murky salt water mixed with whale bile. By Ironborn tradition, he had to drain it in one gulp. Theon grabbed the goblet, squeezed his eyes shut, and started to drink. But his PTSD triggered instantly: it seemed to him that this was the very mercury from Jeor Mormont’s mines. His throat constricted. Instead of drinking, Theon made a sound like a leaky bagpipe and projectile-vomited the contents of the goblet back out—right onto the Drowned God’s beard. Moreover, from the strain, his «back-and-forth traveling» soul glitched again, and Theon accidentally performed his famous «Heel-o-ween» dance, slapping his bare heels across the sacred skulls and singing: «Slap-slap, salty God, sprinkle salt upon my pod!». Peak cringe. The Drowned God slowly wiped his face with a hand from which bits of sea kale hung. — You… you just sprayed me with salty vomit and tap-danced on the heads of my heroes? — he whispered in rage. — Get out! You are no Greyjoy! You are not even a Pastajoy! You are the disgrace of the world ocean! — The God waved his trident, and Theon was thrown out of the marine Heavens by a powerful jet of water. Theon flew through the void until he landed in a deep, soft snowbank. Looking around, he realized he was in an infinite, silent godswood. Weirwood trees with bloody faces stared at him from all sides. These were the Heavens of the Starks. Shadows began to emerge from the fog. Eddard Stark, stern and sad, with his head neatly reattached to his shoulders. Robb Stark in a blood-stained tunic. Little Rickon and Bran—though Bran was still alive in the world of the living, his ghostly shadow was already present here due to the oddities of time. — Theon… — Eddard Stark said, and that voice made Theon feel like that same boy who had accidentally pushed Professor Hooch down the stairs. — Lord Eddard! — Theon fell to his knees, digging through the snow. — I can explain everything! Forgive me for Winterfell! Forgive me for Sansa! I just wanted to give a compliment, but Cersei with her Tik-tok… — — Be silent — Robb said coldly. — We saw everything. We saw how you froze to the roof of Dreadfort. We saw your «uranium» madness. You brought shame to our house even when you tried to be good. — — But I brought a gift! — Theon wailed, pulling from the depths of his ghostly rags that very portrait of Brienne with a beard. — Look! I drew a warrior! — Robb Stark looked at the bearded Brienne riding a cow-dog. His ghostly lips twitched. Ned Stark simply covered his face with his hand. — Is this… is this Lady Brienne? — Rickon asked. — Why does she look like my Uncle Benjen after a year in captivity with the wildlings? — — It’s a style! — Theon justified himself. — Artistic degeneracy! I am a master! — At that moment, Theon felt he needed to «express himself» again. Due to stress, his PTSD forced him to walk up to a Weirwood and start telling it the joke about Ramsay and the heel, the same one that made the Dementor in Azkaban pop. The faces on the trees began to twist. The snow around Theon turned black, like Cersei’s coal. The souls of the Starks felt such a level of cringe that their ghostly forms began to fade. — Go, Theon — Ned Stark said, and his voice held an undisguised plea. — You are ruining our eternity. Your presence here is worse than the Others. You make our Weirwoods weep not blood, but pink slime. We cannot tolerate you here. You are too… uncomfortable. — With one powerful collective sigh, the Old Gods blew Theon away from the North. Theon was thrown into a place that smelled of torture chambers and old iron. The walls here were upholstered in human skin, and instead of candles, grease lamps made from those who poorly hid their taxes were burning. These were the Heavens of House Bolton. It was dark and cozy here—in the sense that a torture room can be cozy. Theon saw the long shadows of the ancient Bolton lords. They sat at tables, busily flaying ghostly pigs. — Oh! — one of the Boltons, with a long face and cold eyes, raised a knife. — Look who’s come to visit us. The pet of my descendant—Ramsay. — Theon, deciding that since he was now among his «masters» he could relax, suddenly grew bold. — Hi, ancestors! — he shouted, adjusting his imaginary colander. — I am Pastajoy! I know everything about your Ramsay! You know what kind of feet he has? Long, like skis! I tried to steal them yesterday to save myself from uranium skin infection! — The Boltons exchanged looks. — You tried to steal the feet of our heir? — the old lord asked. — That is… daring. But why do you look like a mangy raccoon that ate too much soot? — — It’s a tan! — Theon proudly declared. — Jaime Lannister taught me! I lay on the roof until I turned blue, and then I was peeled off with urine by the whole of Westeros! It was a triumph! — Theon began to describe in full detail how he blew into the pipe and how he vomited in the centrifuge. He tried to joke, slapped the Boltons on the shoulders of their leather cloaks, and offered to «improve» their torture methods with pickled herring and pasta. By the end of the first hour of Theon’s storytelling, the grim Boltons, who for centuries had prided themselves on their cruelty and coldness, began to feel nauseous. — Listen, boy — the head Bolton said, hiding his knife. — We are murderers. We are traitors. We are monsters. But we are not… this. What you are telling us is not torture. It is some kind of transcendent, concentrated shame. Your stories make our skin start to itch even where we don’t have any anymore! — — But I haven’t told you about how I accidentally insulted Brienne! — Theon wailed enthusiastically. — She said she’s a woman, and I was like: «But the beard is manly!» HA-HA! ROFL! — — GET OUT! — the Bolton roared. — GET OUT! Even for us, you are too degenerate! We don’t want the word «Pastajoy» sounding in our eternity! Get lost to nowhere! — And with a powerful kick from a sausage-shaped ghostly leg, Theon was thrown out of the last available hell. Theon flew through a gray fog where there were no gods, no demons, no people. He fell for a long time until he landed on a hard, perfectly flat surface. There were no smells here. No sounds. Only an endless gray space and Theon himself. He was in No One’s Heavens. In a place created specifically for him, because no other part of the universe could withstand his level of cringe. Theon stood up, brushed off his ghostly rags, and touched his new eyebrows. — So… I’m alone here? — he asked the silence. The silence did not answer. Theon smiled. Slowly, that same stupid smirk he once had when taking Winterfell spread across his face. — Since there’s no one here — he solemnly proclaimed — that means I’m the boss. I am the king here. King of No One’s Heavens! Sir Theon Pastajoy the First! — He began to march importantly through the gray void, lifting his knees high and imitating the sound of invisible hooves: Clop-clop-clop! — Look at my domain! — he shouted into the void. — No Ramsay here! No pipes! Just me and my power! — He sat in the middle of his new kingdom and began to imagine that he was wearing the largest cap in the world. He was happy. He had finally found a place where no one could insult him, because he himself was the only source of insult. The gray void of No One’s Heavens was boundless, soundless, and absolutely sterile. There was no smell of Northern snow, no stench of Dreadfort kennels, not even the metallic taste of that uranium that so terrified Theon in his nightmares. It was a space rejected by all the gods of Westeros: the Drowned God was disgusted by his tears, the Starks by his betrayal, and the Boltons by his unbearable cringe. Theon, the «Back-and-Forth Traveler», stood at the very center of this silence. He looked at his hands—they were no longer black with coal. He touched his forehead—his new eyebrows were soft and fluffy. — Well then — he said, and his voice was lost in the endless «nowhere». — Finally, I’m the boss. Finally, I’m the King. — He decided that since this was his kingdom, it should look the part. Since matter didn’t exist here, Theon began to create from his own memory—the only resource he had in abundance. The Capital: Theon-town First, Theon decided to erect a castle. But since architecture in his head was always associated with something ridiculous, his ghostly citadel began to take on strange forms. He laid the foundation with huge imaginary skis—exactly like Ramsay’s feet. He «built» the walls out of giant rusty iron scraps, welded together by the invisible force of his madness. Instead of spires on the towers, fragments of the pipes from his nightmares protruded. — My castle shall be called Iron North — Theon proudly declared, walking through the invisible halls. — There will be no stairs here, only rotating floors! So every guest feels exactly what I felt on that fateful night! I shouldn’t be the only one to suffer. — He sat on a throne that was a huge pile of imaginary coal swords. Theon no longer feared radiation—here he was the source of everything. He put a ghostly crown on his head. — I, Theon the First, Pastajoy of my name, begin my reign! — he proclaimed. — First decree: all my subjects… meaning me… are allowed to shuffle their feet twenty-four hours a day! — And he began to shuffle. He ran in circles through his gray castle, slapping his bare heels: Slap-slap-slap-slap! In the silence of No One’s Heavens, this sound was the only music. Theon was happy. There was no Ramsay here to hit him over the head with a sack. There was no Jaime here to scam him on «white horseflesh». The Royal Council But loneliness soon began to weigh on the monarch. A king needs advisors. Since there wasn’t a single living soul in No One’s Heavens, Theon decided to turn to the most faithful companions of his miserable life on earth. He approached a shimmering spot in the air and concentrated. By an effort of will, he forced his new, normal eyebrows to swell and fall out again. A moment later, two magnificent, crimson, bald hedgehogs graced his forehead once more. — I greet you, lords-advisors! — he said solemnly, looking at his reflection. — Lord Left Hedgehog and Ser Right Hedgehog. Today on the agenda is an important question: how shall we punish Brienne of Tarth for turning out to be a woman? — He began to answer himself, changing his voice. — We must draw an even longer beard on her, your majesty! — he squeaked for the Left Hedgehog. — No, we must make her gallop on a cow with a bear’s head! — he croaked for the Right one. Theon argued with his own eyebrows for a long time. They discussed whether to introduce a tax on long feet and whether to force all residents of No One’s Heavens (i.e., Theon) to wear an intestinal rope instead of a belt. It was the most productive council in the history of Westeros, because no one contradicted the king—except the king himself, when he accidentally remembered he was «Reek». — Quiet! — Theon shouted when the argument about Brienne’s beard got too hot. — I have made a decision! From now on in my kingdom, all women shall be considered bearded knights, and all knights—women in colanders! It’s only fair! — The Global Prank To dispel the boredom of eternity, Theon decided to stage a «Global Afterlife Prank». He remembered that very pipe that once brought him so much grief. In No One’s Heavens, he created a copy of it—a huge, endless pipe that wrapped around his castle like a snake. — Now I’ll show all the gods how to prank properly! — he declared. Theon approached the pipe. He knew there was no uranium inside, for this was his world. But his PTSD still demanded drama. He drew in a chestful of ghostly air and blew into the pipe. From the other end of the pipe flew not a cloud of worms, but myriads of tiny, laughing copies of Theon. They flew through the gray void, shuffling their feet and shouting: «Happy Heel-o-ween! Happy Heel-o-ween everyone!». LMAO! — This is brilliant! — Theon rolled on the gray floor with laughter. — I am a master! I am the greatest pranker in the universe! ROFL! — He felt redemption. Every time another tiny copy of Theon fell face-first into the invisible mud, the «real» Theon on the throne felt a surge of pride. His shame ceased to be his pain. It became his subject. It became his army. Invasion of Light Suddenly, something changed in the gray void. A bright dot appeared—a crack in space. It was an attempt by some lost, righteous soul from the Seven Kingdoms to find a path into Theon’s Heavens. Some tiny, pure soul of a child from Winterfell, who dreamed of Hogwarts, accidentally stumbled upon Theon’s portal. The crack began to expand. Pure golden light poured onto the gray floors of Centrifuge Hall. Theon froze on his throne. His hedgehogs on his forehead pulsed anxiously. — Who is it? — he whispered. — Ramsay? Jaime? — A tiny figure in white emerged from the light. It was the soul of that very child who didn’t get into Hogwarts because the portal was closed due to Theon. The child looked at Theon, at his castle, at his gut-belt, and at the bearded portrait of Brienne hanging on the wall. — You… — the child whispered. — Are you that same Back-and-Forth Traveler? Is it because of you there’s no more magic in our godswood? — Theon straightened up. He felt all his eloquence returning, accumulated in moments of ridiculous compliments. — Listen to me, child! — Theon began majestically. — Hogwarts magic is nonsense! There are professors there who fall down stairs and break their necks from one look of mine! There’s a Snape there who doesn’t appreciate shell tincture! But here… here I have URANIUM! I have BALD HEDGEHOGS! — He walked up to the child and began to tell his «deadly joke» about Ramsay’s heel. He shuffled around him, slapping his heels, and showed off his swollen brows. He described the taste of coal and the sound with which he froze to the roof. Ultimate cringe. The level of cringe in the hall became so concentrated that the golden light began to fade. The pure soul of the child began to be covered with a gray patina of bewilderment and shame. — Stop… — the child whispered, feeling their eternity turning into an endless centrifuge of shame. — Please… I’d rather go to the Pit. At least it’s hot and just painful there. But here… here I’m just very ashamed to exist in the same space as you. — With those words, the child’s soul voluntarily jumped back into the void, just to avoid listening to the continuation of the story about how Theon was «peeled off the roof with urine by all of Westeros». The portal snapped shut with a quiet sound, like a sigh of relief. Absolute King of Shame Theon was left alone. Again. But now he knew for sure: his shame was his strength. It was the most impregnable wall in the world. No god, no hero, no enemy could enter his kingdom, because no one had the nerves to endure his presence for more than five minutes. — I am invincible! — Theon shouted into infinity. — I am the Traveler Who Came and Stayed! — He sat on his coal throne and began to plan the future. He decided he would call the next century in his kingdom the «Era of Great Theon». He would build pyramids out of imaginary Ramsay skulls that would never end, because they were just a figment of his imagination. He would hold tournaments where knights in colanders would fight to get hit on the head with a mop. He closed his eyes and saw Ramsay. But now the Ramsay in Theon’s dream didn’t hit him. He stood on his knees and begged: «Oh, great Theon! Teach me how to rule so cool! Sell me your hedgehogs for three stags! Oh no, for 5 gold dragons!». And Theon, graciously smiling, answered him in his imagination: — Learn to shuffle first, bastard! Be blue on a roof first! — Thus Theon Pastajoy found his true redemption. Not in the forgiveness of the Starks, not in death in battle, but in the creation of his own world, where shame became the law and absurdity became the religion. He sat in the gray Nowhere, absolute master of his small, mad eternity, stroking the bald hedgehogs on his forehead. He was the King of Theon’s Heavens. The loneliest, dirtiest, and most shameful creature that had ever left Westeros. But in this silent space, beyond all pipes and nightmares, Theon had finally stopped being Reek. He was just Theon. The Eternal Traveler. The first of his kind. And the silence of No One’s Heavens was his only loyal retinue, which never laughed… because silence had no mouth to express all that endless cringe with which Theon had filled this space to the brim.