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

Dreadfort was gripped by a tomb-like cold. The Northern winter, knowing no mercy, had turned the castle courtyard into a frozen cemetery of coal, ice, and the mess that remained of Theon Pastajoy. Ramsay Bolton stood on the balcony, looking down at the shapeless heap of black earth, permeated with dead flesh and frozen worms. He wasn’t just bored—he felt a void. Without his «pet,» without this eternal source of fear and absurdity, Dreadfort seemed to him like nothing more than a pile of stones. He turned to his involuntary guests. Melisandre, the Red Priestess, stood in the shadows, her scarlet robes appearing like a bloody wound against the gray stone. Beside her, leaning on a fragment of a sword, stood Beric Dondarrion—a man whose own flesh was a patchwork quilt of scars and resurrections. — You say your God can return life even to one who has turned to dust — Ramsay’s voice was quiet, with steel in it. — Before me is dust. I want him to breathe again, to speak, to make an absolute fool of himself once more — Melisandre slowly approached the edge of the balcony. Her eyes seemed to glow with their own inner heat. — Life is a gift from the Lord of Light. But what lies there, in the courtyard… his soul wanders in places where there is neither warmth nor light. Are you sure, Bolton, that you want him back? — — Bring him back — Ramsay snapped. — Otherwise, the bonfire today will burn not for your god, but for yourselves — They descended into the courtyard. The wind howled, fanning the flames in the braziers. Beric Dondarrion placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the blade flared with a pale fire. Melisandre knelt before the frozen pile of worms and rot. She touched the icy mass with her fingers, and her skin began to smoke. — Āeksios Ōnos, īlon mērī sēnagon… — her voice rang out in High Valyrian, hollow and commanding. — Zyhorys nēdys sȳz se menty rāelagon… — She sang a prayer that had not been heard in the North for centuries. The words fell into the snow, heavy and hot. Beric Dondarrion leaned over the remains, his breath escaping his chest in clouds of steam. He took a deep breath and pressed his lips to what had once been Theon’s face. The «Kiss of Life.» The silence in the courtyard became absolute. And then the pile of earth shuddered. It was a terrifying sight. Flesh began to gather from nothing, intertwining with worms and silt. The matter churned and pulsed, obeying the will of the Red God. Black coals were absorbed into the forming muscles, giving them rigidity. From the mess of rot, bones began to grow, white and sharp. After an eternity, a creature began to emerge from the burst crust of ice and dirt. It was not a human in the usual sense. It was pink, moist, and completely hairless. Its skin, thin and translucent like parchment, tightly covered the new muscles. The creature resembled a newborn piglet—defenseless, naked, and shivering from the unbearable cold of this world. Theon opened his eyes. They were clear, bottomless, and full of infinite sorrow. He took a deep breath of the frost air, and his lungs burned with pain. He raised his new, pink hands and looked at them. Traces of earth and the black threads of worms, which had become part of his new anatomy, were still visible on the skin. Theon slowly turned his gaze toward Ramsay, who was watching him with predatory curiosity. And then Theon began to cry. This was not the sob of Reek or the hysteria of Pastajoy. It was the quiet, agonizing weeping of a creature that had been torn from its own paradise. — Why… — he whispered, and his voice was clear, stripped of its former hoarseness. — Why did you bring me back here?! — Ramsay stepped closer, his boots crunching in the snow. He smiled his usual, sinister smile. — You have returned home, Diarrhea Geyser. Dreadfort was waiting for you — Theon shook, hugging himself. His pink skin broke out in goosebumps. — There… there was silence — he said, looking right through Bolton. — There was a gray void, and in it, I was King. No one hit me. No one laughed. I ruled a world where there was no pain, no pipes, no pasta. I found my peace in No One’s Heavens. I was great in my loneliness… — He looked at his palms, at this new, vulnerable gift of life. — You stole my crown, Ramsay. You ripped me from the place where I finally stopped being nobody. You brought me back to this filth… for what? So you could watch me break again? — Theon fell to his knees in the dirty snow. His tears left tracks on his pink cheeks. At that moment, he truly looked like something born from ash and dust—a phoenix cursed to eternal suffering. — I am seriously offended by you, Bolton — Theon said, and a spark of that ancient Greyjoy who knew no fear flashed in his eyes. — You have committed the greatest crime. You returned the dead to a world that hates him. You destroyed the only kingdom where I was happy — Ramsay only laughed, but there was no longer the former zeal in that laughter. The gaze of the resurrected Theon—this calm, non-insane reproach—for a moment made even Bolton feel the uncomfortable shadow of something greater than just shame. Theon remained sitting on the snow, beautiful in his deformity, mourning the lost gray void where he—for the only time in his life—was a truly free king.