May

In the gloomy corridors of the Dreadfort, where even the walls seemed to exude the scent of fear and old blood, Theon Pastajoy had reached the ultimate state of despair. His mind, exhausted by Ramsay’s games, conjured a strange idea: to find at least some kind of footing, he needed to find an ally. His choice fell upon Old Nan, whom the Boltons had dragged from Winterfell along with the other prisoners. Theon decided that a confession of love to this ancient woman would become his shield, his act of mad chivalry. On that day, the kitchen was particularly crowded. At a long table, sipping wine from a heavy goblet, sat Cersei Lannister, she had arrived at the Dreadfort on a secret visit and was clearly bored. Ramsay Bolton stood nearby, lazily gnawing on a chicken leg and watching Theon as he slowly approached Old Nan. Theon felt a cauldron of nervous tension boiling inside him. His heart pounded in his throat. As soon as he reached Nan, who was focused on sorting through some grain, his blood pressure spiked sharply. — Nan…— he squeezed out. — My soul… My lady…” — His face instantly turned a deep crimson. His cheeks became like two ripe pomegranates, and his ears burned so fiercely it seemed they might ignite his collar. Old Nan slowly raised her head, cupped a hand to her ear, and squinted. — Eh? What are you babbling about, grandson? What ‘May’? Why are you talking about May when winter is at the door? You’ve gone completely out of your mind in those cellars! — Theon felt the blood rush even harder to his head from a mix of agitation and resentment. His face shifted from red to a thick purple, like blueberries in the northern forests. The veins on his forehead bulged, looking like writhing snakes. — Nan! I am saying… My fate is tied to you!” Theon tried to shout it, but his voice broke into an incoherent wheeze — About May again? — Nan mumbled, shaking her head. — Don’t tell me about spring; I’ve seen more of them than you have hairs left on your head. Why are you bleating like a sheep before the slaughter? Speak up! — At that moment, Theon’s blood pressure reached its zenith. His face stopped being purple. It darkened so much that it became absolutely black, shimmering with a deep anthracitic luster-even the purest Velaryons with their Valyrian roots never possessed such skin. He looked like a living shadow with bulging, bloodshot eyes. Ramsay, noticing this transformation, nearly choked on a bone. — Look, Cersei! — he guffawed. — My Reek has decided to change his race! He looks like he’s been smoked over a fire for three days along with the hams! — Cersei raised an eyebrow with disdain, but clear interest. — It is remarkable, — she drawled. — Such a rich black color. Even Lord Corlys would envy such pigmentation. — Theon, unable to hear them over the roar of blood in his ears, took one last, heroic breath. He wanted to scream — MY LOVE! — but his body, crushed by monstrous pressure and paralyzed by fear, found its own way to release the tension. Instead of a cry of love, a sound erupted from Theon that drowned out even the crackling of the fireplace. It was a deafening, soul-shattering blast from below. The sound was so powerful that Old Nan actually jumped on her bench. A dead silence followed, broken only by the old woman’s creaky voice — Well, there you go again with your ‘May’… And look at you, letting the winds blow like that! You have a rotten soul, grandson, oh, a rotten one. — Ramsay Bolton burst into such a violent fit of laughter that he slid to the floor, pounding it with his fist. — May! — he howled, gasping for air. — She heard ‘May’! — Cersei, forgetting her dignity, covered her mouth with her hand, but unrestrained laughter escaped from beneath her fingers. — What a performance, — she squeezed out through tears. "May…” Ramsay jumped up, wiping his eyes, and pointed a finger at Theon, whose face was slowly beginning to pale from shame. — That’s it! Now I know what to call you! — Ramsay shouted so that the whole Dreadfort could hear. — Did everyone hear that? He’s not Reek anymore! From now on, he is: ‘May, May, catch the fart I send your way!’ — The kitchen exploded with the guffaws of cooks and guards. The joke spread through the castle instantly. Theon stood with his head bowed, while the echo of his disgrace still vibrated in the air. “Hey, May!” one of Bolton’s men shouted as he passed by. “Catch the one I sent your way!” Even Cersei, as she was leaving the Dreadfort, turned back one last time. Looking at the miserable Pastajoy, she whispered almost inaudibly, choking back a giggle: “‘May, May, catch the fart I send your way…’ Truly, the gods have a sense of humor.” From then on, no one in the Dreadfort called him by his name. Whenever Theon appeared in a corridor, even the rats seemed to squeak after him: “May, May, catch the fart I send your way!”, and Old Nan, every time she saw him, would only sigh: “Oh, May, at it again… Open a window, grandson.”