He walked slowly and carefully over the stones. Eyes down, he did not notice the danger until he was but a few yards from it. Theon was angry, dark shadows evident in his eyes. But he was not scared, not yet, for he knew not what had happened, and even if he had, he was proud, and did not care the peril he was in. Theon had been hard, had been violent, had been grim, had even been foreboding, but never had he been a danger before. But today, he was. His eyebrows were creased with more than worry, with a savage anger that threatened more deeply than any words could. His eyes glared daggers at all in the room. The man walked forward warily, ever gazing about in wonder at the glorious Hall.
It was a magnificent piece of art, a true testament to the genius of Theon. Though his strengths lay in battle, age had come on him too soon, as it too often does, and he had insisted on designing the entire room from floor to ceiling. The walls were three stories tall, and resplendent in tapestries old and beautiful as the mountain on which the hall rested. The ceiling was curved, not undomelike, but the angle changed, getting steeper as it ascended, until its apex nearly fifty feet above. Great jade blocks made up the floor, its pureness marred only by the throne on which Theon was sitting. It was on this throne that the man's eyes finally rested, for it was obviously the centerpiece of the room. An enormous, ghastly thing, it was made entirely of iron, with the odd spike protruding from the seat. It was at least four thousand years old, some said, dating it back to the Age of Kings. Most, however, deem it a mere replica, commissioned by the Fool King Tommen when the original was stolen by Thoros, the flame-robed priest of Myr.
As was the custom, as the man approached he removed all his clothing, piece by piece, until he belonged more in a brothel than a throne room. The trail of clothing was quickly gathered and whisked away by the poor that huddled in the corners of the room. The man stopped before the throne, knelt, and kissed the gold-shod tips of Theon's boots. They were slick and slimy with others' saliva, but he did not care. Not if it spared him having to look into those awful flaming eyes.
"So . . . you have returned." Theon said, his voice as ever thin and raspy. "I did not expect it. Then again, I rarely expect much from you at all. Tell me, what tidings do you bring to your master?"
"I bring word from Highgarden. The Tyrell house has wed young Loras to –"
"This is known."
"I bring word from Dorne. The Prince wishes –"
"I do not care to know what the Dornish Prince would have of me. He is a viper, as Oberyn, was, and the words of his slippery skin belong not in this hall. Tell me what comes from Winterfell, what comes of the Wolves of the North. You must have news of your kinsmen of Stark."
The man stopped and made an elaborate bow. It was always wise to do so before delivering important news, good or bad, because some of these battles it was unclear on which side Theon sat, if he sat a side at all. "Yes, Your Grace. Winterfell lies broken and burned, but the walls hold strong. It will not be long now, though, not since we have the Wall."
"Indeed? How lucky for you. Your brother, Rickon, will soon be vanquished, and the rule of the ironborn uncontested. Very good." Turning to one of his attendants, he whose chosen name was Robert Strong, though he was still called Mountain, and said "On your way to the Wall, tell the Damphair it has come time for him to reenter my graces. My nuncle is not known for his forgiveness nor for his goodwill towards heretics, and I fear I have waited too long as it is."
Bran backed away slowly, barely daring to hope that it was over, that he could finally be free. It had been long months since he had dared hope. But Theon was speaking to him again, and this time he sounded cold, even angry, his voice finally matching his face, and Bran found himself stopped in his tracks by its power.
"And Stannis? I had almost forgotten, though I have rarely thought of less since the first rumor reached me. What comes of Stannis?"
"Stannis lies triumphant, basking in the shade of his glory. His recent victory over Daenerys has left him as arrogant as his dragon. You will not be able to banter nor to haggle with him now"
"And so a young wolf falls. Asha, take his head."
Blackness.