A/N: Working on different povs as I think there are too many interesting characters in A Song of Ice and Fire to not add them into the story. Please let me know if you enjoy these POVS or if you would want less of them. Hardhome is coming up soon so looking forward to everyone reaction to it! Also the next chapter for Look To The Stars will be released tomorrow, so keep a lookout if you are looking forward to it. As always, hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did :)
If you want to read 5 to 10 chapters ahead,patreon: https://www.patreon.com/FullHorizon
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Year 300 AC
A day past Tumbledown Tower , The North
Theon jerked awake, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, panic seized him—he'd fallen asleep, and Master would punish him, would take another finger, another toe, would flay—
Then reality seeped back. The tent. The cold. Stannis Baratheon's camp.
Not the dungeons of the Dreadfort. Not Winterfell under Bolton banners.
He exhaled, watching his breath cloud in the frigid air. The relief was hollow. He huddled deeper into the thin furs they'd given him, though they did little against the northern chill that seemed to reach through his skin to the brittle bones beneath.
Outside, men shouted commands. Horses whinnied. Metal clanged against metal as armor and weapons were packed. The constant howl of the wind carried these sounds to him in fragments, like pieces of a puzzle he was too tired to assemble.
He was a prisoner still. The mountain clansmen who guarded him didn't flay him or hunt him for sport, but their eyes held the same contempt he'd grown accustomed to seeing. Turncloak. Betrayer. Theon Greyjoy, who had bitten the hand that raised him.
His mind drifted to warmer days. Winterfell in summer, when he and Robb would race their horses across open fields, their laughter carrying on the wind. Hunting in the wolfswood, competing to see who could bring down the largest buck. Robb's easy smile, the way he'd clap Theon on the shoulder and call him brother.
"Not your brother," Theon whispered to the empty tent. "Never your brother."
The memory twisted, darkened. Winterfell burning. The miller's boys, their small bodies broken and tarred beyond recognition. Bran and Rickon, he'd told everyone. The Stark heirs, eliminated. He'd wanted respect, had wanted his father's approval, had wanted—
"Stupid," he hissed, slamming his mangled hand against his temple. "Stupid, stupid Theon."
Ramsay's voice slithered through his thoughts. You're not Theon, you're Reek. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak.
"No." He hit himself again, harder. "No, no, no."
Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak.
Another blow. The pain helped. It pushed Ramsay's voice back, if only for a moment.
You're mine, Reek. You'll always be mine. I've marked you. Broken you. No matter where you run—
"Shut up!" Theon slammed his head against the tent pole, once, twice. Blood trickled warm down his forehead, but the voice receded.
The tent flap flew open. Cold air rushed in along with a weathered southern knight—Harys Cobb, the one who'd brought him food the night before. The man stared at the blood on Theon's face, his expression caught between disgust and something that might have been pity.
"Stop that," Harys ordered. "Get up. We're moving out."
Theon scrambled to his feet, the instinct to obey overriding everything else. "Yes, m'lord. Sorry, m'lord."
"It's ser, not lord," Harys grunted, tossing a rag at him. "Clean yourself up. You look pathetic enough without adding more wounds to that collection."
Theon wiped the blood from his face, noting the increased activity outside. Men were striking tents, loading wagons. "Where are we going?" he asked, then immediately cringed, expecting a blow for his presumption.
None came. Instead, Harys tossed him a small bundle—a cloak, slightly warmer than his current one.
"North," the clansman answered shortly.
Confusion momentarily overcame Theon's fear. "North? But Winterfell is south. I thought King Stannis meant to take Winterfell from the Boltons."
Harys's face hardened. "Plans change."
Something was wrong. Theon gathered his meager possessions with trembling fingers, watching the guard from the corner of his eye. The man's shoulders were tense, his expression grim.
"Could I..." Theon swallowed hard, steeling himself. "Could I speak with King Stannis? I might have information that could help. About Winterfell's defenses, about Ramsay's—"
"King?" Harys cut him off with a bitter laugh. "There is no king here anymore. Stannis Baratheon is dead, shot down by the Bolton bastard. We go to the Wall now, what's left of us."
The news struck Theon like a hammer blow, driving the air from his lungs and making his knees buckle. Stannis Baratheon, the man who had been his last fragile hope of salvation, was dead. Killed by the Boltons. By Ramsay. The implications crashed over him in a wave of despair and terror.
"The Wall?" he managed to choke out, his voice thin and strangled. "But Jon Snow is at the Wall. Ned Stark's bastard son. He'll take my head for what I did to Winterfell, to his brothers."
Harys merely shrugged, his hard face unmoved by Theon's naked panic. "That's for the Lord Commander to decide, not me. Now get moving before I give you a reason to hurry."
Theon pondered which would prove worse—facing Jon Snow's justice or returning to Ramsay's torment.
Theon could already feel Ramsay's blade against his skin, could hear the cruel laughter and the baying of the hounds. Death would be a mercy compared to returning to the Dreadfort.
Stumbling out into the bitter cold, Theon huddled into his thin cloak, shivering as much from fear as from the biting wind. All around him, the pitiful remnants of Stannis's once-proud army made ready to march, grim-faced men loading wagons and saddling horses. Three hundred at most, Theon reckoned, feeling a fresh wave of hopelessness wash over him. So few left to face the coming storm. So few to stand against the Boltons and their allies.
A clansman lifted him onto a horse, binding his legs to the saddle—not cruelly, but firmly enough to prevent escape. Not that escape had crossed his mind. Where would he go? The wilderness would kill him before Ramsay or Jon Snow ever could.
As they began to move, Theon's eyes scanned the southern horizon, half-expecting to see Bolton banners, Ramsay's hounds, the flayed man flying in pursuit. Nothing yet, but they would come. Ramsay would never let his pet escape.
The column snaked slowly northward. Theon retreated into his thoughts, weighing his fate. Death awaited him at the Wall—Jon Snow had every reason to execute the man who had betrayed his family, who had proclaimed his brothers dead. But perhaps death would be a mercy compared to returning to Ramsay's hands.
"What is dead may never die," he whispered, the prayer of the Ironborn coming unbidden to his lips, "but rises again, harder and stronger."
The words rang hollow. He had died so many times already—died as the proud son of Balon Greyjoy, died as the ward of Winterfell, died as the Prince of Winterfell, died and been reborn as Reek.
How many more deaths could one man endure?
----------------------------------------------------
Meereen, Slaver's Bay
Tyrion Lannister strolled through the winding streets of Meereen with an unfamiliar spring in his step. The afternoon sun beat down on the ancient city, casting long shadows across weathered sandstone walls, but not even the oppressive heat could dampen his spirits. Queen Daenerys Targaryen' council had granted him an audience upon her return—a significant victory for a man who'd arrived in this foreign city as little more than a curiosity attached to Jorah Mormont.
"From prisoner to advisor to Brown Ben Plumm, and now, perhaps, to the Dragon Queen herself," he muttered, sidestepping a merchant's cart laden with spices. His journey east had been a meandering path through hell, but for once, his destination seemed worth the suffering.
Such rare good fortune deserved celebration. Tyrion found himself drawn toward one of the few high-end brothels that had remained open during the city's recent troubles. Unlike the rough sailors' establishments near the harbor that reeked of cheap wine and desperation, this one catered to wealthy merchants and officers who could still afford pleasure amid chaos.
The establishment's entrance was marked by a subtle archway draped with deep purple silks. Inside, the air hung heavy with exotic perfumes and the soft notes of unfamiliar music. Tyrion inhaled deeply, savoring the momentary illusion of civilization.
The proprietor, a statuesque woman with intricate gold jewelry adorning her neck and wrists, approached with a practiced smile.
"Wine," Tyrion requested in his improving Valyrian, dropping a small stack of coins into her palm. "Your finest vintage. And perhaps company later."
She bowed slightly, recognizing the generous payment. "Of course, my lord. The private alcove by the fountain is available."
Tyrion settled into the indicated corner, pleased with his vantage point. From here, he could observe the entire room while remaining partially obscured by hanging silks. A server brought a carved decanter of sweet red wine and a delicate glass. He poured himself a generous portion and settled back against the cushions, content to savor both the wine and his improved fortunes.
His peaceful contemplation lasted less than half an hour.
The atmosphere in the brothel shifted subtly at first, then dramatically. Conversations faltered. Musicians hesitated mid-note. Tyrion straightened, instantly alert to the change. Through the entrance strode a large, intimidating figure—Victarion Greyjoy, accompanied by several ironborn warriors.
Tyrion shrank deeper into his alcove. The Greyjoys had no love for Lannisters, and Victarion least of all. The ironborn captain cut an imposing figure, his weather-beaten face set in a perpetual scowl beneath his dark beard. Most striking was the strange horn chained to his hip—an artifact covered in what appeared to be Valyrian glyphs, its surface gleaming with an unnatural luster.
Despite Tyrion's attempt at discretion, their eyes met across the room. Recognition flashed in Victarion's gaze, followed immediately by hatred so intense it seemed to physically darken his features.
Victarion stalked toward him, hand moving to the axe at his belt. The ironborn behind him spread out, blocking potential escape routes. Tyrion remained seated, maintaining a façade of calm while his mind raced through increasingly limited options. The distance to the door seemed to stretch impossibly far.
As Victarion loomed over him, Tyrion raised his wine cup in mock salute, buying precious seconds to formulate his words.
"Before you separate my head from my shoulders, Captain Greyjoy, you might consider that Queen Daenerys expects to find it attached when she returns. She's granted me an audience, you see."
Victarion's hand remained on his weapon, but he didn't draw it. "The Imp of Casterly Rock," he growled. "Far from home."
"As are you," Tyrion replied, gesturing to the Second Sons officers drinking across the room. "I note we have an audience. Men loyal to Brown Ben Plumm, who now supports the queen's cause. I doubt they'd appreciate bloodshed in their favorite establishment."
Victarion's eyes narrowed as he processed this information. The rage on his face battled visibly with pragmatism.
Seeing the hesitation, Tyrion pressed his advantage. "In my experience, conversations about mutual enemies go down better with a good vintage. Shall we drink while we compare notes on how thoroughly the Seven Kingdoms have gone to hell?"
He gestured to the empty chair across from him, maintaining eye contact despite the significant height difference between them. For a tense moment, he thought Victarion might simply cleave him in two regardless of consequences.
Instead, the ironborn captain barked an order to his men. "Keep your distance. Watch the door."
With surprising grace for such a large man, Victarion lowered himself into the offered seat, never taking his eyes off Tyrion.
Tyrion poured wine for both of them, using the ritual to establish a momentary truce. "To unlikely meetings in distant lands."
Victarion didn't touch his cup. "Speak your piece, Lannister."
"Very well. Direct and to the point—a refreshing change from King's Landing." Tyrion sipped his wine. "I hear my sweet sister's grip on power grows more tenuous by the day. The Faith has her by the throat, and half the realm in open rebellion."
"The Reach burns while the lions and roses tear at each other's throats," Victarion confirmed with grim satisfaction. "The Iron Fleet takes what we will, as is our right."
They continued this careful exchange of information, each revealing enough to maintain the conversation while clearly withholding their true intentions. Tyrion learned of Euron's conquests along the western shores, while he shared details of Cersei's increasingly erratic rule.
As they spoke, Tyrion's eyes kept returning to the horn at Victarion's side. Its strange markings called to him, awakening the scholar's curiosity that had led him through countless ancient texts in Casterly Rock's library.
"Fascinating craftsmanship on that horn," he finally ventured, keeping his tone casual. "Valyrian, if I'm not mistaken. I've read of such artifacts in the old texts. Perhaps I could help you understand what you've acquired."
The change in Victarion was immediate and alarming. His face hardened, and his hand moved protectively to cover the horn.
"Keep your Lannister nose away from matters you don't understand, Imp." Victarion stood suddenly, nearly overturning the table. "Men who have touched the dragonhorn have died screaming. I'd be happy to arrange the same for you, queen's audience or no."
Without further explanation, he signaled to his men and strode from the brothel, leaving Tyrion alone with his wine and racing thoughts.
Tyrion remained at the table, swirling the red liquid in his glass as he processed the encounter. The horn was clearly more than a trophy—the way Victarion had reacted spoke of power and danger. Dragonhorn? The old texts mentioned such things, artifacts that could supposedly bind dragons to the wielder's will.
If true, this information would be invaluable in his audience with Daenerys. The Greyjoys were clearly planning something significant involving her dragons, and warning her might give Tyrion leverage beyond his knowledge of Westerosi politics.
He drained his cup and poured another. The day's celebration had taken an unexpected turn, but perhaps yielded something far more valuable than momentary pleasure. In the game they all played, forewarned was forearmed—especially when dragons were involved.
----------------------------------------------------
Dragonstone Castle, Dragonstone
Pain clawed Loras Tyrell back to consciousness, a white-hot agony that enveloped half his body. His first instinct was to cry out, but pride locked the sound in his throat, transforming it into a ragged gasp. The world came to him in fragments—rough linen sheets beneath his fingers, the oppressive weight of bandages across his chest and face, the acrid smell of medicinal herbs mingling with the unmistakable scent of burned flesh.
His own flesh.
Loras opened his eye—only one, he realized with a jolt of panic, the other covered in thick bandages—and took in his surroundings. Stone walls carved with dragons watched him from every corner, their shadows dancing in the firelight. Dragonstone. He was in the lord's chamber of Stannis Baratheon's fortress, now converted to a sickroom.
"Ah, you've rejoined us, Ser Loras." An elderly maester appeared at his bedside, his chain clinking softly as he moved. "Try not to move too suddenly. Your wounds require careful attention."
The maester began unwrapping the bandages on Loras's arm, revealing raw, blistered skin beneath. The sight sent a wave of nausea through him, but Loras forced himself to look. This was the price of his reckless charge, his need to prove himself the hero of Dragonstone.
"The burns on your face may heal better than expected, Ser Loras, but you will bear these scars for life." The maester's voice was clinical, detached. "Count yourself fortunate—had the oil reached your eye, you would be half-blind as well."
Loras endured the painful ministrations without complaint, though each touch sent fresh waves of agony through his body. Only when the maester applied a cooling salve did he allow himself a small sigh of relief.
"Nephew." A familiar voice drew his attention to the other side of the bed. Lord Paxter Redwyne sat nearby, his normally ruddy face pale with concern. "You've been unconscious for three days. We feared we might lose you."
"It takes more than boiling oil to kill the Knight of Flowers," Loras replied, his voice a harsh whisper, unrecognizable even to himself.
Paxter attempted a smile. "Indeed. Your bravery won us Dragonstone with minimal casualties. The fortress fell within hours of your charge. A great victory for the Crown."
Loras barely registered the praise. A different worry had taken hold. "Enough about Dragonstone and my wounds. Tell me of Margaery. What news from King's Landing?"
He caught the hesitation in his uncle's eyes, the quick glance away before answering. Fear, cold and sharp, cut through the pain.
"What is it? Tell me."
Paxter sighed heavily. "I would spare you this if I could, nephew. Your sister has been taken by the Faith, accused of... improprieties. The Lannister woman's work, no doubt, though she too has fallen into the same trap."
The words hit Loras like a physical blow. Margaery—his sweet, clever sister—in the hands of the Faith? The same Faith that condemned him for his own private affairs?
"Impossible," he growled. "Margaery is the queen. They wouldn't dare."
"The High Sparrow dares much these days, with his army of fanatics." Paxter leaned forward. "But take heart. Your father has not been idle. Half the Reach stands ready to defend her honor, and many in King's Landing question these charges. We will free her."
Fury surged through Loras, temporarily drowning out the pain of his burns. He struggled to sit up, ignoring the maester's protests.
"I should be there. Margaery needs me." Bandages tore as he moved, reopening wounds that sent fresh waves of agony through his body. "The Faith will answer for this—I'll cut down every last sparrow if I must."
"Nephew, stop!" Paxter moved quickly for a man his age, placing firm hands on Loras's shoulders. "Maester, help me!"
Blood seeped through the fresh bandages as Loras continued to struggle. "Let me go! I must return to King's Landing!"
"You can barely stand, let alone wield a sword," Paxter said, his voice firm but compassionate. "What good would you be to Margaery now? Heal first, fight later. House Tyrell needs you strong, not dead from reopened wounds."
The maester returned with a small vial. "Milk of the poppy, Ser Loras. You must rest to heal."
"I don't need rest," Loras protested, though his strength was already fading, the burst of adrenaline giving way to exhaustion. "I need to help my sister."
"And you will," Paxter promised. "But not today. Not like this."
The maester pressed the vial to Loras's lips. "Further exertion will only worsen your condition. Infection is a greater enemy than any you've faced in the tourney grounds."
Reluctantly, Loras drank the bitter liquid. What choice did he have? He couldn't even stand without assistance, let alone travel to King's Landing and confront the Faith.
As the milk of the poppy began to take effect, his thoughts grew hazy. Images of Margaery floated through his mind—Margaery as a child, chasing him through the gardens of Highgarden; Margaery on her wedding day, radiant and confident; Margaery in the clutches of the Faith, frightened and alone.
The pain receded, replaced by a floating sensation that carried him toward unconsciousness. But in his final moments of clarity, Loras's thoughts crystallized into pure hatred. First for Stannis Baratheon, whose fortress had cost him so dearly. Now for the Faith and their self-righteous judgment. And for Cersei Lannister, who had orchestrated it all.
As darkness claimed him once more, he made a silent vow: Stannis... the Faith... all who harm the roses of Highgarden will bleed for it. I swear it by the old gods and the new.