George R. R. Martin has posted an excerpt from the next Game of Thrones installment, The Winds of Winter, on his personal website.
And lo, a party ensued.
The king's voice was choked with anger. "You are a worse pirate than Salladhor Saan."
Theon Greyjoy opened his eyes. His shoulders were on fire and he could not move his hands. For half a heartbeat he feared he was back in his old cell under the Dreadfort, that the jumble of memories inside his head was no more than the residue of some fever dream. I was asleep, he realized. That, or passed out from the pain. When he tried to move, he swung from side to side, his back scraping against stone. He was hanging from a wall inside a tower, his wrists chained to a pair of rusted iron rings.
The air reeked of burning peat. The floor was hard-packed dirt. Wooden steps spiraled up inside the walls to the roof. He saw no windows. The tower was dank, dark, and comfortless, its only furnishings a high-backed chair and a scarred table resting on three trestles. No privy was in evidence, though Theon saw a champerpot in one shadowed alcove. The only light came from the candles on the table. His feet dangled six feet off the floor.
"My brother's debts," the king was muttering. "Joffrey's too, though that baseborn abomination was no kin to me." Theon twisted in his chains. He knew that voice. Stannis.
Theon Greyjoy chortled. A stab of pain went up his arms, from his shoulders to his wrists. All he had done, all he had suffered, Moat Cailin and Barrowton and Winterfell, Abel and his washerwomen, Crowfood and his Umbers, the trek through the snows, all of it had only served to exchange one tormentor for another.
"Your Grace," a second voice said softly. "Pardon, but your ink has frozen." The Braavosi, Theon knew. What was his name? Tycho... Tycho something... "Perhaps a bit of heat... ?"
"I know a quicker way." Stannis drew his dagger. For an instant Theon thought that he meant to stab the banker. You will never get a drop of blood from that one, my lord, he might have told him. The king laid the blade of the knife against the ball of his left thumb, and slashed. "There. I will sign in mine own blood. That ought to make your masters happy."
"If it please Your Grace, it will please the Iron Bank."
Stannis dipped a quill in the blood welling from his thumb and scratched his name across the piece of parchment. "You will depart today. Lord Bolton may be on us soon. I will not have you caught up in the fighting."
"That would be my preference as well." The Braavosi slipped the roll of parchment inside a wooden tube. "I hope to have the honor of calling on Your Grace again when you are seated on your Iron Throne."
"You hope to have your gold, you mean. Save your pleasantries. It is coin I need from Braavos, not empty courtesy. Tell the guard outside I have need of Justin Massey."
"It would be my pleasure. The Iron Bank is always glad to be of service." The banker bowed.
As he left, another entered; a knight. The king's knights had been coming and going all night, Theon recalled dimly. This one seemed to be the king's familiar. Lean, dark-haired, hard-eyed, his face marred by pockmarks and old scars, he wore a faded surcoat embroidered with three moths. "Sire," he announced, "the maester is without. And Lord Arnolf sends word that he would be most pleased to break his fast with you."
"The son as well?"
"And the grandsons. Lord Wull seeks audience as well. He wants — "
"I know what he wants." The king indicated Theon. "Him. Wull wants him dead. Flint, Norrey... all of them will want him dead. For the boys he slew. Vengeance for their precious Ned."
"Will you oblige them?"
"Just now, the turncloak is more use to me alive. He has knowledge we may need. Bring in this maester." The king plucked a parchment off the table and squinted over it. A letter, Theon knew. Its broken seal was black wax, hard and shiny. I know what that says, he thought, giggling.
Stannis looked up. "The turncloak stirs."
"Theon. My name is Theon." He had to remember his name.
The rest of the chapter can be found at the source!