As Lo Quen had suspected, his guess was right.
The moment he saw the man's thick, curling beard, his distinctive breastplate, and the hardened swordplay flashing in those dark, somber eyes, his identity was all but certain.
In Westeros, there were few who carried such marks—and none of them should have been on the Narrow Sea.
Only Jorah Mormont, the knight once anointed with holy oil but driven into exile for selling slaves, fit the likeness.
By now the cries of pirates in the distance had quieted. Lo Quen turned back to Jorah, his voice calm yet edged with unquestionable authority.
"Ser Jorah, I think you owe me an explanation. Why did you ram my ship?"
Jorah Mormont raised his bloodstained face, his eyes fierce like a wounded bear. "We were surrounded by pirates. This was the only way out. If you hadn't been in our path, we might have escaped."
"So it was our fault for being in your way?" Lo Quen's brows lifted slightly.
Jorah pressed a blood-soaked hand to his side, his breath ragged. "It was desperation. If our places were switched, you'd have done the same."
"Enough," Lo Quen cut him off, his tone turning cold. "You are my prisoner now, Ser. Remember your place."
"Prisoner?" Jorah's frown deepened, the stubbornness of the North etched in his face. "Better give me a clean death."
Before he could finish, a striking figure rushed from the cabin.
She wore a pale yellow silk gown of obvious luxury, her voluminous golden hair bound by a sapphire-studded net.
Her features were delicate, her makeup immaculate, her milk-white skin made all the more striking by the glittering crystal necklace at her throat.
When she saw Jorah slumped on the deck, his chest stained with blood, her face went pale as she hurried to him. "Jorah! Are you hurt?"
At the sight of her, Jorah's hard expression softened instantly. "Lynesse, I'm fine. Go back inside—the deck is no place for you."
But before the words left his lips, a gush of blood spilled from his mouth, draining the color from his face.
Lynesse recoiled in shock, stumbling back. She snatched a silk handkerchief to cover her nose and mouth, terrified the stench of blood would cling to her costly gown and perfumes.
Her lovely face first twisted with fright, then shifted into a faint, calculating look. Her voice grew sharp. "You call this nothing? Quickly! Jorah, give me the key to the strongbox. I must go to Lys to fetch the best healer for you..."
Jorah's eyes darkened.
This woman cared nothing for whether he lived or died. She had merely scented death in the air and wanted to claim his last wealth.
Sweet memories tangled with bitter ruin. His ruined exile had been, in truth, her doing.
He had broken the law to sell slaves, all to cover Lynesse's extravagance. He had left Braavos for Lys because she had complained she wanted somewhere warm.
And now the lady he had once doted on showed her cold heart without disguise.
Failure crashed down on Jorah like a flood of ice water, robbing him of breath.
"This must be Lady Mormont," Lo Quen spoke at last. He had recognized her the moment she stepped out—Lynesse Hightower, the famed spendthrift of Oldtown.
Seeing her true face, Lo Quen, though still resentful toward Jorah, cut across her scheming. "Forgive my bluntness, my lady, but you cannot go to Lys. Ser Jorah rammed my fleet and dragged us into a needless battle. To atone, from this moment you are both my prisoners..."
Lynesse's eyes widened in terror at Lo Quen's foreign features. Glancing at the towering Dragon Soul Guards behind him, she stammered, "You... you cannot! My father is Leyton Hightower, Lord of Oldtown!"
Lo Quen inclined his head. "I know. And I also know Ser Jorah is still a knight in exile from the Seven Kingdoms. For selling slaves, he was sentenced to death by the Great Lord of Winterfell. Consider this—if I deliver you to Lord Stark, do you think he won't reward me richly?"
Lynesse's face went ashen. Thinking of her family's vast fortune, she cried out desperately, "Let me write to my father! He will ransom me! I don't want to go back to the North—send me home to Oldtown!"
Jorah looked at his wife, collapsed in tears, caring nothing for his wounds and thinking only of her return. A bitter, broken smile tugged at his lips. "Let her go... I am yours to deal with."
He turned his eyes to Lo Quen, filled with desperate plea.
At those words, a spark of hope lit instantly in Lynesse's eyes. She stared at Lo Quen with urgent expectation.
"I cannot grant your request, Ser Jorah. Nor yours, Lady Mormont." Lo Quen's refusal was cold and final.
He knew Jorah Mormont's reputation as a lapdog. To release Lynesse would be no different from loosing a tiger—Jorah would surely seize the first chance to flee.
Only by keeping the woman he worshipped most tightly in hand could this bear of the North be made to bow.
"For the journey ahead, we shall 'properly' see to your needs." He gave weight to the word "properly," then signaled to the Dragon Soul Guards at his side. "Take them to the flagship. Place them in the best quarters, and see to Ser Jorah's wounds."
Jorah's wound was not deep, but the blood loss was perilous enough.
As the two were led away, staggering under guard, Lo Quen turned to the trembling Ternesio. "Now, you may leave."
Ternesio all but collapsed in relief, barking frantic orders to his crew to adjust the sails. He wanted nothing more than to flee this cursed place as quickly as possible.
Back aboard the flagship Swan, Jaelena and Janice appeared with a middle-aged man bound tight, his chestnut beard and hair matted from the struggle.
Jaelena removed her helmet, revealing her beautiful, cold features. "My lord, four pirate oared ships destroyed. One hundred and seven killed. One hundred seventy-eight pirates captured. One hundred seventy sailors taken."
Her eyes shifted to the prisoner. "This one was their leader."
Lo Quen nodded, studying the man's defeated expression. "Tell me your name."
"Roro Uhoris, my lord," the man answered wearily. "From Tyrosh. I smuggle… sometimes turn pirate."
He dared a glance at Lo Quen, fear and confusion in his eyes. He had been raiding a merchant vessel when it collided with a fleet from the south. At first he thought fortune had smiled—two prey at once. Instead, he had slammed into iron. Even now, he could not understand how he had run afoul of such a well-armed and disciplined fleet.
Roro Uhoris…
The name stirred something in Lo Quen's memory. He seemed to recall it from the original tale.
And he needed a guide through the treacherous waters of the Stepstones.
"How well do you know the Stepstones?" Lo Quen asked.
A spark of desperation lit in Roro's eyes. "I know them like my own hand, my lord! Every reef, every island, every sea cave fit to hide a ship—I know them all."
"Good." Lo Quen's tone was level, but edged with steel. "Your life is spared. But you will serve as my guide into the Stepstones. If even one ship in my fleet runs aground on a reef…"
He paused.
"…I will take one of your fingers."
Roro went pale, then suddenly trembled harder as another thought struck him. "M-My lord! There is something… When I set out, I borrowed ships and men from 'Crab Claw' of Torturer's Deep! If I do not return on time, he… he will kill my family!"
"Crab Claw?"
"The pirate chief of Torturer's Deep," Roro said quickly. "He commands three great warships and seventeen oared vessels. Of the four ships I brought, three and most of their crews were his. Every raid, we must hand over most of the spoils to him."
"How many men does he command?"
"Excluding sailors, around two thousand cutthroats."
Lo Quen fell silent in thought.
Two thousand pirates sounded daunting, but without armor or discipline, they were nothing more than sheep before his well-equipped, battle-trained Dragon Soul Guards.
"How far to Torturer's Deep?"
Catching the dangerous gleam in Lo Quen's eyes, Roro knew no good would come of it, yet dared not lie. "North… two to three hundred li. Just beyond the Bird-Dung Pillar."
Lo Quen's gaze flicked to the sisters. "It seems we've another battle ahead."
Jaelena said nothing, her hand resting quietly on her sword hilt.
Janice gave a faint nod. Fresh from her first true battle, she felt no pity for these murderous thieves of the sea.