The decision made, Lo Quen walked straight into the sea-eroded cavern prison deep within Torturer's Deep.
The damp, chilly air reeked of mildew and salt, while torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting restless shadows.
Several days had passed since Jorah Mormont's capture.
Though Lo Quen had seemingly subdued more than a thousand pirates in last night's fierce battle, few were truly fit for use.
Roro commanded five hundred pirates.
Janice and Jaelena held a thousand elite Dragon Soul Guards and another fifteen hundred newly attached pirates.
But Janice had thrown herself entirely into solving the problem of cultivating ghost grass, leaving almost the full weight of command on Jaelena's shoulders.
According to Jaelena, those pirates were weak in combat, utterly unfit for hard battles.
Facing the tangled chaos of the Stepstones and the threat of powerful enemies, he urgently needed a master-at-arms—someone who could forge a rabble into an army of steel.
The only candidate was the man behind these iron bars—Jorah Mormont.
As Lord of Bear Island, Jorah Mormont had fought with distinction in the Battle of the Trident and the campaign to put down the Iron Islands rebellion. His combat record was illustrious, especially at the taking of Pyke, where he was the second man to scale the walls after Thoros of Myr. His battlefield experience was beyond question.
Behind the bars, the wavering firelight outlined a slumped, solitary figure, like a giant bear stripped of its claws and trapped in a cage.
"Ser Jorah," Lo Quen's voice rang out clearly in the confined space, even and detached. "After these days of rest, have your spirits recovered?"
Jorah Mormont jerked his head up, his clouded eyes burning with rage and humiliation.
"Who are you? An Eastern face, yet you know the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms so well… And what have you done with my Lynesse?"
His voice was hoarse, thick with anxious desperation.
Lo Quen gave a low chuckle, tinged with mockery. "Patience, Lord Mormont."
He lingered on the title, his tone dripping with scorn. "Lady Mormont is enjoying our 'hospitality.' Trust me—I hold the noble bloodlines of the Seven Kingdoms in great respect."
Except for the Lannisters, he added coldly to himself.
That "Lord" cut Jorah like a whip. His face darkened with fury, veins swelling at his temples. "Boy! If you so much as touch a single hair on Lynesse's head, I swear—"
"Of course not," Lo Quen interrupted smoothly, his voice heavy with false sincerity. "The sanctity of a guest's rights is something I hold sacred. If Lady Lynesse were to come to the slightest harm, it would be worse than death to me. However..."
His gaze swept over the dank, mold-stinking cavern prison. "This is a pirate's lair in the Stepstones. It lacks the luxuries that could bring a smile to your Lady's face. For now, she must endure a little hardship. Surely, Ser, you above all can understand my 'difficult position'?"
His words dripped with venom, every syllable barbed.
Jorah's heart sank, bitterness rising in his throat like bile.
He could not mistake Lo Quen's hidden meaning.
These days in the dungeon had forced him to confront himself more clearly.
Lynesse's vanity—and his own blind indulgence of it—were the root of all his misery.
To give her Oldtown's luxuries on the harsh, barren Bear Island, he had drained its meager coffers, bled his people dry, and in the end turned to the desperate shame of slave-trading...
He shut his eyes in anguish, forcing his turmoil down before meeting Lo Quen's gaze once more.
Only then did he fully notice how young his captor was—and the depth in him that seemed far older than his years.
"The sword at your waist..." Jorah's eyes fixed on Lo Quen's weapon, his warrior's instinct sharpening. "Is that Valyrian steel?"
"Clang—" The blade rang out like a dragon's cry as it slid free of the sheath.
A chill, cutting light flooded the cell, the rippling patterns along the steel gleaming with an otherworldly glow beneath the torchlight.
Jorah's breath caught.
"How do you have a Valyrian steel sword of such quality?" His brow furrowed tight, the young man before him seeming ever more unfathomable.
"Do you think this sword is impressive?" Lo Quen's lips curved in a faint, unreadable smile. "What if I told you—the soldiers who fought the pirates that day, their red copper armor and the blades in their hands, were all forged from Valyrian steel?"
Jorah's pupils shrank.
He remembered the sea battle vividly: those silent warriors, clad in armor of uncanny sheen and strength, wielding blades sharper than any steel he had known.
Instinctively, he rejected the notion. "Impossible. There cannot be so much Valyrian steel in the world—unless you plundered the ruins of Valyria itself."
He did not realize he had stumbled upon the truth.
"Ser Jorah," Lo Quen suddenly shifted the subject, his voice carrying a strange weight. "Have you ever experienced a true upheaval in your life? I don't mean the exposure of your slave trading, or this imprisonment. I mean waking to find yourself in an utterly unfamiliar world, ruled by entirely different laws?"
Jorah froze, then shook his head blankly.
"Then your fate was nothing more than chance." Lo Quen's smile deepened, his words heavy with meaning. "This world is far beyond your imagination..." He spoke as if declaring a universal truth.
"But what does this have to do with Valyrian steel—" Jorah pressed, voice urgent.
"No more idle talk."
With a flick of his wrist, Lo Quen slid the sword back into its sheath. The motion was clean, cutting off Jorah's words.
"Now for business, Ser. As a prisoner, you must already suspect—why did I capture you? Why spare your life?"
Jorah was silent for a moment, then said in a low, firm voice, "Ransom. That's all. A pirate's trade, nothing more."
Lo Quen nearly laughed, but only shook his head. "Wrong. Bear Island—beyond its black bears and frozen soil, what could I possibly want? What I desire—"
His gaze locked with Jorah's, each word deliberate. "—is your service."
Jorah's face twisted with outrage, as though struck. He spat his scorn: "You expect a knight, anointed with the holy oils of the Seven, to serve some foreigner of no standing? If I ever betrayed my vows so far, I wouldn't need Eddard Stark's Ice to end me—my father himself would split me in two with Longclaw."
"Don't you want to hear what I would have you do?" Lo Quen's tone remained calm.
"Whatever it is, I'd rather you kill me now." Jorah's answer was ironclad.
The warmth vanished from Lo Quen's face, leaving only an icy mask. "You should have said so sooner. Then I wouldn't have troubled myself to be so 'courteous' to Lady Lynesse."
"You lay a finger on Lynesse and I will kill you!" Jorah hurled himself at the bars like a maddened beast, eyes blazing red, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.
Lo Quen's lips twitched with amusement. He had known all along—Jorah's weakness was women.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." He shook his head slowly, his voice mocking. "Ser Jorah, your devotion to Lady Lynesse would move the gods themselves. So—shall we strike a bargain?"
He stepped closer, his voice low but unyielding as it carried through the bars. "I give you my word: Lady Lynesse will be safe and comfortable here, so long as she remains obedient. In return, you will serve me as my sworn knight. I will pay you well, enough to maintain your lady in the dignity she deserves. After all..."
He paused deliberately, his gaze stabbing into Jorah's heart like an icicle. "Surely you would not want your lady—the noble Lady Lynesse Hightower—to suffer even the slightest 'hardship' in a pirate's den?"
Lo Quen's tone carried the form of an offer, but the weight of a threat.
Jorah's face contorted with fury and humiliation, the veins at his temple throbbing.
The words of refusal rose to his lips, only to choke in his throat, strangled by an unseen hand.
Lynesse's tear-streaked face, her terror, and the horrors she might endure in this savage land—all surged in his mind.
His glare burned into Lo Quen, chest heaving as though straining against invisible chains.
Only the crackling torchfire and his harsh breathing broke the silence of the cell.
At last, as though all strength had drained from him, Jorah bowed his head. A sigh escaped, heavy as a boulder crashing down. "So long as you can guarantee Lynesse's safety... I... will serve you."
Each word was dragged out through clenched teeth, thick with bitterness and shame.
"A wise choice." The smile of a man in absolute control spread across Lo Quen's face as he gave a light clap. "Rest easy—I am true to my word. So long, of course, as the other party does not break it first."
Jorah caught the warning in every syllable.
"I need you to train an army for me—a real fighting force." Lo Quen's tone grew sharp, all pretense set aside. "You saw it yourself. My men took this stronghold and many prisoners. But how to forge these pirates into a blade fit for war, how to lead them in battle... That is what I need from you."
Jorah's head snapped up, shock and suspicion flashing in his eyes. "Train an army? For what? To seize the Stepstones? These lands are barren, not worth ruling. Or is it..."
His gaze narrowed, piercing into Lo Quen. "Do you mean to follow the path of the Ninepenny Kings—use this place as a springboard to reach for Westeros, to chase a far greater ambition?"
His noble training had made him quick to grasp the implication.
Lo Quen shook his head, a curl of contempt tugging at his lips. "The Ninepenny Kings? Nothing but a farce, a joke mocked by history."
He said nothing more, turning toward the cell door. The dim torchlight stretched his retreating shadow long across the stone.
"What is it you truly want?" Jorah's unwilling voice followed him into the dark.
Lo Quen did not break stride. Only one sentence lingered in the damp air:
"In time, you'll know."
The heavy door swung shut, locking Jorah Mormont's face—scarred with humiliation, anger, and dread—once more into the flickering torchlight and the deep, consuming dark.