He left the riverbank and rode back into the depths of the camp.
Ever since he had first tasted forbidden fruit with Lady Hightower, that searing, bone-melting pleasure had burned itself into his senses, leaving him addicted to its memory. His body was maturing with time, and his hunger for women had only grown stronger.
He stopped before a secluded wooden cabin that smelled faintly of pine. When he pushed open the door, the sight before him made his breath catch.
Lynesse Hightower was lounging lazily in an armchair draped with soft furs. A beam of afternoon sunlight filtered through the slats of the wooden window, spilling across her figure. She wore a finely tailored pale-blue silk gown that made her bare arms look even whiter and smoother—like the most delicate porcelain from the East.
The neckline of the gown was cleverly cut, perfectly tracing the full, rounded curves of her breasts as they rose and fell with her breath, stirring boundless temptation. Sunlight danced across her silky golden hair, casting a soft halo over her flawless profile.
Her head was slightly bowed, long lashes fanning small shadows across her cheeks as she focused on a bard's book of love poems. She seemed entirely bathed in a quiet radiance that blended nobility and tranquil grace.
It was a vision that could make any man's heart race.
Lo Quen instantly understood why Jorah Mormont had been bewitched by this woman—why he would break his vows and stoop to slave trading just to please her material desires.
Lynesse's beauty was a fusion of the refined elegance of House Hightower's ancient, noble bloodline and the lush ripeness of a mature woman, like a peach at the height of sweetness. When Lo Quen's gaze lingered on her full red lips and those eyes glimmering with languid charm, he caught a fleeting resemblance to Daenerys.
Yet unlike the still-blossoming young Dany, the Lynesse before him was like a flower nurtured to perfection in a greenhouse—radiant, fragrant, and impossibly tempting.
Lynesse heard the movement and lifted her gaze. When she saw Lo Quen, delight and excitement instantly bloomed across her face. She set down the poetry book and rose gracefully, the hem of her skirt rippling like water.
Her voice carried a sweet, surprised lilt.
"Your Grace? What brings you here today?"
Only after their last encounter had she learned from others who this young conqueror truly was. That revelation wrapped Lo Quen in an irresistible aura, stirring in her heart a tangled mix of resentment, longing, and desire for freedom she could barely name.
Lynesse was just past twenty, yet years of confinement had left her with a deep, aching loneliness and yearning.
Lo Quen didn't answer—he only wore a faint, knowing smile as he strode forward. Without a word, his strong arm wrapped around Lynesse's slender yet resilient waist, pulling her effortlessly into his embrace. Her body, soft and fragrant with a faint floral warmth, melted against his chest.
His movements brimmed with possessive dominance. One hand traced the smooth line of her back, feeling the astonishing warmth and elasticity beneath the silk gown. The other slid down along the graceful curve of her waist and hips, his palm savoring the fullness through the thin fabric.
His touch seemed to carry a current; wherever his fingers passed, he could feel the woman in his arms tremble. The blush on her cheeks deepened, spreading to her ears and down her pale neck.
"Your Grace..."
Lynesse's voice came out as a soft murmur—half reproach, half delight. Yet her body betrayed her, relaxing completely as she tilted her head back, her swan-like neck exposed beneath Lo Quen's burning gaze.
Her blue eyes glimmered with mist, shimmering with desire that invited him silently, wordlessly.
Lo Quen lowered his head, capturing her full, tempting lips with precision. Their mouths met—tongues intertwining, fierce and unrelenting.
At first, Lynesse's response was shy and hesitant, but under Lo Quen's practiced and commanding lead, her restraint melted into passion. Her arms coiled around his neck like serpents, her body pressing tightly against his as though she wished to fuse herself into his very being.
The cabin's temperature soared, the air thick with the sweetness of spring and heat. Fabric rustled, breaths quickened, mingling in rhythm.
He held her close, feeling her heartbeat hammering against his chest, her body trembling in lingering waves. Lynesse lay against him, her golden hair in wild disarray, her cheeks flushed, her gaze languid and unfocused.
Fatigue rolled over him like the tide. Lo Quen sighed softly, breathing in the mingled scent of her hair and skin. Enveloped by that gentle warmth, his consciousness drifted into peaceful sleep.
...
The next morning. Dawn crept in, faint light glimmering through the air tinged with a lingering fragrance.
Lo Quen's first sensations were not of sight, but of scent and touch—an embrace spun from warmth and softness. A unique aroma—a blend of feminine sweetness, the fading trace of last night's passion, and the cool freshness of morning—stirred faintly against his senses.
It was Lynesse's scent. Like the petals of a summer rose crushed and steeped in snowmelt, infused with the gentle warmth of her skin and the sweetness of ripe fruit. The fragrance wound into his senses, gently rousing him from the edge of sleep.
Then came the feel of her body—her soft, silken back pressed against his broad chest. Her skin was impossibly smooth, like the finest silk flowing in dawn's light, alive with heat and life. They lay entwined, skin to skin, warmth passing between them.
"Mmm..."
Lynesse stirred at his movement. Her hazy blue eyes fluttered open as she murmured, "Your Grace, you're awake?"
Lo Quen started to move, but paused when he saw her brows knit slightly, a flicker of discomfort crossing her face. The memory of the night before came rushing back, and he couldn't help but smile.
Perhaps too many years on campaign had left him a little restrained.
When he stopped, Lynesse gave a soft giggle, her smooth, pale body shifting against him. Only when his expression softened did she rest her head against his chest and whisper, "Your Grace, may I go with you to the front lines? I wish to stay by your side—it might make things go faster."
Seeing the flush on her cheeks, Lo Quen fell silent in thought. She was right. Thinking of his future plans for the North, he nodded.
"Later, you'll come with me to the Central Highlands."
He then recalled Jorah, who had been imprisoned for far too long. It was time to draw out the last of his worth.