Two months slipped away like sand.
Bloodstone Isle.
Ser Jorah Mormont dragged his weary body from the training grounds, sweat and dust soaking through his coarse tunic.
Since Broken Spear Isle had fallen to Lo Quen, many black market traders had begun sailing to Bloodstone Isle to do business.
Now, Jorah only needed to make contact with Varys's little birds on the island, which made passing on information far more efficient.
But troubling news had reached him.
The Seven Kingdoms' armies were nearly ready, and the royal fleet's warships were repaired.
The great war was drawing near.
Varys's little birds had pressed him to provide Lo Quen's tactical plans as soon as possible.
The demand filled him with dread.
How was he supposed to learn Lo Quen's battle strategy?
He had never been invited to Lo Quen's war councils.
Lo Quen did not trust him—a truth silently accepted by nearly all the high commanders.
All Jorah could do was spend his days drilling that unruly, undisciplined band of pirates.
Of course, he never believed training pirates would truly trouble the Seven Kingdoms' armies.
Even when he didn't slack, even when he drilled them in basic maneuvers and taught them standard battlefield orders, he knew.
This rabble would never match the elite soldiers of Westeros.
The true danger lay with the Dragon Soul Guards—hard and unyielding as steel.
But how to uncover real secrets?
Storm into the war tent? That was suicide.
Bribe a commander? He was penniless, and no one dared betray the Eastern sorcerer.
Jorah's brow furrowed as his thick fingers tapped unconsciously against the hilt of the sword at his hip.
"Jorah?"
A voice he longed for more than anything reached his ears.
Jorah spun around.
In the doorway, the setting sun cast its golden glow around a slender, graceful figure.
A pale pink silk gown clung to her enticing form.
The sea breeze teased her golden hair, a few strands brushing against her smooth neck.
It was his Lynesse.
Months had passed since he followed Lo Quen to war—this was the first time he had seen his beloved wife.
Longing and love surged through him, driving him forward.
He wanted nothing more than to crush her in his arms.
But Lynesse stepped lightly aside, evading him.
"Jorah, you're… covered in dust from the training grounds—and the smell of sweat."
Even in exile, the lady of House Hightower kept her natural reserve, her distaste for foul scents.
Seeing her cover her mouth and nose, Jorah froze mid-embrace, embarrassment washing over his face.
"Lynesse, I… I just came from training… You don't know how much I've missed you, day and night. In Torturer's Deep… that Eastern man… he hasn't—he hasn't harmed you, has he?"
His voice was hoarse, heavy with longing and fear.
Lynesse let out a quiet sigh. She lifted her eyes—those once-proud, willful blue eyes now carried a maturity Jorah had never seen.
"He hasn't mistreated me. But Torturer's Deep is a pirate's den with little comfort. No soft beds, no fragrant gardens, no fine silverware, no servants at my beck and call. Only rough stone walls, the salty sea wind, bland food, and guards everywhere… When war drew near, they moved the army of Torturer's Deep to Broken Spear Isle, leaving only a few behind. That Eastern man feared I might escape, so he brought me here to Bloodstone instead."
Jorah's heart lurched. Lo Quen had shifted the forces of Torturer's Deep to Broken Spear Isle as well.
What were they planning?
An attack on Tyrosh?
He narrowed his eyes, silently weighing the chance to escape.
"Jorah, what's wrong?"
Lynesse's voice carried genuine concern.
Jorah snapped back, resolve hardening in his gaze. His voice was low and heavy. "Lynesse, I'm thinking about when we'll finally break free of this Eastern sorcerer's grip. I endure this humiliation, drilling that rabble like a beast tamer, breaking my back for him day after day—for one reason only. To protect you.
To make him believe you still have value, so he won't dare harm a single hair on your head. I swear it, by the old gods and the new."
His fists clenched, knuckles cracking. "I will get you out of this hell. Back to Westeros—or anywhere you wish to go."
Lynesse gazed at him silently, something softening in her eyes.
Instead of retreating, she stepped forward. Her delicate hands—once meant only for silk and harp strings—reached for his, rough with calluses, damp with sweat, and scarred by training.
Her touch was cool and soft, yet carried a strange strength.
"Your heart is enough, Jorah."
Her voice was gentle as the evening breeze, yet every word struck true. "In those endless nights in Torturer's Deep, lying on a cold stone bed, I thought of so much. The woman I was… like a spoiled child—selfish, willful, demanding only your love and indulgence. I broke your heart, even drove you to commit… an unforgivable mistake, just to satisfy my vanity."
A single tear slipped down her smooth cheek, shining as it fell.
"If… if the gods truly show us mercy, and the day comes when we win back our freedom, Jorah…"
Her voice carried a dreamlike yearning as she clasped his hand tighter. "I don't want to return to Oldtown, nor to Bear Island. I want to be with you—truly together. We'll sail east, across the Jade Sea to explore Qarth, seek the legendary ruins of Yi Ti, and drink from the ancient well of wisdom in the Shadow City of Asshai… We'll see the world, just you and me."
Her gaze was clear and resolute, filled with hope for the future and trust in the man before her.
Jorah was stunned, as if struck by lightning.
The Lynesse before him was no longer the girl who cared only for jewels, feasts, and vanity.
Years and hardship had stripped away her frivolity, leaving behind a quiet, resilient glow—the deep tolerance of a grown woman.
That belated, profound love and understanding melted Jorah's long-frozen heart like molten fire.
He seized Lynesse's cool wrist and all but dragged her into the low, dim stone hut.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them, shutting out the world.
The room was dark.
Jorah did not light a lamp. He pulled Lynesse into the shadowed corner and lowered his voice. "Listen, Lynesse. Listen carefully. Your being brought to Bloodstone… perhaps this is the gods granting us a chance."
"These months, I haven't only been training pirates. I've been secretly contacting the lords of the Small Council in King's Landing. I warned them of the Easterner's ambition. Taking the Stepstones is only his first step. His true goal is the Iron Throne—Westeros itself."
He drew a deep breath, as if binding himself to a long-cherished vow. "The Small Council has promised me that if I can secure the Eastern sorcerer's detailed war plans—if I can prove my worth—the Iron Throne will pardon all my crimes. We… we'll be free. Truly free. We can go home."
Lynesse's small hand squeezed tighter, her knuckles whitening with emotion.
"Jorah…"
Her blue eyes shone in the shadows, bright and unwavering. "As long as I'm with you, it doesn't matter where we go—whether it's back to Oldtown to face my father's wrath, to your cold Bear Island, or eastward across the sea to seek the Well of Wisdom… I will follow you."
That unreserved, almost martyr-like confession shattered Jorah Mormont's last defenses.
She was so young, in the very bloom of life.
Once, their marriage had seemed little more than a maiden's infatuation with a knight's glory.
But now, the true love shining in her eyes—tempered by hardship—was like pure sunlight, chasing away every shadow of his exile.
That late but weighty love nearly drowned the great bear, long used to giving and nursing his wounds, in a flood of happiness he could hardly bear.
But fate always bared its fangs at the sweetest moment.
"Jorah…"
Lynesse's voice trembled faintly as she slipped free of his hand. "I… I must go."
"Go?"
The tenderness on Jorah's face froze into shock. "Lynesse, you've only just come…"
"That Eastern man…"
She cut him off, humiliation and fear flickering in her eyes. "He forbade me from seeing you… He keeps me in a stone house across the harbor, under guard. I only got here because I begged and begged the watchmen… My time is nearly up."
A surge of cold fury erupted in Jorah. His face twisted, veins bulged at his temples, and his teeth ground so hard they threatened to shatter.
"Damn Eastern bastard!"
He growled, fists trembling with the force of his rage, knuckles turning bone-white. "He's using you as a hostage, a chain binding me. If not for… if not for your safety…"
His head snapped up, murder blazing in his eyes, his body ready to storm out and face Lo Quen in blood.
"No! Jorah, no! Please, don't act rashly, don't throw everything away. You've already reached the Iron Throne—you have hope now. You must endure. You must stay calm."
Her tear-filled eyes lifted to his, full of pleading. "When the Seven Kingdoms' armies come—when His Grace's warhammer strikes Bloodstone—that will be the day we are free. Promise me you'll endure. For me, endure."
Jorah's chest heaved, his harsh breathing filling the cramped space.
He looked at Lynesse's tear-streaked yet steadfast face, at the fear and plea she forced down for their future.
He shut his eyes, drew in a long breath, and when he opened them again, the storm had been replaced by heavy calm.
"You're right… Lynesse, you're right. The closer we are to the end… the calmer I must be… the more I must endure."
After Lynesse left, Jorah stood frozen, staring after the light of her figure until it vanished at the street's corner.
The sea wind howled through the cracks, carrying a cutting chill.
He must get the plans.
At any cost—he must save Lynesse.