That night, Bloodstone lay buried in oppressive darkness.
The training grounds, noisy by day, were deathly still. Only the endless waves roared and wept among the reefs, like the gods playing a cold, monotonous dirge beneath the moon.
Jorah was about to toss restlessly on his crude wooden bed when he heard hesitant, liquor-heavy footsteps outside, followed by a rough knock.
"Master-at-arms! Master-at-arms Jorah!"
A slurred voice called out, "Lord Roro... wants you... to come drink..."
Jorah's heart gave a sudden jolt.
Roro?
The coarse, hot-tempered former pirate captain—now a trusted commander under Lo Quen?
He wanted to drink with him?
That had never happened before.
A flicker of caution—and an undeniable stir of anticipation—rose within him.
He quickly threw on a cleaner tunic and followed the guard, who also stank of drink, through dark, narrow alleys that reeked of fish and rotting waste, until they reached Roro's courtyard.
It was far better than his own stone hut: higher walls, and even a small watchtower.
"Who goes there?" growled the guard in the shadows of the gate, hand on his dagger.
"Jorah Mormont." His voice was calm, steady.
"Master-at-arms!" Recognizing him by the dim torchlight, the guard straightened at once and saluted with the crisp precision of a sailor.
On Bloodstone, his work drilling pirates had earned Jorah the title of "Master-at-arms"—not noble, but useful.
The guard pushed open the heavy wooden door. "Lord Roro waits inside."
He gestured toward the main hall, where the strong stench of spirits drifted through the cracks.
Jorah stepped in.
The hall was lit only by a few tallow candles, their glow flickering faintly.
Roro sat alone at a rough-hewn table, a massive earthen jug before him.
The rich, heady aroma of pear brandy from Tyrosh filled the air—sweet, strong, with a sharp fruit note.
In the candlelight, Roro's face burned red, his eyes bleary. Spotting Jorah, he split his mouth in a grin, showing crooked yellow teeth, and slapped the bench beside him.
"Ha! Jorah! The knight of Bear Island himself!"
His voice was thick with drink, his tongue sluggish. "Come, sit! Taste this—Tyroshi pear brandy, the good stuff. Not that sour grape water from Lys."
He seized the jug and poured into a chipped clay cup until the amber liquid nearly spilled over.
Jorah sat down without protest, his eyes taking in Roro's condition.
Unsteady steps, glassy eyes, slurred words—he was deep in his cups.
Jorah's nerves eased slightly. He picked up the cup but didn't drink, letting the pungent fumes sting his nose.
"Good stuff!"
Roro downed a great gulp himself, smacking his lips in satisfaction, then slapped his huge hand on Jorah's shoulder with such force it made him sway.
"Ser Jorah, ha! Who'd have thought we'd be drinking together!"
His breath reeked of spirits as he leaned closer, drunk eyes staring hard. "Back then… I was at sea… raided your ship… and you rammed me, you bastard… and what happened? We all got thrown into the stew together, served up to the Lord!"
Jorah's mouth twisted into the stiffest of smiles.
That skirmish—where his and Lynesse's fate was sealed—was one of the memories he hated most.
"Truth is, Jorah…"
Roro took another swig, swaying, but his gaze sharpened with the candor of a drunk. "I used to despise you Seven Kingdoms lot! Pretentious bastards! A pack of silk-wrapped cowards!"
He belched loudly.
"Until… until you came. Hells, I hated you too at first! Always stone-faced, like a gargoyle, and you thought you could teach my men to march? Pah!"
He mimicked Jorah's drill commands in a mocking, singsong tone.
Jorah's weathered face darkened, his fingers tightening around the cup.
"But!"
Roro suddenly boomed, slamming Jorah's shoulder again, nearly spilling his drink. "I saw you… you taught for real. You showed the brothers how to live behind their shields… how to strike where it hurts… how to follow orders, not scatter like headless gulls… I was impressed!"
He jabbed a thick finger at Jorah, his bleary eyes clouded yet strangely earnest. "You, Jorah Mormont! You're the first—and only—man of the Seven Kingdoms I, Roro, have ever respected. You've got balls!"
A storm of emotions churned in Jorah—shame, anger, and bitter irony.
He remembered Lynesse's tearful plea.
Endure.
He raised the cup and took a long, burning swallow.
The fire scorched his throat, smothering the turmoil inside.
He set down his cup, his voice deliberately calm, touched with just the right amount of humility. "Brother Roro, you give me too much credit. What I taught was nothing more than scraps of battlefield survival. The brothers' courage comes from the Lord's command, from hard battles fought with real steel and blood. I only… helped rein in their wild nature a little."
"War? Yes! War!"
Roro lit up, his voice suddenly rising with drunken bloodlust, though his words grew more slurred. "It's starting again… a big one, a hard one! The brothers… all being sent away…"
Jorah's heart clenched as if a cold hand had seized it.
He forced his breath steady, his face showing just the right mix of puzzlement and the sting of being left out. "Sent away? Where? To besiege Tyrosh, isn't it? On the Stepstones, that's the last nail sticking out."
He asked it casually, but under the table his fingers clenched tight.
Roro chuckled, leaning close, his breath a sickening mix of wine and sour food washing over Jorah's face.
Dropping his voice, he spoke with the smugness of a man sharing secrets, dulled by drink. "Of course! The Lord… he's decided. Emptying the nest… we're gonna rip Tyrosh out by the roots. And Bloodstone…"
He belched loud enough to rattle the table, his head lolling. "…Bloodstone's yours, Master-at-arms Jorah… with five hundred brothers… to guard the home, watch the gates…"
Guard the island?
Only five hundred left on Bloodstone?!
Joy exploded in Jorah's chest like fire.
This… this was a gift straight from the gods!
His face twitched as he fought to keep a grin from breaking through. Instead, he forced a look of anger and wounded pride, his voice rising with a warrior's dignity. "Leave me here to guard the gates?! No! Brother Roro, that won't do! Tyrosh is ripe for the taking. The brothers are marching to fight, to win honor and glory—how can I cower in the rear? I'll petition the Lord myself, I'll…"
"Shhh!"
Roro thrust up a finger, his bleary eyes darting about, though the room was empty save for them.
He leaned in, his voice dropping lower still, thick with drunken secrecy. "Don't… don't shout! This was… council's orders. Every man fit to fight… gather at Broken Spear Isle… to strike fucking Tyrosh. You… stay behind… guard the home…"
He paused, a flicker of wary clarity glinting in his muddy gaze. "And… one more thing. Top secret. Not a word, you hear?"
He licked his dry lips. "The Seven Kingdoms… been stirring lately… ships in and out… if… if those bastards learn Bloodstone's an empty shell… heh…"
He trailed into a meaningless drunken laugh, the rest swallowed by his throat.
Jorah nodded, keeping his face fixed in reluctant obedience, the picture of a man frustrated at being left behind yet bound by duty.
But inside, the storm raged.
He hadn't lifted a finger, yet all had fallen into his lap.
Lo Quen's intentions. Troop movements. Bloodstone's fatal weakness.
Secrets he could never have reached—spilled out like beans by a drunkard's tongue.
The rush of triumph, followed fast by the edge of fear, made sweat bead in his palms as he gripped the cup.
He lingered long enough to match Roro with a few more empty toasts, listening to his rambling tales of pirate "glory," before finding an excuse to leave.
Outside the courtyard, the night wind cut cold, cooling the fire in his veins but sharpening his mind to a blade's edge.
That night, in the quietest corner of Prince's Harbor, a raven with glossy black feathers and sharp eyes spread its wings. Cloaked in the dim moonlight, it rose soundlessly and vanished into the northwest sky like a ghost swallowed by the dark.
...
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