Theon had lived at Winterfell for several years, and many people there knew him well.
"Theon Greyjoy?"
A glint of interest flashed through Lo Quen's eyes. "Take me to see him."
They passed through several dim corridors and arrived at a cold stone chamber. It had likely once been a storeroom, but was now being used as a temporary place for interrogation and confinement.
A figure was curled up in the corner.
His once-handsome face was pale as paper, his eye sockets deeply sunken. His hair was thin and brittle, and his body trembled faintly, beyond his control.
When Lo Quen's dark figure stepped into the room, he jerked his head up, his eyes filled with overwhelming terror.
When Jon Snow had taken Winterfell, he had hidden himself away, terrified that this former "brother" would see him in a state that was neither fully human nor wholly alive.
Now he had been discovered, but the one who came was not Jon. It was the Eastern conqueror whose name alone struck fear into countless hearts.
Lo Quen walked up to him and looked down at him coldly. "You're Theon?"
Theon's lips quivered. After hesitating for a long, long moment, he finally spoke through a sob. "Yes, Your Grace. I am Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon."
Lo Quen nodded. "Good. At least you didn't lie. Then tell me, do you know where Ser Jorah Mormont is being held?"
At the sound of the name "Jorah," Theon shuddered as if lashed by a whip.
He remembered the knife he had driven into Jorah and looked at Lo Quen in terror, stammering, "Your Grace… he… he's being held at the lowest level of the dungeon. He refused to submit, so he was tortured… very badly…"
Lo Quen raised an eyebrow. "Take me there."
Theon struggled to his feet and led the way, trembling.
They followed the dungeon's narrow, steep spiral staircase down into its deepest depths. The place was almost completely dark, with only a single torch nearing the end of its life stuck into the wall, casting a faint halo of light.
By that dim glow, a broad-shouldered figure could be seen bound to a cold torture rack with heavy iron chains.
His body was covered in horrific wounds, some already rotting and oozing pus. The pride that had once marked his face was gone, replaced by numb emptiness.
But when Jorah Mormont slowly lifted his heavy eyelids and recognized who stood before him, those lifeless eyes suddenly erupted with searing fury.
He thrashed violently, chains rattling loudly as a hoarse growl tore from his throat.
Theon froze, instinctively taking a step back.
He had assumed that Ser Jorah's hatred was directed at him.
After all, he was the one who had stabbed Jorah.
Yet now, the fury blazing in Jorah's eyes was fixed squarely on Lo Quen.
Confusion and fear flooded Theon's heart.
Wasn't this Ser Jorah supposed to be serving this king?
Why, then, was his gaze filled with such hatred?
Lo Quen shot Theon a glance, and Theon immediately took the hint and withdrew from the cell.
"You bastard!"
Jorah roared with every ounce of strength he had left. "You've reduced me to this. What more do you want from me?!"
His gaze dropped instinctively, sweeping over his filthy trousers and the bloodstains beneath him, humiliation flooding his chest.
Lo Quen followed his line of sight and smiled in quiet understanding.
He didn't answer Jorah's question. Instead, he let out a soft chuckle. "Ser Jorah, I didn't expect you to still have such presence after all this time. It seems House Bolton was quite… enthusiastic in their hospitality."
The casual mockery shattered the last scraps of Jorah's restraint.
"I'll kill you!"
He writhed madly, thrashing against the chains with no regard for his own body. "Bastard! I'll kill you!"
"Kill me?"
Lo Quen laughed softly as he stepped forward at an unhurried pace. "In your current condition, that's not something you can manage."
He stopped a few steps away. His tone shifted, carrying a faint note of regret. "Still, after all you've endured, there is at least one piece of good news I can share with you."
Jorah froze mid-struggle, staring at him in disbelief. "Good news?"
His thoughts stalled, yet a sense of dread crept over him.
Then something struck him. His pupils contracted sharply. "Lynesse?! What did you do to Lynesse?!"
"Oh?"
Lo Quen feigned surprise, then smiled even more gently. "You really are perceptive, Ser. Yes, it's news about Lady Lynesse. She's living very well now. Very happy. In fact, she's already expecting her second child. A joyous occasion, wouldn't you say?"
"Second… child?"
Jorah felt as if he'd been struck by lightning.
The world spun violently around him.
Lynesse was carrying another man's child?
And not even the first?
The humiliation eclipsed all the torment House Bolton had inflicted on him, a thousand times over.
The fury in his eyes exploded. "I'll kill you! I'll tear you apart!!"
The smile slowly faded from Lo Quen's face. "Ah, Ser, why be so agitated? I only wanted to give her a home. And after saying all this, seeing how much you're suffering, I think it's time I grant you a quick end."
Before Jorah could roar again, Lo Quen moved.
A flash of cold light, and a dagger drove cleanly into Jorah's heart.
Jorah's body jerked violently. The rage and resentment in his eyes drained away in moments, sinking into lifeless stillness.
Jorah Mormont had been nothing more than a tool from the moment Lo Quen first encountered him on the Stepstones.
Now that tool had been fully used up.
It was time to discard it.
...
Not long after, a massive pyre was raised in Winterfell's central courtyard.
Jorah Mormont was washed clean and dressed in relatively decent clothes before being placed atop the stacked wood.
A crowd gathered around. Waymar's soldiers, men of House Manderly, and survivors from Winterfell itself.
Lo Quen stood before the pyre, his face cloaked in grief.
"Ser Jorah Mormont, Lord of Bear Island, my most loyal and courageous knight. While carrying out a difficult and secret mission in the North, he was tragically captured by the despicable House Bolton. In the face of inhuman torture and abuse, he upheld the honor of knighthood and his loyalty to the realm, revealing not a single secret. His courage and his deeds will be remembered by the realm and sung for generations to come. Today, I grant him the highest honor, sending him forth with dragonfire. May his soul be purified in the flames and find eternal life."
The impassioned eulogy moved many in the crowd. Some soldiers even bowed their heads.
Yet at the edge of the gathering, a strange expression flickered across Theon's face.
He had seen the look in Jorah's eyes in the dungeon with his own eyes. Hearing these words now, a chill crawled up his spine.
He stole a glance at Lo Quen's grief-stricken profile, then quickly lowered his head, careful not to let anyone notice the unease etched across his face.
...
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