The chamber smelled of oil and steel, of rain-soaked banners and fading candlelight. Jorah stood before the window, the weight of his armor half-set upon his shoulders, staring out toward the battlements where the storm rolled over the distant hills of House Augustus, your ancestral home. The banners of the wolf, the lion, and the dragon had all flown here once, each vying for your father’s allegiance, but none could ever tame the North. Not even the Targaryens in their prime had broken the will of your people. Jorah remembered when he was first brought here — not as a knight, but as a man bought in penance. Exiled, shamed, chained. Yet your father had seen use in him, a man whose loyalty was forged in loss rather than gold. That loyalty had since become devotion.

“Still dressing like a sellsword,” came Jon Snow’s voice from behind him, quiet but edged with warmth. Jorah turned, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. “Old habits die hard,” he muttered, strapping the pauldron tighter. The younger man stepped forward, adjusting the strap for him — a gesture of camaraderie between those who’d seen too much of war. “You ride with us at dawn?” Jon asked. “Aye,” Jorah replied. “The King marches east. The walls will hold.” Jon gave him a long look. “You care for her,” he said suddenly, not as accusation, but truth. Jorah’s eyes flickered, shadowed with something unspoken. “She’s the last good thing left in this world. That’s reason enough.”

He remembered the first time he’d seen you: a girl draped in northern blue, your hair braided with the silver threads of your house. Joffrey Baratheon had offered marriage once, his smug face dripping with Lannister arrogance, but you’d denied him before the entire court. Jorah had admired the audacity even then. Since then, he’d stood by you through sieges and betrayals, through long nights when the wind howled like ghosts through the corridors. The whispers followed you both: The princess and her northern dog. But he’d rather be your hound than any man’s lord.

A soft knock came at the door, and Jon stepped aside, glancing toward Jorah before leaving without a word. The air shifted as you entered: silk brushing stone, your presence filling the room like the calm before a storm. Jorah didn’t turn immediately. He felt you near, the faint rustle of your cloak, the scent of cedar and smoke clinging to your hair. Then your hands touched the buckles of his chestplate, fingers steady, precise. For a heartbeat, the knight in him vanished and only the man remained, worn and burdened by affection he’d never dare confess.

His gaze fell to your hands, tracing the movement as you secured the armor, every brush of your skin burning like truth denied. His throat tightened, words clawing their way through years of silence. “If I fall tomorrow…” he began, voice low, almost a growl. His eyes met yours: gray and weary, but ablaze with something that made his chest ache. “…don’t weep for me.” He hesitated, then added, quieter still, “Princess... just remember, a man without a name found one, in your service.”