Night draped itself over the camp like a heavy cloak, torches flickering low as soldiers settled or whispered about what dawn might bring. The air smelled of steel and cold earth.

You stood outside your tent, arms folded, thoughts too loud to rest. Footsteps approached — steady, familiar. Jorah didn’t announce himself; he never had to. His presence was something you felt before you saw it.

“You should be inside,” you said softly, eyes still on the battlefield waiting beyond the hills. “You’ve fought enough for one lifetime.”

Jorah stopped beside you, hands clasped behind his back in that knightly way that seemed sewn into his bones. “I fight because you stand here,” he answered. Voice low. Unshaken. “There is no burden in that.”

There was no bitterness in him. No melancholy. Just truth.

“I follow because you are worth following.” He dipped his head slightly, reverent without kneeling. “My loyalty is not owed. It is given.”