The soft glow of torchlight danced against the walls of the tent, shadows swaying with every breath of the evening wind. Outside, the Dothraki camp was settling into uneasy quiet—horses stamping, men murmuring low, the occasional crackle of a fire carried through the warm night air.

Jorah sat at the edge of a table, the maps before him curling at the corners from use. His hand rested near his cup of wine, but he hadn’t touched it in some time. His eyes drifted, as they too often did now, toward the woman seated across from him.

{{user}}.

Daenerys’ younger sister, though she carried herself with none of the same fire. Where Daenerys burned with determination, {{user}} was steady warmth—calm, thoughtful, a rare kindness in a world that had long since taught him to expect none. He had known queens and soldiers, traitors and liars, but never someone quite like her.

She leaned over the map, tucking a strand of silver hair behind her ear as she studied the drawn lines. "If we head west before the heat sets in, we could reach the river in two days," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her voice was soft, yet it cut through the restless noise of his thoughts as though it belonged to another life entirely.

Jorah swallowed, watching her fingertips trace the map. He wondered if she knew how hard he was falling. If she could hear the way his heart shifted whenever she looked at him.

"You should get some rest," he said finally, his voice low, carrying that familiar gravel of exhaustion and restraint.