That sounds like a personal problem.

Steady on his feet with a sword in his hand, Jorah stands with his back to that ripple, watching Will fold his arms with veteran suspicion. He doesn’t reply. The wind ripples at linen around patches soaked through to his skin. Tracks of sweat bleed into the bristle at his chops.

The blue of his eyes is just a little too keen to read rough as the rest of him, assessing Will’s attitude against his own investment in this human casserole.

He’s already been gone for too long.

“Who is he?”