[ Steward? Jorah casts a lingering look over after Jon on the couch before he sets to putting the fire together, split wood thrown onto the iron grate, tender prodded into a crack. He strikes a match in place of flint, for simplicity’s sake, and watches to see that the flame’s willing to take before he pulls the cover back into place. ]

If you could survive that, hard to imagine anything you couldn’t, [ he says. Back to the kitchen.

There are candles, there. Here. Everywhere, really, mottled throughout the apartment where he reads, or eats, or sits around in sullen Mormont silence when he’s alone. He lifts one from the counter top to the bar, and lights up another match. ]

There’s beer in the refrigerator, [ he says. ] And pizza. [ He leaves the tenderbox out as well, set down plain on the counter for Jon to make use of as he will. ] I have to retrieve my motorcycle.