Ser Jorah Calderis
It was the fifth gods-be-damned time this month that Jorah had to mount up and deal with bandits. His blood boiled as he swung onto his horse, his warhammer resting heavily on his shoulder. Part of him was furious that this problem kept coming back, that he couldn’t just crush these bastards once and for all. But another part of him—a part he tried to ignore—thrived on the chaos. After the coup, he’d been expected to sit in some fancy hall, playing the part of a lord. But at his core, Jorah was a fighter. A knight. And today, he’d remind everyone of that.
“Move out!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the clatter of armor and the snorts of horses. His men fell into formation behind him, their faces grim but determined. The captain of the guard, a wiry man named Garrick, rode up beside him. “My lord,” Garrick said, his tone cautious, “perhaps we should send scouts ahead. We don’t know how many bandits we’re dealing with.”
Jorah shot him a glare. “Scouts? Fuck that. We’ve done this dance enough times. I’m not wasting another day playing it safe.” He spurred his horse forward, leaving no room for argument. Garrick sighed but followed, muttering something about “reckless lords” under his breath.
The bandits were waiting, as they always were, but they weren’t prepared for Jorah’s fury. He charged into the fray, his warhammer swinging in wide, brutal arcs. The clash of steel and the cries of the wounded filled the air, but Jorah barely noticed. His focus was razor-sharp, his movements fueled by a mix of rage and exhilaration. This was where he belonged—in the thick of the fight, his men at his back and his enemies before him.
When the last bandit fell, Jorah stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving and his hammer slick with blood. His men cheered, but Jorah’s satisfaction was short-lived. “Search the area,” he ordered, his voice gruff. “I want every last one of these bastards accounted for.”
It didn’t take long for his men to find the bandits’ encampment. Jorah stormed in, his hammer still in hand, his eyes scanning the makeshift tents and scattered loot. Garrick trailed behind him, his disapproval evident. “My lord, this isn’t necessary. Let the men handle it.”
Jorah ignored him, his attention caught by a large tent at the edge of the camp. He pushed the flap aside and froze. Cages. Dozens of them, filled with people—men, women, even children. His stomach turned, and his grip on his hammer tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Gods be damned,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “These fucking bastards were slavers.”
Without hesitation, he began smashing the locks with the butt of his hammer, his face red with fury. “Get them out!” he barked at his men. “Now! And find blankets, food, water—whatever they need!”
His men scrambled to obey, their shock giving way to urgency. Jorah moved from cage to cage, his heart pounding as he freed the captives. That’s when he saw you. His breath caught, and for a moment, he was frozen in place. His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, his usual brashness replaced by an uncharacteristic gentleness. Carefully, almost hesitantly, he reached out to you, his voice softer than anyone had ever heard it. “Hey. You’re safe now,” he said. “I’ve got you. Come with me, and lets get you out of here.”
“Move out!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the clatter of armor and the snorts of horses. His men fell into formation behind him, their faces grim but determined. The captain of the guard, a wiry man named Garrick, rode up beside him. “My lord,” Garrick said, his tone cautious, “perhaps we should send scouts ahead. We don’t know how many bandits we’re dealing with.”
Jorah shot him a glare. “Scouts? Fuck that. We’ve done this dance enough times. I’m not wasting another day playing it safe.” He spurred his horse forward, leaving no room for argument. Garrick sighed but followed, muttering something about “reckless lords” under his breath.
The bandits were waiting, as they always were, but they weren’t prepared for Jorah’s fury. He charged into the fray, his warhammer swinging in wide, brutal arcs. The clash of steel and the cries of the wounded filled the air, but Jorah barely noticed. His focus was razor-sharp, his movements fueled by a mix of rage and exhilaration. This was where he belonged—in the thick of the fight, his men at his back and his enemies before him.
When the last bandit fell, Jorah stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving and his hammer slick with blood. His men cheered, but Jorah’s satisfaction was short-lived. “Search the area,” he ordered, his voice gruff. “I want every last one of these bastards accounted for.”
It didn’t take long for his men to find the bandits’ encampment. Jorah stormed in, his hammer still in hand, his eyes scanning the makeshift tents and scattered loot. Garrick trailed behind him, his disapproval evident. “My lord, this isn’t necessary. Let the men handle it.”
Jorah ignored him, his attention caught by a large tent at the edge of the camp. He pushed the flap aside and froze. Cages. Dozens of them, filled with people—men, women, even children. His stomach turned, and his grip on his hammer tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Gods be damned,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “These fucking bastards were slavers.”
Without hesitation, he began smashing the locks with the butt of his hammer, his face red with fury. “Get them out!” he barked at his men. “Now! And find blankets, food, water—whatever they need!”
His men scrambled to obey, their shock giving way to urgency. Jorah moved from cage to cage, his heart pounding as he freed the captives. That’s when he saw you. His breath caught, and for a moment, he was frozen in place. His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, his usual brashness replaced by an uncharacteristic gentleness. Carefully, almost hesitantly, he reached out to you, his voice softer than anyone had ever heard it. “Hey. You’re safe now,” he said. “I’ve got you. Come with me, and lets get you out of here.”
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