[ There’s a hoarse, snuffling grunt, a strain, and a splintering crunch in the adjacent kitchen. Dust stirs through the open doorway, drifting soft out of the gloom. It’s followed by a crack like bone breaking, sharp and dry, and then a muffled clatter.
The sounds are a problem.
But even the for the faint of heart, the kindling from the fireplace might be worth the risk: it’s already been arranged into a tidy pile at the center of the room, where it stands idle, innocent. The smallest pieces on top are especially tempting. It’s getting dark out. The nights here are cold.
After a moment, the ruckus in the kitchen falls conspicuously silent.
After one more, Jorah Mormont fills the doorway with half a chair dismantled in his arms, war-torn and in medieval-looking leathers. He’s tall and broad, thick in the neck. Old blood has dried into the scruff of his beard. The look on his face is inscrutable.
jorah | a song of ice and fire | action #3
The sounds are a problem.
But even the for the faint of heart, the kindling from the fireplace might be worth the risk: it’s already been arranged into a tidy pile at the center of the room, where it stands idle, innocent. The smallest pieces on top are especially tempting. It’s getting dark out. The nights here are cold.
After a moment, the ruckus in the kitchen falls conspicuously silent.
After one more, Jorah Mormont fills the doorway with half a chair dismantled in his arms, war-torn and in medieval-looking leathers. He’s tall and broad, thick in the neck. Old blood has dried into the scruff of his beard. The look on his face is inscrutable.
Maybe he’s friendly. ]