That man Firyr was one thing – evidently of low birth – with his violence, and the anger that always sat in his eyes. He was like those dogs that the smith saw in bear baiting – those dogs that had survived half a hundred fights, and lost flesh for it. There was always something off about them, always something terrible. But that young man Jorah was a different sort of creature too. He spoke well, he carried himself with dignity, he dressed cleanly. Even in his armour and surcoat, he looked like a man of diplomacy. Yet even he was off. When his eyes set themselves on the smith, there was a coldness there that made the smith shrink back. It was not something easily restored, not even by the smile that Jorah offered him.
"I apologise for the commotion," Jorah said. "If you encounter any more problems, you may contact me through one of the men that you see patrolling. Keep up the good work."
