It was not the demon’s face branded upon Jorah Mormont’s cheek at which Daenerys stared, but the shame that burned in his eyes as he forced himself to meet her gaze in a mummer’s farce of the old pride he’d used to wear so freely in her presence.
Here he stands. An escaped slave, yet he is not truly free. She pressed her palm to his scarred flesh, covering the mark. I shall break his chains, she thought, and kissed him for the second time.
Jorah had tasted the bitterness of slavery, but she found his mouth was still sweet.