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The bell signaling the end of training took its sweet time, but Jorah was grateful to finally hear it; dogged professors and poor company aside, there were only so many ways to shoot a stationary target before the exercise got pointless. By the end of it, he was looking up wistfully at birds flying overhead, wondering how much trouble he’d get into if he shot one of them down instead of the targets. 

The news that their next task was debriefing and not breaking for lunch was disheartening, but the blow was softened by the spread of food laid out before them as they found their seats. After having to skip breakfast just to drag himself out of bed in time for training, Jorah was sure his classmates could hear his stomach growl. He wasted no time digging in, assembling a small pile of danishes as well as a few things he didn’t recognize, including what looked like a knot of bread dough with salt and cheese on top that he made a mental note to ask about later. He’d have thrown his feet up on the table if they weren’t seated on [i]benches[/i] - hm, maybe that was on purpose. 

There were a few blissful minutes of silence at the Golden Deer table before the conversation began, punctuated by the soft crunching of crispy pastries and the rapidly escalating drama at the Blue Lion table. Jorah would have been happy to listen and enjoy - man, sounded like Auberon was a little less proper than he let on when one of his housemates disappointed him - but Clarissa soon put an end to that. She introduced their meeting like a member of the Roundtable listing the issues on the docket for the day, and Jorah had to smirk; her father would have been proud to hear her talk like that, even if it made her sound about twenty years older than she was. 

His smirk didn’t stay long, though. It did morph into a warm smile as Clarissa regaled the adventures of their youth, then a confident grin as she - perhaps unwisely - stroked his ego further by lauding his combat prowess. But it faded into a contemplative frown as she got to what must have been the point of her bit: his shortcomings. Jorah wasn’t a man who couldn’t take criticism, not by a long shot - hells, he was usually the one doling it out to himself, often to the laughter of tavern folk and wenches. But that was precisely the problem. He didn’t disagree with a single point Clarissa made; in fact, he’d suggest she skipped over a few important shortcomings that would similarly affect his ability to lead and command to any effect in the real world. He knew his flaws better than anyone, he’d be the first to admit it. 

The problem was that his [i]father[/i] didn’t seem to know them. Sure, the man could never be faulted for being too kind, that was certain; after all, Jorah could scarcely call his father’s smile to mind, but he could probably draw his scowl from memory. But no matter how the Duke lectured him on his wrongdoings, the man never seemed to see the point. Jorah [i]wasn’t[/i] a leader. He never would be. Clarissa hit every nail on the head: the research, the meetings, negotiation, diplomacy, it was all as unnatural and foreign to him as flight to a fish. But Duke Riegan couldn’t accept that. That was the whole reason he was even here. His father had it in his mind that all of his son’s shortcomings, everything holding him back from being an excellent Duke and leader someday, were just the result of laziness and childishness. As if Jorah had a strong leader hidden away inside him that he hid from his father out of spite. 

Jorah hid his scowl with another bite of his bread twist, seething as he chewed. The animus at the next table was probably no help, but it was hard not to feel resentful. Clarissa knew perfectly well why none of the things she mentioned meshed with him. She knew - or at least, she should have known - that leadership wasn’t something he was capable of. His father should have known too, but Jorah had long given up on getting through to him. Sure, adventure called and the responsibility sounded much too heavy for his preference, but it wasn’t [i]just[/i] his flights of fancy that drew him away. Goddess above, he almost [i]died[/i] in Luin because he froze when he should have been aware. He was lucky he didn’t get anyone else killed. He had no mind or patience for strategy, no cunning for negotiation, no brain for matters of economy or finance, nothing. Not to mention that no matter what his father fantasized, his Crest was more curse than blessing - the very same gift that could have made him a skilled negotiator was probably going to get him killed the next time he wasn’t so lucky. But Duke Riegan would push him into those situations again and again, vainly hoping they’d make a responsible nobleman out of him, heedless of the potential cost. He had a perfectly good, smart daughter to train up instead, but no, he couldn’t just accept that Delia was better suited for the Duke’s chair than Jorah was. She had all the qualities he lacked, more like Clarissa than him, but their father’s damned pride wouldn’t let him see that. 

Jorah was largely deaf to most of what was said after that, staring daggers at his danishes until Imogen mentioned his name. Her antics lightened the mood, at least, and her energy pulled at him like a puppy eager to play, and very difficult to ignore. He had to chuckle - if a little coldly - at her mention of the Prince. So the others noticed that, eh? Good, he hoped the Prince noticed it too. Jorah offered Imogen an innocent shrug; he’d accept her advice, but go against it anyway. If the Prince had the nerve to put Clarissa or any of his housemates in danger again, he planned to finish what he wanted to start in Luin and take [i]Princey[/i] out of the fight himself. 

Imogen finished up, and it took a second for Jorah to realize that the expectant gazes around the table probably meant that he was up next. Hm. He suddenly realized that he had no idea what any of them did all day. Welp…

[color=FFAB66]“Ah, right,”[/color] he said quickly, buying a little time by clearing his throat and sitting up in his seat. [color=FFAB66]“Uh… I’ll… second what Imogen said,''[/color] he suggested, finding a thread at last. He looked at Clarissa. [color=FFAB66]“She had a point; your healing is valuable, but - yes I know it’s [i]me[/i] saying this and that’s funny but - don’t go off being reckless. See, if you’re reckless, then [i]I[/i] can’t be reckless, and that just isn’t going to fly.”[/color] He gave Clarissa a wink, although he did decide to be serious for one second. [color=FFAB66]“I’d also say make sure to worry about your housemates first. If someone from another house wants to go and get themselves killed, don’t put yourself in danger to stop them.”[/color] 

Glancing around the table, his eyes landed back on Imogen. [color=FFAB66]“Imogen, uh… your… enthusiasm is great, but you don’t need to decapitate everyone to take them out. You can hurt more people with one punch each than fourteen on the same dead guy, right?”[/color] Goddess in heaven this was weird. See? This was why he didn’t want to do this. Jorah vainly hoped someone would see this disaster and transfer leadership of the Golden Deer over to Clarissa, but something told him the donation his father made to make this happen wouldn’t go down that easily. 

Finally, he tried his hand at Isolde. [color=FFAB66]“Isolde, I’d go with the other two here. You’re brave enough to volunteer to rush into battle, and even fight while you’re there, but a stiff wind won’t take down everything. Your technique is good but if you’re not fighting with some gumption, you’re gonna die.”[/color] 

He gave a less-than-proud smile to the group and quickly returned to his food, hoping they could all put that embarrassing display behind them. Maybe word of it would reach his father and he’d realize this was a lost cause, who knew - Jorah was just eager to get out of this awful “leader” skin suit and get back to doing something he was actually good at. 

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