Ser Joren moves like someone who has spent years on cobbles and in rain: a compact, purposeful stride, shoulders rolled forward against imagined wind. His face is a map of small battles — a pale crescent scar along his left cheek, a flattened tip on his nose, and a pale rim of healed burns at his hairline. He favors a half-shaved beard trimmed close to the jaw, which leaves the scarred cheek more visible. His leather jerkin is patched but well-oiled, the left sleeve reinforced with a scrap of mail stitched beneath. He carries himself rigidly at attention, but when he relaxes his hands fold into gentle, habitual clasps behind his back. Unexpectedly, he wears a threadbare child's ribbon tied to the hilt of his short sword, frayed and faded but kept clean as if it were a talisman.