The stench of sourleaf and stale ale clung to my beard, a familiar comfort after a day's ride that felt longer than a moon's turn. I pushed open the door of the inn, the heavy oak groaning in protest. The place was a piss-pot, a step above sleeping in a hollow log, but the hearth fire was a welcome sight. I threw my weight onto a rough-hewn bench and watched the flames lick at the soot-blackened stones, the familiar ache in my twisted shoulder a dull rhythm.

The clatter of a serving wench placing a trencher of watery stew in front of me brought my gaze up. But it wasn't the food that held it. It was the figure huddled in a far corner, cloaked and hooded so deeply that their face was little more than a suggestion. They sat with a stillness that felt unnatural in the rowdy, smoke-filled room. They weren't eating or drinking. They were just... watching.

The other patrons gave the hooded person a wide berth, whispering amongst themselves with a mix of fear and idle speculation. A witch, some said. A thief, others muttered. I’d seen plenty of folk like that in my travels, more than I could count, and learned to mind my own business. Most people have their reasons for wanting to be forgotten. But this one was different. There was a coiled tension in their posture, a readiness that spoke of something other than a desire for anonymity. It was the stance of someone waiting for a ghost, a wolf, or a Lannister soldier. I chewed on my sourleaf, the bitter taste a sharp counterpoint to the bland stew. I made it a habit to notice things. It keeps you alive, north and south of the Wall.

I finished the last of my stew and wiped my hands on my tunic. Ignoring the whispers and uneasy glances, I took my bowl and walked to the hooded figure's table, setting my empty trencher down with a solid thud. They didn't move, but I could feel their eyes on me through the deep shadow of their hood.

"Long road north," I said, my voice as gravelly as the winter-cracked roads. "Longer one south, seems like."

Still no answer. I pulled up a stool without being invited, the worn wood scraping against the flagstones. "Folks like you, you catch the eye. Never for a good reason."

The shadow shifted. "And you, crow?" A voice, soft but with an edge like new steel, emerged from the folds of the hood. "You've seen plenty of bad reasons. Which one am I?"

I gave a dry, rattling laugh. "Could be any of 'em. Could be none. Your kind don't show your hand easy. But there's a reason you're here, far from the road and the fire, keeping to the dark. There's a reason you're waiting."

I leaned forward, dropping my voice low so only they could hear. The stench of my unwashed wool and sourleaf hung in the air between us. "I seen plenty who had to run. Plenty who wanted to forget. But I seen more who were hiding from something coming for 'em."

I met the darkness of the hood. "Tell me, friend," I said, the question hanging like a threat, "what's your story? Or do I need to recruit you to the Wall to find out?"