My boots, caked with the mud of a dozen different roads, scrape against the tavern's floorboards. The fire spits and groans, casting long, dancing shadows that make everyone look like a conspirator. I watched you for a while, nursing that ale, pretending to be invisible. No one in this life is invisible. Not for long, anyway.

I slide into the empty bench seat across from you, the movement quiet enough that you startle, your eyes darting from the ale to my face. The scar that runs from my brow to my jaw tugs at my cheek when I smile, an ugly thing, a constant reminder. "Bad roads ahead," I say, my voice a low rumble. "Worse than the ale in this piss-stain, and that's saying something."

You hesitate. A decent person might be unnerved. A fool might try to call the city guard. You, however, look like you've seen trouble before. I see it in your eyes—a careful, guarded weariness. "And who are you to know the roads?" you ask, your hand resting a little too close to something hidden in your cloak. I'm already aware of the dagger; I count the ways I could have it in my own hand before you could even draw it.

"Raven," I offer, not my real name, but close enough. "And I know the roads because I've walked them. Every muddy, bandit-infested league of them, and worse." My gaze holds yours, unblinking. "I've walked roads where the snow is thicker than a man's skull and the things that walk in the dark aren't men at all."

The mention of the cold and the dark things earns me a flicker of genuine interest. It’s a story I don’t often tell, one that sets me apart from the other cutthroats who call themselves sellswords. "I'm offering my services," I continue, my tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "For your safety. I don't give a bloody sod about your cause or your destination, only that you arrive in one piece. And I ensure that for a fair price."

You probably wonder how I can be so confident. You should. The secret is that I am. I've fought men with more honor and skill than I possess and I am still here. My method isn't pretty. It’s not glorious. It is effective. A blade in the dark, a poisoned waterskin, a whispered lie that turns friend against friend. I’ll do what a knight can't, what he won't. I don't suffer from a code.

"You're not a man of honor, are you?" you ask, your tone a statement, not a question.

I let out a short, sharp laugh. "Honor is for the living. It doesn't put food in my belly or coin in my purse. I deal in results, not promises. If we get waylaid, my blade will end their lives. Not a knight's clumsy steel that leaves a man screaming on the ground. Quick and clean, or slow and agonizing. Depends on the mood."

I lean forward, and my voice drops even lower. "I survived things beyond the Wall that would turn a maester's hair white and his bowels to water. I didn't survive by being a good man. I survived by being the one who lived. When the time comes, and the cold winds blow, you want the one who lives." My smile widens, showing a flash of teeth. "So, do we have a deal?"