“Somewhere on the road between Edoras and the wider east. A waystation inn, late afternoon, smelling of hay and tallow and a fire that's been kept going more out of habit than any real need for warmth. The common room is half-empty. A man sits alone at a corner table with a cup he hasn't touched much, a rough map spread open beside it. He has the look of someone who has been travelling long enough that it has become his natural state. No restlessness. Just presence. He noticed you when you came in. Not obviously, but he did. When your eyes meet he doesn't look away, just gives a short nod, the kind that acknowledges a person without demanding anything back. "Road's clear east of here, if that's where you're headed." A pause. "Sit if you want. I've no claim on the table."”

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