A level glance. She's as tired of this shit as he is; it's not what either of them were made for. Wren suspects that's exactly the point.

Dryly,

"It is not about the supplies, Ser Ashlock." She stoops low — the trouble of being nearly a head taller than most hereabout — squinting to compare the sketch to a rock on the horizon. "The war may be gone of these hills, but the people are not so quick to forget."

The Inquisition is a welcome presence. It brings money, supplies, stability. The remains of the Order? Less so. A short gesture upwards, to the dimming light.

"The innkeep will make most of his coin in the next few hours. He wanted us gone for them."