He can feel the eyes on him-- a few faces from the scant crowd looking up for more than a moment. He doesn't recognize any he sees, but he's not looking. Would be surprised if any of them recognized him. Especially now. Winter loves like a forge, like ice. Preserves you and remakes you. And this body-- it's what's he's fashioned, through memory and trial. And besides, he was a ghost long before he was dead. A Warden. A grey cloak. Someone they never hoped to meet.

But that one. The face he was expecting. Right where he always was. That one knows him. He smiles a little, lips twitching. It's been a long time. It's nice to be back. No matter how this goes.

He makes his way across the floor, the fan blades whirring above his head, around the solid, carved pillars. Takes a seat on a barstool. “McAnally.”