The dungeons beneath the Red Keep were known as the Black Cells.
Sunlight never reached this place.
The sour stench of mold, excrement, and despair was thick enough to feel solid.
It seemed to clog the mouth and nose, until the smell was all anyone could think about.
In a corner, several ragged prisoners lay like a heap of carelessly discarded rubbish.
They huddled on moldy straw, groaning fitfully.
One man, utterly out of place, sat quietly in the darkest corner, blending into the shadows.
He wore gray prison clothes and had an unremarkable face.
The sort of man who would not earn a second glance even in the thickest crowds of Flea Bottom.
His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, as though he were in the Citadel's library in Oldtown rather than this hell on earth.
Jaqen H'ghar.
One of the Faceless Men.
He was "listening."
Listening to the rhythm of water dripping from the top of the stone wall.
Listening to the rustle of rats beneath the straw.
Listening to the delirious muttering of the murderer in the next cell, whose wounds had become infected.
Just then, heavy footsteps sounded from the end of the corridor.
They were unhurried, carrying a peculiar weight, each step falling upon the stifled, fragile pulse of the Black Cells.
The groaning prisoners instantly fell silent, like a pack of startled rats.
Jaqen slowly opened his eyes.
The newcomer was not one of those fat, complacent gaolers who made their living squeezing the last scraps of value out of prisoners.
The light of an oil lamp pierced the darkness.
A tall, burly figure appeared outside the cell.
The man wore black leather armor, with a plain longsword hanging at his waist.
He was around forty, his thick beard already streaked with gray.
His