Early the next morning, before dawn.
The air in the Black Cells was heavier than the day before, every mote of dust steeped in the bloodshed to come.
Everyone was drinking sour porridge. Only Jaqen remained unmoved.
Soon, the prisoners were roughly driven from their cells.
To keep them from talking, stones were stuffed into their mouths and secured with black cloth. Then, like livestock bound for slaughter, they were crammed into a massive, sturdy prison wagon.
It was less a wagon than a great iron cage on wheels.
Garth stood outside it, his face bearing the stern resolve characteristic of men from the North, yet showing no expression.
He merely watched the twisted faces inside the cage with a cold gaze.
"Good luck."
With that,
he waved a hand.
The wheels creaked over the stone paving as the wagon headed toward the docks outside King's Landing.
Inside the prison wagon, there was a deathly silence.
Everyone was poised to strike, staring hard at those around them, searching for the first opening.
The burly man with the scarred face considered himself the strongest among them.
He slowly rose, trying to intimidate the others with his towering frame.
Jaqen remained huddled in the least conspicuous corner.
His eyes were closed, as though nothing around him concerned him.
Just as the scar-faced man was about to attack the scrawny prisoner nearest him, a sudden wave of dizziness struck.
The scene before his eyes began to spin, and his body stopped obeying him.
Thud.
The scar-faced man crashed to the floor.
His body began convulsing violently, white foam spilling from his mouth.
His collapse was like a signal.
One after another, the other prisoners in the wagon began showing the same symptoms.
They fell in succession, like wheat beneath a scythe.
Each writhed