>>6227311And while you suffer, the Black Cells move around you. The Whispering Man offers no riddles now, only breath and silence. Perhaps he senses your condition. Perhaps he waits for your strength to return. The Inkleaver hums softly. A sailor's dirge. He paces when the guards come, slow as a bear in a too-small cage, and sometimes growls under his breath about gods who see nothing. Old Man Tom, on the far side, scratches the stones with his nails. Seven times a day. Seven scratches. Seven murmured names. One day he says, “You missed your chance, wolf. Miss too many more and you'll be bones in the dark like the rest.”
The walls speak more than the prisoners do. But each hour you cannot plan is a blade against your throat.
You start to measure your failure in footsteps. The guards walk by. You don’t watch them. Can’t. The clink of keys you meant to memorize? Lost. The belt with the hidden dagger? Forgotten. You were supposed to study their hands, their habits. Instead you count cracks in the wall. You hear the iron door close and realize, too late, that you didn’t even see which way the patrol turned.
Time, you realize, is the only coin in this place. And you are spending yours on healing. Worse: others are not.
One day - three sleeps after you collapsed, or four - you hear more than one set of boots. The sound of many guards.
Then a voice, unmistakable: smooth, sharp, and amused.
“Well now, what’s the charge? Being too charming for the Queen’s liking? Come now, lads, you needn’t-”
A grunt. A blow.
“I do know people. Important ones. Highborn. One word and you’ll be promoted to the Lord Commander of -agh! Seven hells, be careful! This coat’s worth more than your sergeant’s horse!”
Metal rattles. A door opens near you. The guards do not speak.
“Wait. Wait, I have coin. Stashed where no one would think to look. I can tell you - listen to me-listen to me! You don't want to do this. I'm worth more alive.”
Chains drag. He passes your cell. Gulian of Gulltown, you know by now. Hair askew, lips split, still smiling despite it. Then the mask slips. His voice drops, desperate now.
“You bastards. I have names. Varys-Varys himself knows me. Ask him! ASK HIM, YOU GODSFORSAKEN WHORES--”
The words vanish into echo. And then he is gone. The cell door slams. The boots fade.
Judgment has come for someone. Soon it may come again.
No one speaks for a long while. Then-
