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The dungeons of the Red Keep were known as the "black cells."
Here, the sun was never seen.
The sour, rotten smell of mold, excrement, and despair was thick enough to be substantial.
As if it could paste over a person's nose and mouth, filling their mind with nothing but this smell.
In the corner, several ragged prisoners were like a pile of discarded trash.
They curled up on moldy straw, emitting intermittent moans.
And a man who seemed out of place sat quietly in the darkest corner, merging with the shadows.
He wore a grey prisoner's outfit, his face ordinary.
The type that, thrown into the most crowded throng of Flea Bottom, would never earn a second glance.
His eyes were closed, breathing steady, as if he were in the library of the Citadel in Oldtown, not this hell on earth.
Jaqen H'ghar.
A Faceless Man.
He was "listening."
Listening to the rhythm of water droplets falling from the top of the stone wall.
Listening to the rustling footsteps of rats under the straw.
Listening to the delirium of the murderer in the next cell due to wound infection.
Just then, heavy footsteps came from the end of the corridor.
The footsteps were unhurried, carrying a strange sense of weight; every step trod on the oppressive and fragile pulse of the black cells.
The prisoners who were moaning instantly fell silent, exactly like a group of frightened rats.
Jaqen slowly opened his eyes.
The comer wasn't one of those fat-brained gaolers living by squeezing the last bit of value from prisoners.
The light of an oil lamp pierced the darkness.
A tall and burly figure appeared outside the cell.
The man wore black leather armor, a plain longsword hanging at his waist.
He was about forty, a thick beard already mixed with some grey.
Those eyes were the color of the Northern winter sky, grey and hazy, yet revealing a chill that could freeze a person stiff.
His name was Garth.
Once a guardsman of House Stark.
Followed Ned south to King's Landing, later when Ned and Lynn seized power over the Gold Cloaks successfully, he was placed in the black cells by Ned.
The current House Stark was no longer the rootless outsider from before.
In the Red Keep and even the entire King's Landing, various places, even private businesses, had people placed by Ned and Lynn.
Among these people were guards, squires, and servants...
And Garth was now the nominal warden of these black cells.
Everyone who committed a crime had to pass through his hands.
Garth's grey eyes swept over everyone in the cell.
The gaze wasn't like looking at prisoners, more like a butcher examining livestock about to be slaughtered.
"Listen up, all of you."
Garth's voice was low, carrying a lingering Northern accent.
"There's a job."
He was concise, without half a sentence of nonsense.
"A very difficult job."
"But if done, the gold, women, even freedom you want... can be obtained easily."
"If you mess it up..."
Garth paused, a cruel smile appearing on his face.
"You'll die uglier than the rats in this cell."
Deathly silence in the cell.
Several prisoners exchanged glances.
They were desperadoes licking blood on knife edges, full of vigilance towards such "good things" that sounded like traps.
A burly man with a scar on his face, missing an ear, licked his chapped lips and asked in a voice hoarse from long-term dehydration.
"What job? Killing someone?"
He was familiar with this.
Because the black cells were the best team of killers for those lords.
Although the average quality here was low, there was no lack of "good hands" imprisoned.
The nobles were responsible for controlling their freedom.
And they, just needed to obey and work.
This was a common occurrence here, and no one deliberately hid it.
Doing well meant gaining freedom; everyone tacitly understood.
Garth's gaze fell on him.
That look made Scarface instinctively shrink his neck.
"Robert Baratheon."
When this name was spat from Garth's mouth, the entire black cells seemed to be cast with some silencing magic.
Time seemed to freeze at this moment.
The expressions on the prisoners' faces were extremely colorful.
From astonishment to fear, then to a kind of absurdity.
Assassinate the King?
In the impregnable Red Keep, assassinate the King of the Seven Kingdoms?
This isn't a fucking job!
Don't doubt it; this is seeking death!
After a brief dead silence, roars of laughter erupted in the cell.
"Hahahaha! Are you fucking crazy!"
"Kill the King? Just with us rotten people?"
"This is the funniest joke I've heard in my life!"
Scarface laughed until tears flowed.
He pointed at Garth, speaking breathlessly.
"Brother, if you want to die, don't drag us along!"
"I fucking want to live a few more years!"
"Even rotting and dying at the Wall is fine."
Garth didn't laugh; he just looked coldly at this group of self-righteous scum.
His silence made the laughter gradually subside.
The prisoners finally realized that this brainless brute before them didn't seem to be joking.
Jaqen hadn't spoken all along.
He just watched quietly, analyzing.
Assassinate the King?
This task itself revealed too much information.
Daring to plan such an operation in King's Landing, the power behind the scenes was absolutely not to be underestimated.
Who was it?
Combining with this burly man obviously carrying a Northern accent.
Was it that Northern upstart just driven to a dead end, Lynn?
Or the House Stark that almost tore up relations with the King?
Or... those cunning ones hidden deeper?
Jaqen's gaze fell on Garth.
This Northman didn't look like a conspirator capable of coming up with such a plan.
He was more like a knife.
A knife held in someone else's hand.
He needed to know who the master holding this knife belonged to.
"A man has some interest."
A calm voice sounded in the noisy cell.
Everyone's gaze turned in unison to that corner silent all along.
Jaqen stood up slowly.
His movements weren't fast, but carried a feline elegance and fluidity.
He walked to the bars, looking at Garth through the cold iron bars.
"But, a man must know who his employer is."
There was no emotional fluctuation in Jaqen's voice.
"This is the rule."
Garth looked at this unremarkable man before him.
He felt an aura from this man completely different from other prisoners.
That wasn't the madness of a desperado, nor the wretchedness of a thief.
It was a... extreme danger.
Garth knew perhaps what Lady Sansa was looking for was such a person.
"You want to know who the employer is?"
Garth grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
"Who do you think you are?"
"This job isn't something anyone can take just because they want to."
He looked around at the eager desperadoes in the cell.
"More than one person wants to take the job."
"Of course, whether you take it or not, you all must participate in this matter."
"I don't want you running around the world with loose lips."
"The identity of the employer, only the one who survives till the end is qualified to know."
"Survive?"
Scarface keenly caught this word.
"Exactly."
The smile on Garth's face grew colder.
"Tomorrow morning, all of you will be 'escorted' out of the city."
"Don't ask why everyone must participate."
"The road to the docks is long; some... accidents might happen on the way."
"That big cage cart has limited space."
"In the end, only one 'lucky one' can arrive at the destination alive."
"And that person is qualified to see the employer."
"You all must participate."
Garth's words instantly pierced the hypocritical peace in the cell.
All prisoners' breathing became heavy.
The look they gave each other no longer held the pity of fellow prisoners.
Only the most primitive greed and the most naked killing intent remained.
"Good brothers" who shared a bowl of rancid porridge yesterday had now become enemies who wouldn't rest until one was dead.
This was a bloody "interview" marked out.
A carnival belonging only to assassins.
Simple, brutal, yet incredibly effective.
The one who could survive this chaotic battle must be the most cunning, most vicious, strongest one among them.
Only such a person was qualified to execute the mission of assassinating the King.
Jaqen looked at the companions around him who turned into beasts instantly, no expression on his face.
He just turned his head slightly, looking at Garth, seeming to confirm something.
Garth nodded to him, a trace of approval in his grey eyes.
Jaqen turned and walked back to the corner, sat down again, and closed his eyes.
As if everything that happened just now had nothing to do with him.
"Remember, prepare food for them tomorrow morning, let them recover some strength."
After arranging his subordinates, Garth didn't stay.
Carrying the oil lamp, he turned and disappeared at the end of the dark corridor.
After he left, the cell fell into a strange dead silence.
In the air, killing intent spread silently, fermenting.
Scarface stared fixedly at Jaqen's back, fierce light flashing in his eyes.
Other prisoners also began to pull away quietly, vigilantly sizing up everyone around them.
The black cell turned into a small colosseum.
And they were the gladiators about to kill each other for an illusory opportunity.
The night was still long.
But for most of them, they wouldn't see tomorrow's sun.
Because there could only be one winner.