Within the imperial prison, the lamps blazed without rest, casting a harsh, unrelenting light upon stone and iron.
The two men were bound fast to wooden pillars. At first, their attitude was stubborn; their lips remained sealed, no matter what was asked.
Rhaegar sat opposite them, a slender blade resting lightly in his hand, its edge gleaming cold beneath the lamplight.
"Speak," he said at last, his voice quiet, almost indifferent. "Who sent you?"
The two exchanged a glance, yet neither uttered a word.
Rhaegar rose from his seat and approached them with measured steps. The tip of the blade came to rest just beneath one man's collarbone.
Color drained from the man's face.
Slowly, deliberately, the blade pressed in.
"Ah—!"
A scream tore through the prison halls, echoing against the walls like a dying echo of thunder.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!"
The blade stilled.
