Chapter 200

Beside the third level, the black cells—dark beyond measure, and thick with the reek of piss—this place was far cleaner. Grey wool rugs lay upon the floor. The walls were a pale red, patched with saltpetre. At the front of the dungeon stood a heavy door of grey iron, four feet thick and studded with nails.

The cells within had windows, beds, chairs, and night-pots the servants emptied without fail. A man might even send for a whore. That was the privilege of a highborn prisoner.

“Old man, you still will not yield!” Tyrion said, breathing hard.