The dungeons of the The Red Keep were known as the Black Cells.
It was perpetually dark there, never seeing the light of day.
The thick, tangible stench of mold, excrement, and the sour decay of despair seemed to cling to one's nose and mouth, filling the mind with its oppressive presence.
In a corner, several ragged prisoners lay like a pile of carelessly discarded refuse.
They were curled up on mildewed straw, emitting intermittent groans.
A man, out of place, sat quietly in the darkest corner, blending into the shadows.
He wore a grey prisoner's uniform and had an ordinary face.
He was the type who would never be noticed in the most crowded parts of Flea Bottom.
He sat with his eyes closed, his breathing steady, as if he were in the The Citadel library in Oldtown, not this living hell.
Jaqen H'ghar.
A Faceless Man.
He was "listening."
Listening to the rhythm of water droplets falling from the stone ceiling.
Listening to the rustling footsteps of rats beneath the straw.
Listening to the delirious mutterings of a murderer in the adjacent cell, suffering from an infected wound.
Just then, a heavy footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.
The footsteps were neither hurried nor slow, carrying a strange sense of weight, each step pressing on the Black Cells' oppressive, fragile pulse.
The prisoners, who had been groaning moments before, instantly fell silent, like a startled group of mice.
Jaqen slowly opened his eyes.
The person arriving was not one of those corpulent jailers who lived by extracting the last bit of value from prisoners.
The light of an oil lamp pierced the darkness.
A tall, burly figure appeared outside the cell.
The man wore black leather armor, and a plain longsword hung at his waist.
He was around forty years old, and his thick beard was already streaked with grey.
His eyes were the color of a Northern winter sky, grey and overcast, yet radiating a chill that could freeze a man solid.
His name was Gared.
He was once a Guard of House Stark.
He had followed Ned south to King's Landing, and after Ned and Lynn successfully took control of the Gold Cloaks, Ned had him placed in the Black Cells.
House Stark was no longer the outsider without any foundation it once was.
The The Red Keep, and even all of King's Landing, in various places, even private properties, had people placed by Ned and Lynn.
These people included Guard, attendants, and servants... and Gared was now the nominal warden of these Black Cells.
Everyone who committed a crime had to pass through his hands.
Gared's grey eyes swept over every person in the cell.
His gaze was not like looking at prisoners, but more like a butcher examining livestock about to be slaughtered.
"Listen up, all of you."
Gared's voice was low, carrying an unmistakable Northern accent.
"There's a job."
He was concise, without a single wasted word.
"A very difficult job."
"But if you pull it off, the gold you want, women, even freedom... all of it will be easily yours."
"But if you mess it up..."
Gared paused, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
"You'll die a uglier death than the rats in this cell."
The cell was as silent as death.
A few prisoners exchanged glances.
They were all desperate men who lived by the sword, wary of such "good fortune" that sounded like a trap.
A burly man with a scar across his face and one missing ear licked his chapped lips and asked in a hoarse voice, made rough by prolonged dehydration.
"What kind of job? Killing?"
This was a task he was very familiar with.
Because the Black Cells were the best team of assassins for those lords.
Although the average quality of people here was low, there were quite a few "experts" imprisoned.
The nobles controlled their freedom.
And they just needed to obey and do the work.
This was commonplace here, and no one bothered to hide it.
Succeeding meant gaining freedom, a matter understood by all.
Gared's gaze fell on him.
The look made the scarred man instinctively recoil his neck.
"Robert Baratheon."
When that name left Gared's lips, the entire Black Cells seemed to be under some silent spell.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment.
The expressions on the prisoners' faces were extremely varied.
From astonishment to fear, then to a sense of absurdity.
Assassinate the King?
Assassinate the King of the Seven Kingdoms within the impregnable The Red Keep?
This wasn't a job!
Don't doubt it, this was suicide!
After a brief, deathly silence, the cell erupted in laughter.
"Hahahahaha! You're fucking crazy!"
"Kill the King? With just a few rotten guys like us?"
"This is the funniest joke I've ever heard in my life!"
The scarred man laughed until tears streamed down his face.
He pointed at Gared, gasping for breath as he spoke.
"Brother, if you want to die, don't drag us with you!"
"I want to live a few more years, damn it!"
"Even if it's just wasting away at The Wall, that's fine."
Gared didn't laugh; he just looked coldly at these scumbags who thought they were clever.
His silence gradually quelled the laughter.
The prisoners finally realized that this brainless brute in front of them didn't seem to be joking.
Jaqen had remained silent the entire time.
He just watched quietly, analyzing.
Assassinate the King?
The task itself revealed too much information.
The power behind a plot daring enough to be orchestrated in King's Landing must not be underestimated.
Who was it?
Considering this burly man with a distinct Northern accent.
Was it the new Northern noble, Lynn, who had just been pushed to the brink?
Or House Stark, who had nearly come to blows with the King?
Or perhaps... those cunning individuals hidden deeper within?
Jaqen's gaze fell on Gared.
This Northerner didn't seem like a schemer capable of devising such a plan.
He was more like a knife.
A knife held in someone else's hand.
He needed to know who held the hand that wielded this knife.
"Someone is somewhat interested."
A calm voice resonated in the noisy cell.
Everyone's eyes simultaneously turned to the corner that had been silent all along.
Jaqen slowly stood up.
His movements were not fast, yet they possessed a feline grace and fluidity.
He walked to the bars, meeting Gared's gaze through the cold iron.
"But, someone must know who his employer is."
Jaqen's voice was devoid of any emotional fluctuation.
"That is the rule."
Gared looked at the unassuming man before him.
From this man, he sensed an aura completely different from the other prisoners.
It wasn't the madness of a desperado, nor the sneakiness of a thief.
It was a... profound danger.
Gared knew that this might be the kind of person Lady Sansa was looking for.
"You want to know who the client is?"
Gared grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.
"Who do you think you are?"
"This job isn't for just anyone who wants it."
He glanced around at the eager desperadoes in the cell.
"You're not the only one who wants this job."
"Of course, whether you want to or not, you all must take this job."
"I don't want you running around the world blabbing with your foul mouths."
"The client's identity is only for those who survive to know."
"Survive?"
The scarred man keenly picked up on that word.
"Exactly."
Gared's smile grew even colder.
"Tomorrow morning, all of you will be 'escorted' out of the city."
"Don't ask why everyone has to participate."
"The road to the docks is long, and some... accidents might happen along the way."
"That large prisoner wagon has limited space."
"Ultimately, only one 'lucky one' will make it to the destination alive."
"And only that person will be qualified to meet the client."
"You all must participate."
Gared's words instantly shattered the facade of peace in the cell.
All the prisoners' breathing grew heavy.
The pity they once held for each other as fellow captives was gone from their eyes.
Only primal greed and naked Murderous intent remained.
Yesterday's "good brothers" who shared a bowl of sour porridge were now mortal enemies.
This was a pre-arranged, bloody "interview."
A carnival belonging solely to assassins.
Simple, brutal, yet incredibly effective.
The one who survived this melee would undoubtedly be the most cunning, most vicious, and most powerful among them.
And only such a person would be qualified to carry out the task of assassinating the King.
Jaqen looked at his companions, who had instantly turned into beasts, with no expression on his face.
He just tilted his head slightly, looking at Gared, as if confirming something.
Gared nodded at him, a hint of approval in his grey eyes.
Jaqen turned and walked back to his corner, sat down again, and closed his eyes.
As if everything that had just happened had nothing to do with him.
"Remember, prepare food for them tomorrow morning, so they can regain some strength."
After giving instructions to his subordinates, Gared didn't linger.
He carried the oil lamp and disappeared into the darkness at the end of the corridor.
After he left, the cell fell into an eerie, deathly silence.
In the air, murderous intent silently spread and fermented.
The scarred man stared fixedly at Jaqen's back, his eyes flashing with ferocity.
The other prisoners also began to subtly distance themselves, warily eyeing everyone around them.
The Black Cells had become a small gladiatorial arena.
And they were the gladiators, about to slaughter each other for a vague, ephemeral opportunity.
The night was still long.
But for most of them, they would not see the sun rise tomorrow.
Because there could only be one victor.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898