In the name of God.
The infinitely Compassionate and Merciful.
Praise be to God, Lord of Existence.
The Compassionate.
The Merciful.
King upon the Day of Judgement.
You alone do I worship.
You alone do I beseech.
Guide me upon the right path.
The path of those you have graced.
Not the path of those who have called upon your wrath.
Nor of those who have wandered astray.
Amen.
Those words I spoke, not for the first time since I had found myself within the void of the Black Cells.
Nor did I suspect that they would be the last.
The first few days that had passed in the gaols had been passed without understanding of time's passing. A guard would come irregularly with gruel to feed me, an irregularity such that I could not tell the time that had passed between each.
Time grew malleable, my mind weak as I struggled to sleep amidst the chittering of rats hungry and restless enough to bite me for sustenance, warded off only by the bowls of gruel I sacrificed in an effort to ward off any chance of plague.
For a period, I thought my death was quickly coming, either by plague, rat bite or simply madness.
It was only as I prayed, prayed in the nothingness in which I was ensconced that I had struck upon the plan that I now followed.
At the next visit by my guardsman, I began to pray.
And pray.
And pray.
Not merely out of devotion or piousness, but as a measure of defiance.
A measure by which to break the undiscernable existence I had found myself in.
Islam was unique, in that praying was a more ... active endeavor than the other Abrahamic faiths. I couldn't speak to Buddhism or Hinduism, but I had memories of being at Mass, and none had ever had the complexity of the rakat. Standing up, bowing down, kneeling, prostrating...
All ordered, all in a manner that took a generally unchanging amount of time. I've lost count of how many times I'd prayed with others, and my mind idly counted off the seconds and minutes it would take.
By and large, I was usually right.
Which meant I could tell the time.
To a degree, at least. Seconds and minutes couldn't turn into hours and days immediately, but if I prayed enough, if I mentally counted off as I did so, if I paused to recount and add up those seconds and minutes into the hours and days they would become.
I didn't have water, to commit to the ritual abulations and cleanse by body.
I didn't have a carpet to at least spare myself the uncleanliness that defined my quarters.
But I had the rakat, and through the rakat I would have time.
And through time...
Through time, I had power.
Allah Hu Akbar
--
And suddenly, it no longer mattered.
As if to to cruelly strip away the power I had within my own little world, I had found myself with a visitor for the first time.
One not the biting rats that shared my quarters, nor the surly guards who brought me gruel.
No, one both far more unassuming and more powerful.
In both moniker and reality, amusingly enough.
The Spider of King's Landing.
The Master of Whispers.
"Shelter your eyes Lord Bolton," came his pleasant voice as the harsh light of his torch struck my vision "I imagine you've not seen daylight in-"
"In a month, Lord Varys. A month and some few days."
"A month and two weeks, to be specific. Still, you've managed the passing of time well in here. I take it you've seen me before at court?"
"Yes. I saw you that day in the- well, I saw you there."
"His Grace was most inflamed by your actions before the Iron Throne. You were fortunate that he did not call upon Ser Illyn to render justice."
"Justice," I echoed dully as I shifted in place on the floor of the Black Cell "Justice."
"You did murder a man in cold blood, Lord Bolton. A Kingsguard, no less."
"To call Borros Blount a Kingsguard is a comedy unto itself. Even calling him a knight might prove too farcial for most."
"I was not aware you were so ardent a servant of the precepts of chivalry."
"You may trust that I am not."
"Then why did you kill him? For the Stark girl, perhaps? Lady Sansa's father was your overlord..."
"Sometimes Lord Varys, the simplest answer serves best."
"And that would be?"
"You are free to think on it. Go and do so, and return to me another time."
"My lord?"
"I find myself tired, Lord Varys. Yours is the first company I've enjoyed in weeks, but the torchlight is doing neither my vision and my head any good."
"I ... understand, Lord Bolton. Forgive my intrusion."
"Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Varys."
"And I you, Lord Bolton."
"Please. Call me Roose."
To that he said nothing, only passing me a small clothsack that he held in his hand.
"Some breads and cheeses to fill your belly, and some poultices for any bites or cuts you might have sustained. I had thought to bring you a wine-skin, but I am told you do not care for spirits."
"My thanks."
With that final dismissal, he bowed and made to leave.
Before he did so fully however, he turned my way again.
"You have a few friends in court. Pray that they prevail upon the king to grant you mercy."
"Pray," I echoed back "Pray. Do I seem a godly man, Lord Varys?"
"I cannot say. You interest me, Lord Bolton."
With that he left, the flickering of his torchlight fading away as the great door closed upon me once more.
Darkness again.
Well, darkness and cheese.
And bread.
Six weeks, was it?
Six weeks.
With a sigh, I put aside the cloth sack and made to begin my prayers again.
In the name of God...
--
