A large mottled rat sat on its haunches across the straw-strewn floor of the cell. Its whiskers twitched in the stale and stagnant air; the light from the lantern glinted off its eyes, like little black beads on a woman's gown.
Gareth leaned forward on his knees, shifting his weight on the narrow plank that served as a bench and a bed in the finer wings of the prison. It was not altogether unpleasant - the room was dry and of moderate warmth, for a Northron man at least. He watched the rat nose around the straw, futilely sifting through the detritus for some morsel of food. It struck him that the situation with Aenyris' death was much similar; the Lord Hand a rat desperately looking for some kind of clue, enough to pick up anything that looked even like the shadow of possibility.
Even if that morsel was poisoned.
The regent crown was put on very shaky ground, throwing accusations in every direction and making enemies of those they needed as allies. It was easy to see why asperisions would be cast towards his house, with their grim reputation - but Elia of Dorne?
Gareth had asked to see the Master of Whispers, the Hand was too ill of late it seemed and had declined his invitation. He was curious as to the body of the accusations raised against them.