A gale of laughter echoed down the narrow passage that was the only visible entrance—and, by extension, the only exit—to the crudely excavated holding cell. The catacomb was constructed such that no more than one could squeeze through the tunnel at a time, and moreover those within were not afforded sight of the area beyond whereas any who passed by could look in as they pleased. Barely a quarter of the uncomfortably small recess was made available to its prisoner, surrounded by undeveloped cave walls and craggy earth and closed off by heavy bars of steel. Five torches hung at regular intervals around the 'walls' that never went out, making restful sleep all but impossible.
Covered in blood and human filth, Monterys sat lethargically in miserable discomfort, expecting the chattering footfalls to fade away. Peace was the least that he could be had, with the rest of the castle aroused by what appeared to be some sort of a festivity. But the two gold cloaks, smelling of grease and spiced wine, came stumbling in one after the other and were soon busy at their usual mockery and derision. Monterys paid their incoherent slurs little mind, savouring a rather smug satisfaction in that neither dared to tread too close to his cage after what had happened to the last man who had dared to do so. His mind had been robbed of its memories, but his body retained much that frequently marvelled even himself.
His jaws hardened as the guards tossed what remained of their beverage at him, drenching him cold against the chilled underground air. He made no indication of having felt it, however—he refused to give them the satisfaction of his acknowledgement. After testing out a handful more gibes to no effect, the drunk knights lost interest and retreated into the darkness beyond.
When he had first heard that he was an enemy of the King wanted the land over, he had been hard pressed to believe it. When he'd seen what he was capable of, he'd believed it, but he'd also been riddled with a profound sense of remorse and guilt. When he'd seen what the Kingsguard was capable of, however, he could not only believe, but truly understand, why he had chosen to stand against the law. And at that moment of epiphany, he had been overcome with a burning desire to live, to survive not only for himself but for all those who ever placed their hope and faith in the Alliance. Silently, he rearranged the soiled pieces of straw and settled back down in no more comfort than before. The best thing to be done, he'd found, was to close himself off completely. His body may be trapped, but his mind was free and no one could take away that freedom. He could distance himself, almost as though he were a separate person detached entirely from the poor man suffering in this damp prison. In that state of mind, no amount of beating in the world could hurt him. It was largely an exercise in imagination. For the past week, he had been sailing across the Narrow Seas from a journey that had begun in the Free Cities. Now he was at the Neck, listening to the Green Fork trickling serenely by him as he rested atop a boulder. A raven had stolen a day's ration earlier in the day, which had set him in foul mood for a while. But he had also chanced on a fowl in the afternoon and smoked it to perfection. What a meal that had been!
He was still thinking about the juicy tenderness of the meat when his ears detected another set of footfall approaching, but the sound was far away and muted as though it were happening to someone else. Unable to think of any that might bear him with good news, he simply tuned it out. Let them cry out their insults. Let them throw stones his way. Let them take out all of their anger and tension of the day on him. He would feel none of it.