A Feast for Dragons

almost mistook you for Aegon the Conqueror,” Jaime
had answered. “Waters” was a common bastard name about
Blackwater
Bay
;
old Longwaters was more like to be descended from some minor household knight
than from a princess. “As it matters, though, I have more pressing concerns
than your lineage.”
    Longwaters inclined his head. “The lost prisoner.”
    “And the missing gaoler.”
    “Rugen,” the old man supplied. “An undergaoler. He had
charge of the third level, the black cells.”
    “Tell me of him,” Jaime had to say. A bloody farce. He knew who Rugen was, even if Longwaters did not.
    “Unkempt, unshaven, coarse of speech. I misliked the man,
’tis true, I do confess it. Rugen was here when I first came, twelve years
past. He held his appointment from King Aerys. The man was seldom here, it must
be said. I made note of it in my reports, my lord. I most suredly did, I give
you my word upon it, the word of a man with royal blood.”
    Mention that royal blood once more and I may spill some of
it, thought Jaime. “Who saw these reports?”
    “Certain of them went to the master of coin, others to the
master of whisperers. All to the chief gaoler and the King’s Justice. It has
always been so in the dungeons.” Longwaters scratched his nose. “Rugen was here
when need be, my lord. That must be said. The black cells are little used.
Before your lordship’s little brother was sent down, we had Grand Maester
Pycelle for a time, and before him Lord Stark the traitor. There were three
others, common men, but Lord Stark gave them to the Night’s Watch. I did not
think it good to free those three, but the papers were in proper order. I made
note of that in a report as well, you may be certain of it.”
    “Tell me of the two gaolers who went to sleep.”
    “Gaolers?” Longwaters sniffed. “Those were no gaolers. They
were merely turnkeys. The crown pays wages for twenty turnkeys, my lord,
a full score, but during my time we have never had more than twelve. We are supposed
to have six undergaolers as well, two on each level, but there are only the
three.”
    “You and two others?”
    Longwaters sniffed again. “I am the chief undergaoler,
my lord. I am above the undergaolers. I am charged with keeping the
counts. If my lord would like to look over my books, he will see that all the
figures are exact.” Longwaters had consulted the great leather-bound book
spread out before him. “At present, we have four prisoners on the first level
and one on the second, in addition to your lordship’s brother.” The old man
frowned. “Who is fled, to be sure. ’Tis true. I will strike him out.” He took
up a quill and began to sharpen it.
    Six prisoners, Jaime thought sourly, while we pay wages for
twenty turnkeys, six undergaolers, a chief undergaoler, a gaoler, and a King’s
Justice. “I want to question these two turnkeys.”
    Rennifer Longwaters let up sharpening his quill and peered
doubtfully up at Jaime. “Question them, my lord?”
    “You heard me.”
    “I did, my lord, I suredly did, and yet . . . my lord may
question who he pleases, ’tis true, it is not my place to say that he may not.
But, ser, if I may be so bold, I do not think them like to answer. They are
dead, my lord.”
    “ Dead? By whose command?”
    “Your own, I thought, or . . . the king’s, mayhaps? I did
not ask. It . . . it is not my place to question the Kingsguard.”
    That was salt for his wound; Cersei had used his own men to
do her bloody work, them and her precious Kettleblacks.
    “You witless fools,” Jaime had snarled at Boros Blount and
Osmund Kettleblack later, in a dungeon that stank of blood and death. “What did
you imagine you were doing?”
    “No more’n we was told, my lord.” Ser Boros was shorter than
Jaime, but heavier. “Her Grace commanded it. Your sister.”
    Ser Osmund hooked a thumb through his swordbelt. “She said
they were to sleep forever. So my brothers and me, we saw to it.”
    That you did. One corpse sprawled facedown upon the
table, like a man passed out at a feast, but it was a puddle of blood beneath
his head, not a puddle of wine. The second turnkey had managed to push back
from the bench and draw his dagger before someone shoved a longsword through
his ribs. His had been the longer, messier end. I told Varys no one was to
be harmed in this escape, Jaime thought, but I should have told my
brother and my sister. “This was ill done, ser.”
    Ser Osmund shrugged. “They won’t