The cell proved warmer than Vilon could ever have imagined a dungeon might be. Dungeons, by every tale he'd ever heard told around a fire, were meant to be cold, damp places crawling with rats, echoing with the moans of men who had nothing left ahead of them but a noose or a torture chamber, and precious little hope of seeing either the sun or the Five again before he turned a corpse.
Perhaps that was the difference, he reasoned. This was no proper dungeon. Merely a holding cell.
Had Ser Not So Smart Harbert actually died from that unfortunate meeting with a chair, perhaps this would indeed have been a proper dungeon, and Vilon would have had considerably more to fear than a chill in his bones.
