A cell of stone bricks, lit by meager torchlight. The floor covered in dust and stray tufts of straw and fur from the shedding dog. A wooden table, old, worn, and scarred. Upon it lay a rusty dagger and a single apple turning red. A sturdy chair, with a groove worn into it from years of being sat upon.
Musty air, smelling of earth and smoke, tasting of dust. The crackle of fire from a torch. The contented sigh of the dog. The sound of footsteps on cobble, and keys jangling loosely. Somewhere, a cat purrs and pads softly down the hall.