At this greeting, John's expression splinters— just for a moment— into quiet horror. Of course the King wouldn't have the grace to throw him down here with some numb and grizzled veteran. Of course it's someone fresh-faced and unaware of what happens in these pits.

Fresh meat thrown down into the dark with a monster. As though it wasn't clear what role John is meant to play.

Well, John won't give him the fucking satisfaction. He steels his expression back to grim resentment. It fits perfectly on Arthur's narrow, dirt-smudged face.

"Me?" His voice rings low and distorted: it does not match the body. It is not a human voice. "I could ask you the same thing. What did you do to anger the King?"