The Red Keep. The Cellars.
"You there! What is your business here?"
The sharp challenge rang out just as Jon—wearing the borrowed face of Jory Cassel—hesitated before the iron-studded doors of the lower vaults.
Jon and the Stark guards turned in unison. Emerging from the torch-lit gloom was a figure in a snow-white cloak, flanked by a squad of Red Keep men-at-arms. Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard looked every bit the chivalrous knight, a handsome youth with light brown hair and a posture that spoke of Highgarden breeding.
"Ser," Jon said, bowing his head with practiced northern bluntness. "We are here on the orders of Lord Eddard, the Hand. Ser Barristan Selmy requested we assist in securing the cellars."
Arys Oakheart's brow furrowed. The Oakhearts were an ancient and proud line from Old Oak in the Reach; to them, Northerners were little more than unwashed fur-clad churls. "Is that so? I received no word of such a detail."
The friction was palpable. Despite the unification of the Seven Kingdoms, the centuries of blood feuds and cultural isolation meant that the Southron knights looked upon the Hand's household with a mixture of disdain and suspicion.
"Rest easy, Ser," Jon replied, a faint, mocking edge touching his voice. "This is a thankless, filthy task. No one but our Lord Eddard would be foolish enough to volunteer his men for it."
The knight blinked, taken aback by the candor. He realized the Northerners were essentially doing the dirty work his own men had been dreading. "Very well then. The cellars are yours to scour. We shall move to the armory."
As the Kingsguard departed, their armor clanking rhythmically, one of the Stark guards spat on the floor. "Southron peacocks. I should have stayed in Winterfell."
"Let it go," Jon said, his voice quiet. "A man who thinks he's better than you is a man who stops looking at what your hands are doing. Let them have their pride; we have work to do."
The Red Keep cellars were rarely visited, though the Master of the Household, Olly Backwell, sent servants to sweep them occasionally. But with the long summer providing an abundance of fresh food, the deep vaults had largely been abandoned to the dust—and the dead.
Massive, obsidian-black dragon skulls lined the darkness, the remains of the Targaryen legacy.
Jon signaled his men to fan out and check the perimeter, ensuring he was alone near the center of the vault. He stood before a skull so massive it dwarfed him—the "Black Dread," Balerion. The bone was the color of dark iron, and the empty eye sockets were larger than Jon's entire torso. Balerion had seen the fires of the Doom and the founding of an empire; now, he was a silent monument in a basement.
Since his vision in the Godswood, Jon's System had hummed with new life. The Dragon Lord class was evolving. He opened the new "Mall" interface—a complex grid of weapon forging, item synthesis, and class advancement. The currency, as always, was Soul Energy.
[Current Soul Energy: 5,000]
It was enough to promote a handful of men, but Jon was looking for something more. He reached out and pressed his palm against the cold, jagged bone of Balerion's snout. A unique resonance shivered through his arm.
[Harvesting Dragon Soul Energy... 5,000 points obtained.][Harvesting Dragon Soul Energy... 8,000 points obtained.]
Jon moved through the graveyard of giants—Meraxes, Vhagar, Vermithor, Silverwing—touching each one. As he drained the latent power, a strange phenomenon occurred. The black bones began to take on a reddish, oxidized tint, as if the ancient calcium were rusting in real-time. A sharp, metallic scent filled the stagnant air.
By the time he finished, his interface glowed with a staggering number.
[Current Dragon Soul Energy: 100,000]
If the bones in a cellar held this much power, Jon could only imagine what the ruins of the Valyrian Freehold contained. Millions? Billions?
"Jory! Over here! We found it!"
The shout from Wyl, a young guard from the Winter Town, broke Jon's trance. Jon quickly pulled his hand away from a "rusting" ribcage, his heart hammering. He couldn't risk a synthesis experiment here. If the Master of Coin or the Spider were already on edge, a magical explosion in the cellars would lead directly back to Ned.
Wyl appeared from a darkened alcove, his face flushed with excitement. He grabbed Jon's arm, tugging him toward a newly discovered gap in the wall. "Come on! Let's map this and get back to the Hand. Lady Catelyn told me to keep a close eye on him, and I don't like being away this long."
Jon followed him into a cramped, narrow passage. It was mud-slicked and low-ceilinged, but the air was moving—a sign of a functional ventilation system. They passed a skeleton slumped in a corner, its fingers still clutching a rotted leather pouch.
They had been walking for ten minutes when the sound of metal on metal echoed from around a bend.
CLANK. CLANK.
"Who goes there?" a voice thundered, followed by the unmistakable shing of steel leaving scabbards. "Identify yourselves! We are the King's Guard!"