The Red Keep. Deep Vault Tunnels.
"Who goes there?" Jon's voice—or rather, the voice of Jory Cassel—boomed through the damp corridor. "We are the guards of Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King. We are searching the lower levels for structural breaches. Identify yourselves!"
The encounter meant that the passage they were in connected to another sector of the fortress, though Jon couldn't yet determine where the other party had originated.
"I am Jaime Lannister. You may approach."
The name hit the Stark guards like a physical blow. Of all the Kingsguard to run into, it had to be the Queen's twin. Since the friction between Ned Stark and Cersei Lannister had reached a boiling point, the two households had been at each other's throats. Even the servants traded spit in the hallways. Meeting the "Kingslayer" in a dark tunnel felt like swallowing a fly.
"Steady," Jon whispered to his men, sensing their bristling hostility. "An ugly daughter has to marry sooner or later. If we can't avoid him, let's face him with grace."
Jon stepped into the torchlight, his posture humble but firm. "Ser Jaime. I am Jory Cassel, Captain of the Household Guard. It is an honor."
Jon's tone was impeccable. His integration with Jory was now more than mere skinchanging; it was a seamless fusion of souls. This wasn't the parasitic invasion he had used before, but a "Dragon Dream" resonance—a power he suspected was an evolution of the Targaryen gift for prophetic sleep. He moved and spoke as Jory, his presence so natural that the host body felt only a dreamlike haze, entirely unaware of the pilot at the helm.
"Hmph. Well said," Jaime sneered, his golden hair shimmering even in the gloom. "I didn't think anyone from House Stark knew the meaning of the word 'polite.' I assumed you were all just illiterate mud-dwellers from the frozen wastes."
The Lannister men-at-arms erupted in sycophantic laughter. Behind Jon, the Stark guards turned a shade of murderous red, their hands twitching toward their hilts. Jon stepped horizontally, placing his body between his men and the Lannister party.
"Lord Eddard teaches us that understanding is the first step to respect," Jon said, his voice level and devoid of heat. "We Northerners may not pray to your Seven, but our gods demand the same order. We uphold guest right. We despise incest, kinslaying... and the breaking of holy oaths."
Jon let the final three words hang in the stagnant air. He knew Jaime was a lethal predator—a man whose combat stats likely hovered in the range of 20 to 30. At Jon's current level, a direct confrontation would end in a heartbeat. Until he synthesized the Dragonstone and boosted his attributes, Jaime was a bone too hard to chew. For now, silence was his best weapon.
Jaime's smile faltered. He searched Jory's face for a hint of sarcasm, but found only stolid Northern sincerity.
"Fine then, little captain. Since you're so eager to serve, take that middle fork. It's half-collapsed and smells of rot. My men will take the dry path."
Jaime turned away, bored. With Ser Barristan Selmy aging into a relic, Jaime felt a growing, icy loneliness at the top of the world. To him, the only knights worth a damn were long dead—Arthur Dayne and the legends of the past. The knights of the current era were mere chaff. He harbored a burning curiosity about Eddard Stark, the man who had supposedly defeated his idol, the Sword of the Morning. He had briefly toyed with the idea of slaughtering these guards just to force Ned into a duel, but even he knew that would lead to a royal execution rather than the glory he craved.
"Pah..."
"Damned Kingslayer," one of the Stark guards spat once the Lannisters were out of earshot. "The Old Gods and the New will have their pound of flesh from that oath-breaker."
"Look at him," another hissed. "All that gold and he still looks like the shit I took yesterday."
"Enough," Jon commanded, pulling them back to reality. "Do not provoke him. He's a madman obsessed with dueling Lord Eddard. Don't give him the excuse he's looking for."
They pushed deeper into the passage Jaime had discarded. The air grew slick with moisture. Water dripped from the ceiling, feeding thick mats of pale, bioluminescent moss that clung to the stones.
"Hey! Jory, look at this!"
Wyl beckoned him toward a corner where a stone carving of a three-headed dragon was set into the wall. Its heads were designed to hold torches, but Wyl had noticed something unusual about the central snout.
As Jon approached, Wyl reached into the dragon's stone maw. After a moment of fumbling, there was a sharp click. Wyl pulled on the dragon's tongue.
GRIND. BOOM.
With a groan of shifting rock and the heavy thud of counterweights, a massive, concealed stone door began to swing inward.
"Stay back," Jon ordered, drawing his blade. "Let me go first."
The aura emanating from the chamber was unlike anything Jon had felt—a concentrated pressure of ancient power. He took a whale-oil lamp and stepped through the threshold.
The room was triangular, perfectly mirroring the three-headed dragon outside. A faint breeze stirred the dust; the builders had ensured the room was ventilated. This was surely the work of Maegor the Cruel. Knowing he had taken the throne from his nephew and ruled through dragonfire and blood, Maegor had likely built this as a final redoubt—a place to reach safety if the Keep were ever breached, allowing him a clear path to call for Balerion.
As the lamp's light expanded, the secrets of the chamber were finally revealed.