King's Landing. The Ruins of the Dragonpit.
The Dragonpit sat atop Rhaenys's Hill like a hollowed skull. It had once been the site of the Sept of Remembrance, until Maegor the Cruel, mounted on Balerion the Black Dread, incinerated the center of the Faith's power with dragonfire. In the ashes of that war, Maegor decreed the construction of a massive, domed cavern to stable the dragons of House Targaryen.
After the Dance of the Dragons, the pit fell into ruin. The dragons born within its walls grew stunted, never reaching their prime, until the last—a sickly creature named Morning—faded into history.
Crack.
The sound of a rotting floorboard splintering echoed through the cavern as Jon, inhabiting the body of Jory Cassel, stepped into the gloom. He looked up at the skeletal remains of the great dome, a monument to Targaryen pride now strangled by weeds and time. The stone was still blackened by ancient fires, the soot-stained walls a testament to a century of decay.
This was a place of ill omen. During the Great Spring Sickness, tens of thousands of corpses had been burned here. Even the most desperate beggars avoided the pit, fearing the lingering taste of death that clung to the air.
Jon had bypassed the rusted bronze gates, slipping through a fissure in the outer wall. Standing in the center of the vast interior, which looked like a natural sinkhole, he felt the faint, psychic echoes of dragons screaming.
He approached a colossal stone pillar. Faded carvings, like ghostly glass-paintings, depicted the glory of dragonriders, but the details had long ago been scoured away by fire and neglect. The ground was a carpet of dust and rubble, each footstep producing a heavy, hollow thud.
Jon was here for two reasons, driven by his System tasks. Unlike Samwell Tarly, he hadn't used a Class Item on Jory Cassel—he had other plans for this "disposable" vessel. On his chest, he wore the Summoner's Badge, a sigil of a skull encircled by undulating tentacles.
[Summoner's Badge: Grants the user Summoner abilities. Zombie Summoning, Undead Warrior Summoning, Skeleton Soldier Summoning (Requires matching Staff).]
The Dragonpit was thick with the energy of the restless dead. To a necromancer, this place was a sanctuary. If a high-tier lich were to find this site, they could raise an army from the ash of the plague victims. Jon, however, was only here for raw materials to fuel his Undead Warrior Staff.
"Anosa... Aleya..."
Jon began to chant. The syllables were jagged and alien, pulling at the ambient death-chill. A localized gale began to swirl around him, kicking up a century of soot. In his hand, a gnarled, blackened piece of wood—looking like a scorched mop handle—began to pulse.
Whoosh. Howl.
The wind intensified. Ghostly wails, laden with ancient malice, filled Jon's ears. Even as a man who had seen the Wall, the sheer concentrated bitterness of the spirits here made his skin crawl.
Hummm.
The staff acted as a vacuum, drawing in the spectral energy until it grew heavy in his hand, vibrating with a dark, kinetic weight.
[Undead Warrior Staff: Summons Undead Warriors. High attack, low defense. Superior to Skeleton Soldiers, inferior to Zombies. Requirement: A set of armor as a vessel.]
Jon inspected the item with a satisfied nod. It was his first successful craft of its kind. Though it had cost 1,000 Soul Energy, the staff held ten charges—enough to turn a losing battle into a slaughter.
"You seem to enjoy the show," Jon said, his voice echoing through the hollow pit. He didn't turn his head, his eyes fixed on a shadowed alcove. "Did no one tell you that watching a sorcerer at work is a death sentence?"
"A man is merely curious what magic a boy wields," a voice replied, its accent melodic and strange. "A man thought magic had vanished from Essos many years ago."
A figure stepped from the darkness. He had hair dyed half-red and half-white, his features strikingly similar to the mysterious traveler Jon remembered from the chronicles.
"Magic vanished?" Jon asked, reaching into the void of his inventory. "A man reeks of shadow-spells, yet claims magic is gone. You lie to a boy's face."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "Should I call you Jaqen H'ghar? Or a Servant of the Many-Faced God?"
The figure's eyes widened slightly. "A boy's soul does not match his flesh. A man wondered if you were a lost Faceless Man."
CLANG. CRASH.
Jon didn't wait for further riddles. He summoned a set of old, spare armor from his inventory, letting it crash onto the stone floor. He raised the staff, and the armor began to twitch.
Screech. Grind.
The gauntlets, greaves, and breastplate flew together, pulled by invisible crimson threads. They snapped into place, forming a hollow suit of steel that stood upright, its visor glowing with a baleful red light.
"What... what is this?" Jaqen H'ghar's voice carried a rare tremor.
"This is my Undead Warrior," Jon replied. "You wanted to see my magic? Meet the tool of your end."
The Undead Warrior stepped forward, its hollow boots clanking with an eerie, rhythmic finality as it drew a rusted blade.
"A man is not an enemy to a boy," Jaqen said, his hand sliding toward the hilt of a hidden dagger. His usual composure was fracturing.
"My task says otherwise," Jon countered. "You, or the entity behind you, are a threat I cannot ignore."
Jon knew from his "future" knowledge that Jaqen was no mere human. He was a shapeshifting anomaly, an agent of an order that dealt in the only currency that mattered: death.
"Show me your true face," Jon commanded, "or die in this pit."
In a flash of grey light, Dark Sister appeared in Jon's hand. The sight of the Valyrian steel caused Jaqen to recoil as if he had been struck.
"A boy carries that blade? Does a boy possess the blood of Old Valyria?"
Jaqen vanished into the shadows just as the Undead Warrior lunged. His voice drifted through the pit, appearing now to Jon's left, then his rear.
CLANG. SHING.
Jon's body—Jory's body—was unenhanced, but Jon's mind moved with the precision of a master. He parried a strike from Jaqen's short-dagger, the Valyrian steel of Dark Sister shearing through the assassin's weapon like a hot knife through wax.
"You're holding back," Jon spat, signaling the summon.
The Undead Warrior suddenly split. The single suit of armor separated into three distinct, ghostly forms of crimson energy and steel, surrounding the assassin. The staff had summoned three warriors, but Jon had compressed them into one vessel initially to save on materials. Now, he unleashed the full haunting.