99 AC / 54 HA
Viserys
The descent into the fourth level of the dungeons felt like walking into the gullet of a beast. The air grew colder with every step down the serpentine stair, thick with the smell of wet stone, saltpetre, and the lingering stench of ancient rot. I had only been down here once before, as a boy, and I had sworn never to return. The black cells above were meant to break a man's mind, but this lowest level was designed to swallow him entirely. The darkness clinging to the corners of the chamber was a deliberate mercy, hiding the rusted hooks and stained iron grates bolted to the walls. What the eye could not see, the mind did not have to suffer.
I stepped across the threshold. The heavy iron door groaned shut behind me, sealing out the rest of the Red Keep.
The chamber was lit by a handful of sputtering torches slotted into iron brackets. Their erratic light danced across the damp flagstones. My grandfather sat in a high-backed wooden chair pushed against the far wall, a heavy fur blanket pulled tight over his frail shoulders. He had refused to partake in the oath itself, stating bluntly that a dying king had no business tying himself to lifelong blood magics. He was here merely to witness the legacy he was leaving behind.
In the centre of the room, Father and Uncle Vaegon knelt upon the stone. They dragged thick pieces of pale chalk across the floor, the harsh scraping sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Beside them stood the Elder of the Dragonkeepers. The man wore his dark scale armour, his face obscured by the heavy cowl of his order, resting his weight upon a long iron pike.
"Viserys," Father called out, glancing up from his work. His face was smeared with chalk dust, and his tunic was stripped of its usual finery. "You are just in time. We are finishing the final preparations."
"I am here, Father," I answered, keeping my voice steady to mask the unease crawling beneath my skin.
I stepped closer, watching the intricate patterns taking shape upon the floor. They were writing in High Valyrian, carving jagged glyphs. I recognised some words like binding and service but the others were unreadable. I stood at the edge of the array, my mind warring with itself. For my entire life, the Maesters of the Citadel had preached that the arcane arts perished in the fires of the Doom. Magic was a dead thing, a chaotic force men were warned never to dabble in. The Seven-Pointed Star condemned it entirely.
Yet, we were Targaryens. We rode beasts born of fire and blood. Magic coursed through our very veins, a truth validated by the dragons in the skies above.
My chest tightened as a familiar ache seized me. Balerion was dead. My grandfather had Vermithor, my father had Vhagar, but I walked the earth alone. Watching the glowing embers in the torchlight, I questioned whether I still carried that ancient magic within me, or if the spark had died the day the Black Dread closed his eyes for the last time.
Vaegon blew the chalk dust from a completed glyph, interrupting my thoughts. He stood, his knees popping in the cold air, and wiped his hands upon his maester's robes.
I looked down at the completed array. My brow furrowed. "Father. An oath of fealty binds two souls. The master and the servant." I gestured toward the chalk lines. "Why have you drawn three circles?"
At the very centre of the room, surrounded by the Valyrian script, sat three distinct rings.
Father stood, brushing the dirt from his breeches. He opened his mouth to answer, but the heavy grating of the iron door beat him to it.
I turned. Two burly Dragonkeepers marched into the chamber, hauling a struggling weight between them. It was a man, his hands bound tightly behind his back with thick iron chains that clinked against the stone. His clothes were little more than soiled rags, and a filthy burlap sack was tied securely over his head, blinding him. He kicked and muffled a scream through the fabric, but the guards easily overpowered him, dragging his bare, dirt-caked feet across the stone.
They hauled the prisoner directly into the centre of the room and forced him to his knees inside the third, empty chalk circle.
I stared at the blindfolded man, the metallic tang of fear suddenly very real in the back of my throat. I looked toward my grandfather, but the King merely watched the prisoner with cold, unblinking purple eyes.
Father stepped up to the edge of his own designated circle. He drew the Valyrian steel dagger from his belt, the rippled metal catching the torchlight.
"Take your place, Elder," Father commanded the Dragonkeeper, his voice stripping away the warmth of a father and replacing it with the steel of the Crown Prince. He looked across the array to me, his jaw set. "Watch closely, Viserys. We are ready to begin."
" lēda ñuha brōzi as Ba'uëlónva trēsy hen Jauë'jaeærhythā nyke ynn'vókërys ānogar hen Uēpa Valyria. " [With my name as Baelon son of Jaehaerys I invoke the blood of Old Valyria.]
Father's voice deepened, taking on a resonant, unnatural cadence that reverberated off the damp stone walls.
As he chanted, he walked toward the third circle. The blindfolded man whimpered, shifting his weight against the iron chains. Father did not hesitate. He drew the Valyrian steel dagger from his hip. The dark, rippled metal caught the torchlight for a fraction of a second before Father drove it cleanly through the prisoner's ribs, burying the blade to the hilt directly into his heart.
The man arched violently. A wet, choked gasp escaped his lips, and he went entirely limp, dying in the dark without ever knowing what had happened or why.
A sharp gasp tore from my throat. I staggered back a half-step, my boots scraping against the grit.