At Father's words, the bleeding instantly ceased. The Elder bowed low, murmuring his thanks before turning and hurrying out of the heavy iron doors.
Now, only family remained within the dark, suffocating chamber, accompanied by the shrivelled husk of the sacrificed prisoner.
"The tether began pulling the moment he started lying to me," Father explained, his tone laced with seriousness as he examined his palm once more. "It stopped exactly when I willed his suffering to end. I can, at the very least, control some aspects of the oath's punishment."
Grandfather nodded approvingly, pulling his furs tighter against the dungeon's chill. "It is good to know the consequences. Though understanding the countermeasure would be highly beneficial to us as well."
"The consequence is likely the exact same for me," Father supplied. "Were I to betray the oath and intentionally deny the Elder shelter and protection, the punishment would trigger upon me. The Emperor said that in the eyes of magic, the oath sees every soul as equal before it. Only the exact wording of the vow dictates the outcome."
"We must discuss on whom to use these oaths," Grandfather spoke, his purple eyes gleaming as the Conciliator began to calculate. "The great lords of the realm would certainly make for fine subjects."
"Then we must choose the names with extreme care," Father cautioned. "Based on the manuscripts the Emperor provided, a mortal soul such as mine can only bear the weight of seven active oaths. I have already entered one with the Emperor himself, and one with the Elder. I can only bear the weight of five more."
Grandfather considered the words, his gaze sweeping over the fading chalk lines on the stone. "We will think on the names carefully. But five is certainly more than enough to tightly bind the key lords of Westeros."
His words were dry, stripped of any grandfatherly warmth. It was a stark reminder of just how dangerous Jaehaerys Targaryen could be once he discarded the garb of the peaceful Conciliator and acted solely as the dragon who had tamed the Seven Kingdoms.
"That will be difficult, Father," Father interjected. "I cannot bind someone to the oath who is not willing. The magic only functions when both parties willingly consent to form the bond. If one of them is unwilling, or heavily coerced, the oath will harm me as the caster and likely kill the other or severely injure them. It is best to find those who are willing to serve us. The oath merely crystallizes their existing loyalty."
Father's warning settled heavily over the room. Each of his words further solidified my deep scepticism toward this entire body of blood magic. It was a terrifying and unpredictable tool that required human sacrifice just to function.
"I see," Grandfather murmured, stroking his silver beard thoughtfully. "Then it is best to bring those loyal to us even closer. Find the people you truly need, Baelon, and bind them. I will not interfere with your choices." The King pushed himself up from his chair, leaning heavily upon his cane. "Now, you can teach Viserys. Vaegon and I shall leave you to it."
My eyes widened drastically at his words. My heart hammered against my ribs. I did not think I would be immediately thrust into the fray to learn this dark art. I had imagined today would only be a demonstration, and even witnessing the butchery of that prisoner was enough to make me vow never to step foot in this dungeon again.
"Certainly," Father answered. As the heavy iron door groaned open to allow the King and Vaegon to exit, Father turned. His complete, unrelenting attention fell squarely upon me.
The heavy iron door grated shut, sealing us inside the crypt. The echoing silence pressed against my ears, heavy and suffocating. I stood rigid, my gaze continually drawn back to the grey, shrivelled face of the sacrifice lying in the third circle. The scent of copper and blood had faded, leaving only the stale, ancient rot of the dungeons.
Father stepped back into the centre of the fading chalk array. He retrieved a thick, leather-bound sheaf of parchment from the inner pocket of his tunic. The vellum crackled dryly in the damp air as he untied the binding cord.
"Come closer, Viserys," Father instructed, his tone shifting from a grim executioner to a patient tutor. "The geometry must be exact. A misplaced stroke will sever the tether before it even forms."
I forced my boots to move across the stone, carefully avoiding the desecrated corpse. I stopped at the edge of the array, looking down at the jagged glyphs.
"These are the anchoring runes," Father said, pointing to the outer boundary with the tip of his boot. "They confine the energy of the sacrifice. You must draw the master's circle first, then the servant's, and finally the sacrificial ring. The script is High Valyrian, but it uses the archaic, pre-Doom script. You must not merely write the words; you must carve them with intent."
He handed me the open manuscript. The ink was a dark, rust-coloured brown. The diagrams detailed the exact proportions of the circles and the phonetic pronunciations of the chant.
"The words alone hold no power," Father continued, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Magic demands intent. When you slash your palm, you are not simply bleeding upon the stone. You must actively push your will into the blood. You must envision the chains binding the servant's soul to your own. If your focus wavers, the magic will consume the sacrifice and quickly turn upon you to feed its hunger."
A cold shiver worked its way down my spine. The Maesters warned that dabbling in the higher mysteries inevitably rotted the mind and corrupted the flesh. I looked up from the rusted ink.
"Will this harm us in the long term, Father?" I asked, unable to keep the tremor from my voice. "The Citadel claims such workings demand a terrible toll from the caster's own vitality. Tying our souls to others... surely it leaves a mark."