The Promise

'Blood makes the grass grow. Fire warms the wine!'

- From the play 'The Red Prince,' performed by the Mummers Guild.

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The banner of House Targaryen, featuring the iconic red dragon with three heads, flapped proudly from the staff of their armed escort as the wheelhouse made its regal approach to the Red Keep.

Constructed from ochre stones and perched atop Aegon's Hill, the castle commanded a commanding view of King's Landing. While it might not boast the same visual splendor as other keeps across the continent — such as the renowned Highgarden — it remained a formidable and noble structure that befits the royal family.

After passing under the bronze gates, Alicent and Rhaenyra disembarked from the wheelhouse. Linked arm in arm, like the closest of friends, they gracefully ascended the steps and crossed the threshold into the castle. 

Life thrived within the grand walls of the Red Keep in those days, where the hustle and bustle never seemed to cease. 

Hundreds of candles and torches illuminated the corridors, their flames flickering in the motion of busy bodies.

Knights stood all day clad in shining armor and would seize any rare moment of isolation to quietly release gas, only to hurriedly wave their arms and pray the smell would dissipate before anyone passed by. 

Servants bowed with graceful deference as their princess strode through, while nobles and dignitaries mingled in every corner. 

Rhaenyra had commitments to honor. After all, she was a dutiful princess. Yet, if the small council could tolerate a brief delay caused by a dragon ride, surely they could endure a little longer while a daughter attended to her mother.

Guiding Alicent through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, Rhaenyra led her towards the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast—an enclave within the castle, fortified with its own walls and battlements. Here lay the royal apartments, a two-story square complex surrounding a central courtyard open to the sky.

As they passed by, they observed the children of visiting lords engrossed in play upon the massive map of Westeros.

Painted by Rhaenar years prior, the map sprawled the entire ground of the court yard and teemed with illustrations depicting the myths and legends of each region. It provided ample fodder for young imaginations to envision themselves as heroes of old.

Pressing onward, they finally arrived at the Queen's chambers. Inside, Queen Aemma reclined upon a couch, attended by servants. Light filtered through the tall windows behind her, though there was no breeze to stir the curtains. 

Queen Aemma waved a silk fan in a futile attempt to alleviate the stifling heat. That provided little relief for her pregnant discomfort. The sight of Rhaenyra entering brought far more joy.

"Ah..," Queen Aemma said, "Rhaenyra. You know I don't like you going flying while I'm in this condition."

"You don't like me to go flying while you're in any condition."

Queen Aemma let a servant prop up a pillow for her back support.

Alicent never forgot her courtesies, "Your Grace."

"Good morrow, Alicent," Queen Aemma acknowledged.

"Did you sleep?" Rhaenyra asked, taking a seat beside the Queen's couch.

"I slept."

"How long?"

"I don't need mothering, Rhaenyra."

"Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you."

The Queen observed her child's concerned face and wondered where all the time went. When did Rhaenyra become so mature? Meanwhile, her son was always on the move, flying to this keep here or visiting that lord over there.

'My children won't need me anymore.' The Queen didn't know if that thought made her happy or sad. All she knew is that when they were around, her world was brighter for it.

"You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm."

Rhaenyra shook her head, "I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory."

That made the Queen laugh for a moment. Then suddenly, her thoughts turned to her son, and a sharp fear yanked her heart.

"We have royal wombs, you and I," said Queen Aemma, "The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip."

'That's unfair', Rhaenyra wanted to say, but she held her tongue.

"Why? If Rhaenar was born the girl, he'd do as he pleased, and the realm wouldn't bat an eye."

The Queen peered disapprovingly, "Your brother is—" she sighed, "Your brother would do his duty like the rest of us."

The Queen said the words but it was clear to Rhaenyra that she didn't believe them. Still, there were servants in the room, and that was the correct thing to say regardless.

Rhaenyra noted the troubled air around her mother. She could recognize it because lately she too has gotten this terrible feeling.

"What troubles you, Mother?" Rhaenyra said, taking the Queen's hand.

"Your brother, he…" The Queen paused momentarily as if she had to be careful about what she said, "I fear at the pace he's going, Rhaenar will look up one day and realize after all his endeavors that time got away from him. I'm terrified. Terrified that he'll be alone and rue the emptiness such fate brings."

Rhaenyra stared into the tear glazed eyes of her mother. Though her eyes were sky blue, taking after her Arryn roots, it seemed to Rhaenyra that they were the most beautiful in all the realm. Swirling with kindness and care toward her children.

"That will never happen," Rhaenyra assured her, "I won't let it."

That tone was enough to pull Queen Aemma out of despair.

"I know you won't, child. You've always been such a protective elder sister. Where is he, by the way?"

"Why does everyone assume I know where he is?"

"You've always been the one most concerned of his whereabouts."

Rhaenyra blushed, "Mother!"

Together they chuckled, but when it ended, Queen Aemma said, "Promise me, Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra gave her a baffled look, "Huh?"

"Promise me..," The Queen said, almost a whisper, as she beckoned Rhaenyra come closer.

Alicent struggled to hear when Rhaenyra leaned in closer to the Queen. She couldn't help but feel left out and miss her own mother who had recently passed away.

When they were done, the princess leaned back and said

"I don't understa-"

But the Queen cut her off.

"Promise me."

Whatever was said, the Queen was adamant. Alicent held back a giggle, 'No wonder they're so stubborn, what with a Mother like this!'

Rhaenyra relented, "Fine, I promise."

"Good," the Queen said, her smirk evident she was chuffed with herself, "Now take a bath. You stink of dragon."

.

..

…

..

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Meanwhile, north of King's Landing lay a vast lake, the largest on the continent. It was no wonder that the grandest castle, Harrenhal, loomed over its northern bank.

This lake was known to all as the Gods Eye. Yet, even from the towering heights of Harrenhal, one would struggle to glimpse its hidden depths.

In the heart of the Gods Eye rested a secluded island, cloaked in mystery and foreboding. None dared to challenge its enigmatic aura. Those who dared to venture forth, driven by bravery or folly, found their rowboats returned but were never seen again.

So it was peculiar that in the heart of a forest clearing on that foreboding island stood a solitary figure.

His red cape billowed in the breeze, the mist-covered sun meekly reflecting off his black-scaled armor. 

His once elvish features were now hardened by a stern expression, his long silver hair tied back in a bun reminiscent of a warrior bound for battle. A sword of legendary repute hung at his waist, made of Valyrian steel thirsting for blood.

His were violet eyes that took no prisoners. 

He surveyed the towering trees that surrounded the clearing. Wierwood trees, each with bone-white bark and red maple leaves. 

They bore carved faces gazed inward, fixated on the figure in their midst.

He was Rhaenar I Targaryen, and this was the Isle of Faces.

Rhaenar took note of the oppressive silence; the very air tasted like he was not welcome. 

He brushed the unease aside and cast his gaze upon the clearing he was in. Stones were arranged in a spiral pattern that he recognized from his travels and his studies. 

It struck Rhaenar as peculiar. Would the Children of the Forest endorse such a formation? Historical accounts suggest they scoffed at cities and structures.

Perhaps it was the First Men who brought the stones here for the signing of The Pact. You could find their ancient ringed forts dotted all around the continent, if you had the eyes for it.

With a dismissive shake of his head, Rhaenar entertained a fanciful thought: if only he could turn back time and witness the events firsthand. A foolish notion, yet strangely comforting.

Realizing time was of the essence, Rhaenar drew the dagger from its sheath behind his back. Its jagged edge resembled a curved shark tooth, black as the abyss save for the sheen of obsidian — what the smallfolk called dragon glass.

Rhaenar took the dagger and sliced his palm. Extending his arm to the side, he clenched his fist so tightly that blood did not drip. 

For a moment he just stood there and felt the pressure build in his hand. Then, flippantly, as if tossing a coin in a fountain, he opened his fist.

Blood fell like the water from a melting icicle.

Rhaenar turned his head, his gaze piercing at nothingness. 

"Who's there?"

Silence hung heavy in response, mingled with whispering leaves.

"Show yourself!"

Still, there was no reply.

"Hmph!"

Sheathing his dagger and bandaging his wound, Rhaenar turned with defiance burning in his steps.

"Sundance!" he called out.

At his command, a winged creature stirred from its slumber — a dragon, its scales ablaze with golden light, its eyes a captivating amber. Scars adorned its body, reminders of boisterous play with fellow beasts in his youth. 

It's mighty tail swayed with curiosity. The dragon rose and dipped its head as Rhaenar approached, offering a silent acknowledgment.

"Let's go," Rhaenar declared. 

Ascending the rope ladder to his saddle, he commanded, <"Soves!" >. 

Sundance unfurled his wings and propelled them into the air with a single powerful beat. They soared above the forest, breaking through the mist.

If only Rhaenar had lingered a moment longer, he would have noticed that tears had begun to stream from the carved weirwood faces.

Staining the white bark crimson~