What if Rhaella and Aerys Targaryen had a daughter other than Daenerys?
What if Daenerys and Viserys had an older sister?
What if the history of Westeros was re-written?
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧
| 260 𝐀𝐂, 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞
If it weren't for the thundering clouds above or the temperous tides sating their fury against the stony shores of Dragonstone, one could almost say the seat of House Targaryen was peaceful. If you were a sailor galvanting about the gloomy castle's Isles you would see the blood red moon pouring down its light in a bloody fire, making the waters beneath seem furious and vengeful in their rebellion against this great castle.
All this and more you would've seen, this night that went down in the history books as the Bloody Night.
Unless you were within the castle; unless you were a midwife doused in blood, bustling about the castle this dark night with your sisters as the Queen's anguished screams rang through the Stone Drum.
Many do count it a blessing to be present at the royal birthing bed. Many do not understand the anxieties that filled prince Aerys as he paced around his ancestor's Painted Table, watching fervently the blood red sky beyond with a promise of a storm as he was forced to listen to the blood-curdling screams of his sister-wife from a few rooms down.
Rhaella and Aerys had been recently married. The nuptials were a grand affair, the brightest in half a century, and nary a person wasn't present to witness the joyous occasion. And what an affair it was for while the well wishers and attendees were overjoyed at the royal wedding, the couple could not have been more solemn; and the cheers and cries of joy had never died so quickly than when the people of the Seven Kingdoms witnessed the gloomy couple wed that day.
It was common knowledge that Jaehaerys II's father abhorred incestual marriages and/or betrothals, and his son would have carried it on had it not been for the prophecy of a Wood Witch.
Aerys wondered, then, if the pain was worth some prophecy. If Rhaella's and his joy was worth risking because of the common word of an old hag hovelled beneath a tree.
Alas, what has been done has been done. All he needed, now, was news from the Maestar.
In the birthing chamber, Maestar Gawain encouraged the princess to keep pushing. His head was beneath the propped up sheet, watching and waiting for the sign of the child while the midwives tended to her highness.
"I can't," Rhaella panted. Her hair was matted and sweat covered her body. "I cannot do this. I cannot do this."
"Breathe, your highness," ordered Maestar Gawain, his balding grey head coming out from the sheet. "Breathe and keep pushing. Your child is almost with us."
Rhaella could see no way out of this but through, so she pushed and pushed with what last strength she had until her own shouts were joined by the mewling screams of her newborn babe. Maestar Gawain was careful in his handling of the child as a midwife cut off the cord tying mother and child together.
