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 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐋
•|°
280 AC, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩
"Go on. Don't be shy."
Aegon clung to Naerys's hips, his face hidden partially by her person. The princess ran a hand through his silver hair and Rhaella chuckled lightly.
It was indeed quite an ironic scene. The prince, no older than three namedays, was more afraid of approaching his grandmother than he was of approaching a full-grown, sleeping she-dragon.
"She is your grandmother, Egg," Naerys reminded him. "You used to spend days with her when you were younger. And this is your nuncle, Viserys. You two would play for hours on end."
Prince Viserys waved shyly. He stood beside his mother. He was elated, albeit a bit shy, but he rarely got out often and he was eager to see his sister again after so many moons apart. He did not know why she left, but he was only glad that she and Rhaegar were back.
Aegon, slowly creeping out from his shell, stepped forth and hugged his grandmother. Rhaella received him warmly and affectionately.
As the queen of the Seven Kingdoms gushed over her grandson, Naerys swept her brother up in a whirlwind hug.
"Oh, look at how big you are!" She giggled. "I've missed you so much, Vis."
"I've missed you too." His eyes alight with glee, he took her hand and asked her: "Will you and Egg come play with me?"
"Of course. In fact," she smiled widely, "we have a few more people for you to play with."
Viserys jumped excitedly. "Rhaegar will be there?"
"I'm afraid not. He is... busy, at the moment."
In the Small Council's chambers, the king and Prince conferred with the respective members.
Across from the King sat the prince, in the other high chair, both of them silent and brazenly tense as lord Steffon informed his fellow council members of current affairs.
Rhaegar couldn't believe the appalling silhouette before him was his father. Aerys seemed to have aged a dozen more years; His face was sallow and so sunken that his cheekbones protruded from his flesh as if they were on the cusp of breaking the skin. His eyes were unsettled, panicky, as his gaze constantly flitted about the room, and his nails, as long as daggers, glistened in the fading light of day.
