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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𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄
•|°
282 𝐀𝐂, 𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧
Lord Tywin tossed the parchment on the table. He leaned forward, his cat green gaze as intent as a lion eyeing its captured prey.
"Brandon Stark has been arrested."
Robert snatched up the paper, his eyes quickly perusing its contents. When he was done, he tossed it down and chuckled humourlessly.
"Can't say I would not have done the same, given the chance."
"You were wise not to. It was a foolish act. But," Tywin crumpled the paper, tossed it into the flames of the hearth, "one we can use to our advantage."
"What good is a caged wolf?"
Tywin did not respond. Rather, he arched a brow as if the answer were clear. Robert's face turned beet red and he slammed his fist on the table.
"By the gods, Tywin! Prince Rhaegar has kidnapped my betrothed and is doing gods knows what to her. The time to act is now."
"Do not forget, Robert," began the old lion, a sinister gleam in his eye, "which one of us has seen true battle. You would also do well to remember the first time the silver prince took your betrothed, matters did not turn out in your favour."
"And we are supposed to let him go unpunished once more? No. Rhaegar will not take another woman I love. I will not allow this offence to go unpunished."
"A befitting line for tales and songs, certainly," Tywin said lazily, "But you cannot bring him to justice without an army or the right assets behind you."
"I have no need of an army--"
"Do not be blind," Tywin snapped. The old lion felt a headache coming on, much the same way it did when Jaime struggled with his sums. "A war is coming. Brandon Stark's arrest is the right move we need to work in our favour. At this very moment, his father and the fathers of his companions ride for King's Landing."
Realisation dawned on Robert. His anger shifted to understanding.
"I will gather my fath--my men," Robert said.
For the past moon and a half, lord Steffon had been bed-ridden. He'd been onset by a foul illness that stole his voice and had him emptying the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot constantly. In four weeks he'd aged fifty years, becoming as gaunt as a decaying corpse.
