Naerys Targaryen

Prince Aelyx Targaryen

Princess Aemma Targaryen

Dowager Queen Daena Targaryen

Queen Daenys Targaryen

**Naerys Targaryen** is the oldest child of King Aemon I Targaryen and the late Ceryse Hightower, having been born before her twin brother, Prince Maelys Targaryen.

## History

Naerys was born in the Fourth Moon of 352 AC on the island of Dragonstone. As has ever been her favorite thing to remind her brother, she came into this plane first - a squalling babe whose ferocity spoke to the fire and blood she was forged from. The superstitious noted that the white raven announcing the end of winter arrived the same day the dragons bore two whelps, instead of one.

‘Inseparable’ would be the term used for the babes that grew quickly - whole, and hale, and full of mischief; wherever one went, the other was sure to follow. Their youth was divided between Dragonstone, and King’s Landing. As the heir, and his inseparable sister, they were duty bound to learn what their future held for them, and prepare accordingly. The intrigues of court piqued the interest of the sharp sister, and managed to keep her fascinated...when she wasn’t more interested in the knights. And where one might have assumed her fascination with knights in shining armor came from fairy tales, or the allure of a strong man? They would find their assumptions waylaid in a few years’ time.

As a young girl, she and her brother couldn’t have seemed more different - where he was smitten with the harp, and his tomes, she often had a wooden sword at hand...more interested in playing knights with the servant’s children, than pursuing more feminine arts. Her septas were at a loss for how to keep her at her woman’s arts, and out of the dirt; scraped knees and calloused hands spoke to a childhood well-lived, and taken advantage of. A sword had always felt right in her hand, and it never struck her as fair that her brother, and the boys around her, were the ones encouraged to learn such an art - she was, after all, a dragon...and every dragon knows how to fight. Or, such was her argument, when being chastised for skipping lessons to play at swordsmanship.

Much like her brother, though, she never saw one’s birth as a matter of import - the stable boy was as good with a practice sword as she, after all. Her mother never seemed to understand the girl’s fascination with weapons, nor the twins’ approach to as much, but Naerys had always seemed to baffle the woman - then again, she didn’t much care what her parents thought of her odd friendships, and habits.

The twins found themselves in King’s Landing in 364 AC, in the middle of winter. Tired of the every-day affairs of court life, she strong-armed her twin into a foray out into the city. After all, neither of them had ever seen the common man as anything but another person, right? Why spend all their days amongst the nobility? Alas, despite their best efforts to conceal their heritage with coal dust on luminescent locks, and a change of garb, they were recognized...and not by anyone who cared to share a drink with the realm’s future king, and his sister.

For a brief moment, all the sister knew was that her brother’s life was endangered, and someone had dared to put his hands around her throat. The fire in her blood roared to life, that day - the dragon awakening, as the brigands’ demands went in one ear, and out the other. Letting go of her throat was their first mistake; as her forehead crushed his nose, the world was aflurry with her rage - if ever her servants thought getting her into a dress was akin to wrestling a dragon, these men knew what it *truly* meant to tangle with one - nails finding purchase in the soft flesh of a man’s face, before snatching a dagger, and driving it home. Her ferocity earned a strike in kind - a curve that brought bright red dragon’s blood to spill beneath her left eye...a narrow miss, if she were honest. But to this day, she wears the scar with pride. Much as the blow might have stung, it only made her push harder, as her brother and another young man finally jumped into the fight. 'Fire and Blood' had always been the Targaryen words - and while they'd already tasted blood? She was more than willing to give them the *fire*.

Maelys killed a man, that night - and the image still burned in her mind, years later. It was a thrill, when it should have been terrifying. Once again, she was left wondering why she was the one told to sing and sew, when nothing had ever felt as good as hot blood spilt, and a blade in her hands. Her brother refused to let her bear the blame for their wayward venture, though - as much as it perturbed her. Though, the sight of her face covered in blood seemed to have done something to him, much the way the heat of the moment had done for her - even if she hardly felt the blow...until the Maester went to clean it, that is - then she howled loud enough to make the man jump.

Darrik, the lad who’d jumped to their defense, was soon as much a part of their family as either twin - a ‘triplet’, if asked...despite the obvious difference in looks, he soon became as inseparable from them as the two had been, before.

In time, her brother won their hearts’ desires - to squire with the Sword of the Morning. Of course, she couldn’t officially be counted as such a thing, but it was hardly a secret that she spent her days training in the yard with the pair of squires - one, her brother, the other? Might as well have been. The sword had always been her favored weapon, though - an extension of self, ever since she was a small thing. Jousting was a fun challenge, and a way to help her twin hone his skills, but it was just that, to her: a game...something fun. The sword had ever made her blood sing, though - and nothing was as impressive as Dawn.

Never one to be left behind, the Dayne unwittingly transported both prince, and princess, along for the battle of the Stepstones. There would be hell to pay upon her return, she knew, but what could be done to her, after all? What punishment would ever make her regret such a life-changing moment she was to be held from?

The thrill of battle was dulled by the fact that she was no warrior - not yet - and therefore was to remain with her brother, and Darrik, at all times. She’d have been left in a tent, if they could have convinced her to stay - but short of tying her up, there was no way to keep the young woman from what she desired. And thus, the thrill became a taste of life’s cruelty - a brush with reality that had avoided her in the training yard.

That evening saw them both stunned with the horrors they had witnessed - this was far from the bar brawl they’d once been a part of, after all. Long moments spent in contemplative silence saw them both truly think on what it was to be human, before what it meant to be alive seized them, and saw the young siblings share their first kiss. There was no shame, not then - not even covered in the grime of a day’s battle spent aiding the warriors, could a Targaryen be told his, or her, feelings weren’t right.

In her rush to join the fray, the hard-headed princess hadn’t given a second thought to the punishment that would come of such an impetuous decision. Upon her return, however, her initial thought that no punishment could ever make her second-guess herself was put to the test, as she was dragged kicking and screaming into the Maidenvault.

Alone.

Time passed, and her boy’s cut she’d given herself to better blend with troops soon became her young woman’s mane, again; days ticked by in an excruciatingly dull crawl, as she began to wonder if she was doomed to the same fate her predecessors had been - was she to grow old in a cage? Would she never see her brother again? A lifetime at his side left her hopeless and adrift, when torn away - her every moment spent counting the seconds until Ser Dayne would guard her door in the evenings, and tell her stories of the day as he kept her skill with a blade honed. She would be eternally grateful to the man - for his words and nightly training were what kept her from madness in those long days of punishment.

   Freedom came, in time - a pale figure of silver and ivory emerging, sword in hand. Wasting no time, she reunited with her twin - and even Darrik - in a tearful display...though words were foregone for a grandmother that had shut her away from the world, and the people she loved for so long. Nor was time wasted in returning to the training yard - pale skin burning from sun’s rays she’d been denied for so long, though she never seemed to mind...so long as she had a weapon in hand. If she’d been a cunning, and ferocious young woman before her imprisonment? She had truly grown into the Dragon she’d always claimed to be, while locked in her ‘cave.’

Their eighteenth naming-day came quickly, it seemed - a day of celebration, and revelry. A day of frustration, as her brother and Darrik were knighted, but not she. Of course gifts came that eased the sting, in the form of an elegant sword from Ser Edric Dayne - the kingsguard who’d seen her grow - a man she seemed to respect just as much as her own father. Ever doting on his eldest daughter and her seeming fascination with the martial arts that he’d always encouraged, her father brought forth a suit of armor fit for a knight that had been commissioned for her, at his command...a sight the likes of which nearly brought tears to the eyes of the hardened young woman whose only desire had been withheld by such a small thing as ‘gender.’ She may not have the title of ‘knight’ in truth, but she could be the Dragon she always knew she was. She would no longer be sparring in her brother’s shadow.

But no sooner had her brother received Dragonstone for his gift, than he had shuffled off the responsibility to travel far and wide, with his sister at his side - closer than ever - as they tourney hopped through the seven kingdoms. Where he sought fame in the lists, she often found herself at a loss with such attempts at the melee - fighters unwilling or able to face either a woman, or the Targaryen princess. Frustrated attempts to participate aside, she opts for hard drinks and rowdy cheers for her brother, as her sword sits idle - fingers itching to do more than preen.

A diplomatic mission, as well as one of personal glory, their romp is cut short by news of their grandfather’s death. Once more faced with reality, and the gravity of death, the pair return to the capital with haste.