Disclaimer: All belongs to G. R. Martin.

Note: Information obtained from A Wiki of Ice and Fire. Takes place before, during and shortly after the Blackfyre rebellion. I have left as much as canon as possible (but if I change something, well, sorry) and I promise that I'm trying to be as faithful as possible to the information that have been provided by Martin. I hope you enjoy it. English is not my first language so a big apology for the mistakes that you'll probably find. Cheers! :)

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"The first Daenerys"

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Part I

171 AL

Daenerys Targaryen is born in a clear night of autumn within the high walls of the Red Keep.

A small, fragile baby, who arrives with a soft whimper that ends soon.

Her mother's replica, thinks the maester, when the tiny little creature lays in his arms without a single cry from her lungs. Instead, the future princess sleeps with contempt and does not bother to meet the world around her.

Her father, Prince Aegon, the second in line to the Iron throne, is not present nor will he be until the next full moon, when he returns from his last outing affair.

But the only brother of Daenerys, young Daeron, the constant shadow of his mother, is the second one to greet her.

"You have come too late for me" he whispers to the baby asleep "But not for the kingdom. You will be the healing to our wounds"

King Baelor will announce the engagement at any time soon.

Princess Naerys, daughter of the king's hand and niece of the King, hears from the bed and smiles ruefully. The gods just gave her to me, and they already grab her from my arms.

The family of a king would never marry for love.

"Are you sure that Daenerys is a good name?" Daeron asks his mother, who still has blood between her thighs "I'm sure that King Baelor would prefer a little Alysanne instead of a Daenerys"

"Alysanne is a name for a queen" for the first time in too long, Daeron sees the anger slip through the delicate features of her mother "and my daughter will not be ever a queen"

Always diplomatic, he sighs and tries to reconcile the subject "You know that the kingdom requires this, the kingdom needs this marriage. It's as necessary as it was mine. My grandfather Viserys has already sent a raven to Dorne"

The anger disappears and instead, Princess Naerys smiles melancholy "It would seem like the kingdom always needs something from us"

The future king nods "And a good ruler always puts his people first"

A week after giving birth, Naerys could already walk. With Daeron I almost died, and with Daenerys would seem that nothing really happened.

The wet nurse was finishing with breastfeeding the baby girl when she returned from the septon.

"You spend too much time praying, dear cousin"

Naerys was startled for a moment until she recognized her: wild and beautiful. Daena Targaryen had escaped again. Dressed as a maid, and shining like a queen, with her golden beauty and that enormous golden dragon of three heads hanging by her neck.

'You should not be here, your grace" whispers Naerys while giving a little bow "King Baelor has ordered ... "

"I know what my dear husband has ordered" Daena chuckles with disdain, and taking two steps, allows the little boy hidden behind her skirt to come out "But you see, little Daemon wanted to meet his pretty… cousin"

With only about two years, the bastard child of the Queen is taller than his cousin Baelor, the fourth in line to the throne. And golden, so golden, like a true dragon, without his blood contaminated by dornish features. Who is this child's father? A Targaryen or a Velaryon, surely, but whom?

Naerys feels apprehensive toward the little bastard infant. He looks just like dear Aemon, the legendary Dragonknight. He will be a warrior someday, and women and men shall fall at his feet.

"Good night, my Princess"addresses her little Daemon. He has learned well, still so young and yet so charming. Queen Daena does not let him leave her sight, and Naerys does not want to even imagine what odd ideas the queen has rooted into his little blond head.

The throne, perhaps? Daena is the daughter of a king, sister of kings and a queen herself if only in name, she'll probably want the same for her child, no mattering who the father is.

"Meet your cousin, son" Queen Daenerys uses that tone of authority hidden within sweetness, which Naerys won't dare refuse to comply. She was born a queen and I ... I belong to the gods, I'm not made for this. If only Aegon was a little less cruel, I would live in peace, confined, serving the gods and the faith, but he wants everyone serving him, only him ...

The uninterested face that has a child of two years old for a baby who's drooling and barely awake is almost touching. But this bastard seems to have more Targaryen in himself that the rightful heirs to the Iron throne, and that can't go unnoticed by anyone. It is dangerous.

Baelor, with the dark complexion of his mother the Dornish Princess Myriah, is strong, but too dark. And Aerys, gold, pale, so delicate and sickly that the maesters do not believe that he will live long.

Sweet mother, he looks like him, the same purple eyes and the matching strength of little Aemon, who used to play with me in the corridors filled with dragon skulls. I was his princess and he my knight. He promised to always protect me, but he left me alone with Aegon and chose a white armor instead…

Nostalgia is the worst enemy of Naerys Targaryen.

"As it pleases your grace"

The truth is that Naerys would never object to anything or anyone, not even in the sake of her own daughter, so, she steps aside.

171

Two months later, King Baelor, the first of his name and the ninth Targaryen king, dies.

Everyone suspects, and in quiet whispers they scream: The hand of the king, his uncle Viserys, poisoned him.

But Naerys knows best: his father can be a harsh and meticulous politician, but he truly loves his family and he would not poison his nephew, even if he, by no means, considered him worthy to be ever called King.

She dresses in black, immaculate, hiding each single hair, and prays ... in the morning, during all afternoon and every nightfall.

The silent sisters welcome her in the rituals, the High Septon warmly embraces her as a part of the ceremonies, and although his father, now King Viserys, watches her with cold eyes, he does not stop her. He forced me to marry Aegon, and he lets him sire his bastards, and allows him to be my shame and undone; the minimal justice is to indulgence me to my prayers. That's all I want to do, to pray.

Daena, the widowed queen and the never truly queen, dresses in white. She does not bother to hide the vast smile on her face.

And the three princesses in the tower are set free. From the maidenvault, but not from my father. Viserys Targaryen has already arranged a marriage for young Elaena with a nephew of Lord Arryn and Rhaena will be next, unless she can escape to become a septa. We should escape together, once taken the habit no one could take it away, not even my father or Aegon, or anyone. Of the three maids, is beautiful Rhaena the only one who cries for her brother.

"My condolences for the loss of our uncle" voices Myriah Martell ... no, Myriah Targaryen. Her speech is sweet and sincere. My son loves her so, and she's with child again.

"Thank you, daughter"

Little Baelor, named after the King who has passed away and that Daeron admired for so many years, shows the most solemn face that such a little child can truly display.

"Grandpa says that I should look dignify"

But her grandson does not refer to his grandfather Aegon, but to his great-grandfather Viserys. For Aegon has never cared about the image projected by the royal family.

"King Viserys" corrects him fondly his father Daeron "He is now your king, our king, and you should address him with the respect that is required"

The little boy with dark hair and blue eyes nods. He is strong, and he will be wise as his father, but he will never be a full Targaryen. His blood is no longer pure.Naerys has a good heart, but she was raised as a Targaryen.

Fire and blood, are our words.

But what blood? It's now mixed with the Dornish, no longer untainted. What fire? There are no more dragons sailing the skies.

What prevents the large houses to rebel against us and deprive us of all?

Nothing, seems to whisper Daeron at her ear.

Absolutely nothing.

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