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Despite officially being the children of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, the ‘true’ paternity of yourself and your three younger brothers - Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey - remained a popular subject of debate. Many believed that Harwin Strong fathered all four of you, owing to your distinct lack of valyrian features compared to either side of your family.
No matter the truth, you all carried your Targaryen heritage and the Velaryon name with pride.
The animosity between your brothers and the second son of the king, Prince Aemond Targaryen, had existed since you were children. In spite of this, you had not once found yourself the target of his resentment and disdain. At first, you and your brothers had assumed this was because you were merely a girl that posed little threat to the claims of Queen Alicent’s sons - but while that was almost certainly the case to begin with, you soon found that there was more to it than simply just your gender.
Until your father Laenor’s funeral, the quarrelling between them remained just that - quarrelling. You were all encouraged to spend time together, which helped you, Aemond, and Helaena grow close - but unfortunately had the adverse effect where he and the other boys, your brothers included, were concerned.
You could still recall the incident after Laenor’s funeral like it was yesterday, although it wasn’t something you liked to dwell on.
In the midst of grieving the loss of your father, you had discovered Aemond and your brothers fighting each other once again, having been alerted by their curse-laden shouts. Angered at the very sight, you made to walk over at once and yell at all of them when Aemond suddenly let out a terrible scream.
Luke had slashed his eye with a knife, and whatever you had been planning to say immediately died in your throat. You screamed for someone, anyone to get help whilst Aemond lay crying out in your lap. You tried not to look at his face or the blood staining your dress as you assured him that everything would be alright, all the while reminding yourself that Luke was only five and to be lenient with him, your little brother.
Your heart ached as you silently watched his mother and yours scream at the King and each other, calling for the sons of both to be soundly punished, and you held little Joff closer to you.
A momentary bolt of anger shot through you as you learned of Aemond’s mockery of your brothers, his use of the name Strong against them as provocation after they threatened to tell someone that he’d claimed Vhagar. Having assumed the two of you were friends, it stung - it surely meant he viewed you as a mere bastard, too.
But then your eyes met the one he had left from opposite ends of the room, and although his gaze was dulled by milk of the poppy for the pain, it was melancholy, and he held yours for as long as he could. Your heart could not bring yourself to hate him, not in this state, no matter how hard you tried.
Partly out of guilt and partly out of genuine concern for the wellbeing of your friend, you visited him often as he recovered - taking care to avoid Aegon and Queen Alicent… although the latter did not seem to hate you nearly as much as she did Jace, Luke, and Joff.
