#tideslord

༄࿔*·⋅ starter for @tideslord.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ BY A DECREE ISSUED IN 101 AC, the iron throne could not pass through a woman to her male descendants, and, yet, as though as evidence of how senseless it was, and always had been, it was lucerys velaryon, second son of the late queen rhaenyra, who, alas, had only enjoyed a short and quite tragic reign before her death at the hands of the very brother who had stolen her throne from her and, with it, brought forth a war, of which they still were in the very palpable aftermath of now, who was crowned that day. a bittersweet occasion, more bitter than sweet, truly, at least to the new king, who knew just what had occurred leading up to this very moment, to the crown falling into the hands of a son who would have been more than content watching his mother reign, as it had always been her right, and, after her, his brother, whilst he would have had driftmark, as he'd always been meant to, and been prepared to inherit. alas, fate and gods alike seemed to have other plans, and the losses that had come before were felt more prominently than ever during the ceremony at the great sept, one he should have been witness of rather than being at the centre of it all, for his mother never had this — her coronation had come with little pomp, despite the vast number of attendees, mainly household members, a hasty act which had taken place upon dragonstone and been handled by his stepfather rather than a septon, during a time where it had all been about proving points and taking back what had been stolen, rather than cherishing the beginnings of a new reign and celebrating the first queen the realm had ever seen. if he already could not turn back time and make the injustices and tragedies that had befallen her, all of them, and the severe losses they'd dealt, undone, and place her in his stead to, at last, have what always should have been hers, then at least he had wanted to wear her crown, to show them who he had descended from, to show that he was a son of the queen they had lost, that they had never truly accepted, and that he would not let her be forgotten. but having borne witness to her tearfully being forced to sell it when her reign had come to a sudden and sad end and they had been forced to flee from king's landing, it had proven more than difficult to get ahold of it again. lucerys had tried, he truly had, had men skim the realm for it in the moon leading up to the coronation — to no avail. the crown was long gone, likely lost forever, long molten to some smith's fires, or already upon the head of a faraway monarch. so, since none of the others had appealed to him ( especially the usurper's, which members of his council that he will only all too readily let go of come morrow had suggested he wear to set a sign that it never had been truly aegon's, and which he would all too gladly have made perish in dragonfire were it not linked to the conqueror as well ), he had a new one fashioned, something else to set a sign, albeit not the one the council may have hoped for, with pieces of the treasures of high tide that had survived the fires set by the triarchy, somehow managing to do so without his grandsire acquiring knowledge, so he would not see it until the ceremony; a crown combining elements of both house targaryen and house velaryon, adorned with pearls and gemstones of both blue and red colour.

it was in the very moment where it was placed upon his head by the septon that he sought and locked eyes with corlys in the crowd before him, in the moment where his name was announced as targaryen, where the velaryon surname would be taken away from his titles, and his purpose became something greater than the heir to driftmark he had been since but five years of age, though being king would change nothing about his heritage, nothing about how he felt about being a velaryon. cruel rumours that had haunted him since birth could do naught about it, and neither will a change in succession. the new king before them was as much velaryon as he was targaryen, and always had been, and he would show them that much.

and he told his grandsire that much later in the day, when he found himself alone with him, feeling like he must, like corlys deserved to know that, though, realistically, with the new responsibilities now resting upon his shoulders, he no longer could be his heir or lead driftmark in a way it deserved, he never had stopped being it, nor stopped being a descendant of their house, deserved the promise from him that he always would cherish that part of his heritage as well, “ though i wear my mother's family name now, i will always be a velaryon . . . and as such, i ask that you be my hand. ”

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 ༄࿔*·⋅ @tideslord. loosely inspired by this.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ THE FIRE BURNED LOW in the grate at the late hour, the flickering flames providing just enough light still to illuminate the faded pages of the old book laying open on luke's lap, not a history of his ancestors taken from the tall shelves of the library of high tide this time, but a volume detailing ancient superstitions and customs amongst seafarers he'd found at the far back of one of the shelves, coated thick with years worth of dust and debris, clearly not having been touched in a long while . . . it proved more interesting than it had seemed at first, and he nigh did not notice his grandsire's approach until the older man sat down on the sea green settee at his side, the faint dip of the cushions beneath him, at last, drawing the gaze of umber eyes away from the yellowed parchment and towards corlys. “ they say the sea either loves you enough to keep you or chews you up and spits out what little remains of you. ” he begins, quietly, glancing back to the brittle book balanced upon his knee, “ i did not die a velaryon's death, though i could have . . . did the sea not want me? ” though it is not voiced, the underlying question hovers between them — because i am not velaryon?

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 ༄࿔ @tideslord.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ DRIFTMARK ALWAYS WAS QUIET, he'd learned that much since coming here and staying, but, today, something else had settled over the great fortress of high tide as well; anticipation, the weight of something approaching, palpable already before its arrival. he'd known today would be one of importance, of course he had, been told so much, and the rest he'd gathered himself. one so immersed in his own head so often picked up things in the silence he created around himself to better focus on those distorted, swimming notions that may yet reveal more of his past, saw things, heard things . . . but he had not known the true extent of that day's importance until his grandsire's summoning, until being informed that, today, he would rule over driftmark, and carry out negations regarding the blockade with the messenger that soon would be arriving from king's landing.

slow steps led further into the vast room, filled with the subtle chill that all of high tide seemed to carry, accompanied by the faint, salty tang of the sea, nigh possible to taste here, so very close to where the waves clashed against the tall rocks upon which the great alabaster fortress stood; all familiar sensations by now, bearing a sense of homeliness, inconceivable but months before, now a reality he woke up in day after day — slender, pale fingers brushed against the ancient driftwood seat, feeling the smoothened white bark, tracing one of the cracks the sea had left behind upon it long ago, following the length of it all the way to an indent the many years and natural wear had created. the seat of their ancestors, his ancestors — each time he saw it, he wondered about them, who they had been. he had studied the histories, of course, each and every one of them, twice, as a child and again as somebody who had no sense of who he was or how he stood in connection to them, these portraits of dozens of strangers wearing important titles and having countless great achievements to show, but the smudged ink of those old tomes gave away only so much. it still oft seemed unfathomable that he, too, would be written into those histories, had been already as the heir that would succeed the notorious seasnake. not so long, he'd woken from the darkness as a simple boy, nameless, half-dead . . . today, he stood here as second in line to rule over a realm, and, more significantly, as the very lord who would sit the driftwood throne and rule over not only house velaryon and the island of driftmark someday, but the seas.

and judging by his grandsire's words, today he would get a taste of that, a taste of what it truly entailed to be the lord of the tides, a taste of his future. today, he would be the lord of the tides.

his hand slipped off the wood as he straightened himself, settling against the blue fabric of his tunic at his front instead, “ you said my uncle would be coming . . . which one? ”

@tideslord liked for a starter.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ THE EVENING quickly had progressed into night without him noticing, the candles burned down to but molten stumps, flickering light provided by the last strength their dwindling flames could muster barely enough still to illuminate the spot where he sat in the great library of driftmark.

still, lucerys could not yet leave the tome laid out on the table before him, detailing his grandsire's nine notorious voyages, head tilted into an elevated palm, fingertips absently tracing aching temples where a throbbing headache had settled — nothing new, but, this time, he was not entirely faultless, if the nigh-empty bottle of wine on the table was any indication. shoulders jerked vaguely as the weight of a hand suddenly was felt against one, weary brown eyes lifting to his grandsire, “ what happened in asshai? ”

@tideslord | PROMPT

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ WHAT DID HE NEED? the truth was, he was not sure — for a long time, ever since returning to dragonstone, to a life that, for equally as long, had felt naught if not surreal, like something that could not possibly be his own, could not possibly belong to the common man he had come to believe he was in the time that had followed what should have been his death, he had done his best to avoid his grandsire, never certain what to tell him, what to say to a man whose fortune he stood to inherit when he had not even remembered him, nor the responsibility of his birthright, when all he'd known of it had been what he had been told by his mother and brother, what he had heard from the lips of whom he had thought strangers for a time, too. once he'd started to come to terms with who he was, who he truly was, once he'd started remembering some, though certainly not all, of his past, he had picked up books, spent many a long night flipping through giant tomes containing histories of house velaryon, looking at entries from logbooks his grandsire had kept on his great voyages and documentations of the rich treasures he had found, not knowing when he'd been given these items or how much he'd known of it before, but recognising their importance, recognising the undoubtable greatness of what he stood to inherit. but even then, even as questions began to form, he could not bring himself to approach the man, kept out of his way whenever he was present at dragonstone, kept conversation to a minimum and never referred to the subject, unspoken words always hanging heavily and palpably between them on the rare occasions where they found themselves within the same room.

yet still, corlys had never changed his mind, never appointed another heir, not when lucerys had been thought dead, nor when his amnesia had been believed incurable and his chances of improvement next to nothing, when they all had been confronted by the words of frowning maesters telling them that he was not the same and never would be again, and when he had arrived at driftmark that morrow, following a rather sudden decision to make the journey, at last, to break the silence he himself had created, sometime in the weeks following his grandmother's death at rook's rest, he, for the first time since his return, had felt it, felt exactly what was to driftmark in the welcome he had received when stepping off the ship that had crossed the rather short distance between the two islands. a prince of the realm he was, yes, but he could tell that this was not all that these men had regarded him as, not all which had caused their treatment of him; they'd been looking upon their future lord, alive still, despite all odds, something equal parts relived and hopeful glistening vaguely in their eyes.

and now the heir to driftmark stood before his grandsire, looking better than he had when he had arrived on dragonstone moons prior; less ghostly, more human, though the chill of death never had quite left his bones. tireless hours of training had done him some good too, turned his build into something more healthy again, though he still had a bad habit of marking meals with his absence. but what should stick out most was that he was wearing velaryon colours; draped in the blues and greens of the sea as opposed to the black he normally chose to wear.

“ alliances are forming which very well could work against us. driftmark could become a target and, when they come, i wish to stand beside you. ” he spoke eventually, voice then dropping to a more quiet tone as he added several moments later, “ . . . if you will still have me. “

@tideslord | PROMPT

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ EVEN DRAGONS WERE NOT IMMUNE TO FIRE, and neither was the blood of it. an unfortunate truth, perhaps, but true no less, and one lucerys had to face firsthand when the triarchy attacked driftmark.

he'd been in the sky the majority of the morning, stopping many a ship heading for the velaryon fleet which had set out as soon as the threat had become known, supported from above in the skies by its very heir of both velaryon and targaryen descent, bluish-white dragonflame swallowing their hulls and their armed occupants with it, sinking many of them and torching their arrows in flight, but many more pushed their way through, got past the defences on ground, sea, as well as sky, and when spicetown erupted in flames, when the battle reached the island and no longer existed merely upon the water, there was little dragonfire could do other than add to the tragedy, burn his people alongside the enemy, take lives that were not meant to be taken, further worsen the damage already caused by the opposing side. and, so he'd eventually come to ground, joined with the velaryon forces there, his dragon, as he was known to do, going into hiding ( but he would come at lucerys’ beckoning, he always did; this was the bond they'd formed, the drowned prince and the dragon dubbed grey ghost ) as soon as he was riderless, evading the keen archers trying with all their might to shoot him down once he took flight again.

he proved a capable ground fighter as well, but the opponents came in masses, seized any chance they could to deal as much damage as humanly possible, and it was not the fire which ultimately became an enemy, but rather the smoke — poisonous, blinding black billows which rose from the lost spicetown, entered the air and spread rapidly with the winds that swept across the island of driftmark, nigh seeming to swallow it entirely. lucerys dwelled too long even when it surrounded him, when the cloud became too dense, too stubborn to leave the fight, to let it hinder him.

at last, when his vision blurred and strength and steps faltered, legs threatening to give in beneath him, hand not gripping blood-smeared blade futilely seeking purchase on whatever was closest, the soot-stained remains of a barrel or crate, he could not even be certain what he was reaching for, could hardly see through the black veil of acrid smoke that was rapidly spreading across the island and the tears which the burn of it evoked, and the ceaseless coughing from constricted lungs became painful, he suddenly felt arms around his middle, stopping the inevitable descend to his knees, a strong hold keeping him upright, keeping him standing, albeit barely, supported by the presence of . . . someone. it took a moment before he could recognise who had come, who was hauling him away from where the pungent billows were most dense, holding him steady even as he staggered, turning his head, blinking against the pain in watery eyes.

“ grandsire . . . i can still— ” he managed to get out, only straining his lungs more, which contracted with another fit of heavy coughing that hurt his chest, the sharp pain in it not fading even as he coughs ceased, “ . . . where are we going? ”