Driftmark, High Tide - 126 AC

One and ten namedays old, and I was finally fostering in Driftmark, the place I had come to think of as my true home. The sprawling castle of High Tide, perched atop the cliffs overlooking the endless, restless sea, felt more like a sanctuary than a fortress. I loved everything about it, from the way the wind howled through the stone corridors to the salty tang of the air that clung to my skin. Driftmark was where I felt most alive, most free.

The days here had a rhythm I'd quickly come to adore. Mornings often started with a walk on the beach, Aemond at my side, the two of us exchanging stories or just enjoying the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. Aemond was different here, more at ease, more himself. Away from the stifling politics of King's Landing, he could let his guard down, and I liked to think I helped with that. Our walks were a time for us to be more than just pawns in a game of thrones—they were a time for us to be cousins, friends, even.

After our walks, I'd often find myself racing through the corridors of High Tide with Ellyn and Maris, two Baratheon girls who had become like sisters to me. We chased each other through the castle like a pack of wildlings, laughing so hard our sides ached. It was a freedom I had never truly known before, and I cherished every moment of it. There were no stiff courtly manners to uphold here, no expectations of ladylike behavior—just pure, unadulterated fun.

The afternoons were for the shipyard, where my grandsire would regale me with tales of his adventures on the high seas. I loved the smell of wood and tar, the sight of towering masts and sails being stitched together by rough hands. The men of Driftmark were craftsmen and sailors, their lives bound to the sea in a way that felt almost sacred. Watching them work, listening to their stories, I felt a deep sense of pride in my heritage. This was what it meant to be a Velaryon—to be one with the sea, to navigate its treacherous waters with skill and confidence. And under my grandsire's watchful eye, I was learning to do just that.

But perhaps the part of my days that I looked forward to most was the time spent with my grandmother. We would venture into Spicetown, the bustling port town that sat in the shadow of High Tide. It was a riot of color and sound, filled with merchants from all over the known world. The scents of exotic spices, roasting meats, and fresh fruits filled the air, and the market stalls were laden with treasures from far-off lands—silks from Lys, perfumes from Volantis, gemstones from the Summer Isles. Shopping with Rhaenys was an adventure in itself, as she haggled with the merchants, her sharp eyes never missing a bargain. She taught me how to spot quality, how to judge the worth of a thing, and how to stand my ground in negotiations—a skill that would serve me well in the years to come.

But as much as I loved all of that, there was something else, something new, that had captured my heart and soul. Something I had never had the chance to experience before: music. It all started when my kepa, discovered that I had never been taught any of the arts. It wasn't something that had ever crossed my mind as important—after all, I was an heiress, meant to learn how to rule, not how to paint or embroider. My lessons had always focused on governance, strategy, and diplomacy. The idea of learning an art had simply never been considered necessary.

But Laenor saw things differently. He understood the value of the arts in a way that went beyond courtly expectations. He knew how they could nourish the soul, how they could bring light and joy into even the darkest of days. When he asked me if there was any art I wanted to learn, I hadn't hesitated. I told him I wanted to learn the harp, and I wanted to sing.

His reaction had been immediate and wholehearted. Within days, he had arranged for a teacher to come from Volantis, one of the finest harpists in the known world, or so I was told. And not just that—he also had a harp commissioned just for me, crafted from pure silver, its strings spun from the finest materials. When it arrived, I was almost afraid to touch it, so beautiful and delicate it seemed. But the moment my fingers brushed the strings, I knew it was perfect.

My lessons began, and I quickly fell in love with the instrument. The harp's music was like a voice, a language all its own, and I found that I had a natural talent for it. The notes flowed from my fingers as if they had been waiting all my life to be played. And the singing—oh, the singing. That was something else entirely. When I sang, it felt like I was reaching into some deep part of myself, something ancient and powerful, something that had been passed down to me through blood and history.

I knew where it came from. Rhaegar Targaryen, my past self's father, had been called the Silver Prince, and his voice was famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms. People said his singing could bring tears to the hardest of hearts, that his harp could make even the most stoic of men weep. I had inherited that gift, it seemed, and every time I sang, I felt a connection to him, to that part of my past life that had once been so important.

It was strange, feeling that connection to a man I had never truly known, but it was also comforting. It made me feel like I was carrying on something special, something sacred. And in those moments, with my fingers on the strings and my voice lifted in song, I felt like I was more than just Lucerys Velaryon—I was a part of something bigger, something that stretched back through the centuries.

My father was thrilled with my progress. He would often sit in on my lessons, watching with pride as I played and sang. He said I had a gift, that I was meant for this, and I believed him. It was the one part of my day that was entirely my own, where I could lose myself in the music and forget about the rest of the world.

So, our harp and singing lessons had quickly become the highlight of my days at Driftmark. It was the one time when everything else fell away—the politics, the expectations, the looming shadow of what was expected of me as the heir to Driftmark. It was just me, Ellyn, Maris, and the music.

The instructor from Volantis, Master Illyrio, was a stern man with a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue. He didn't suffer fools, and he certainly didn't tolerate laziness. But beneath his gruff exterior, there was a passion for music that was contagious. He pushed us hard, expecting nothing less than perfection, but he also knew how to make the lessons enjoyable, turning our practice into something more than just a tedious chore.

The three of us would sit together in the music room at High Tide, our harps resting in our laps. The room was filled with light from the tall windows that overlooked the sea, and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below often provided a soothing backdrop to our lessons.

"All right, girls," Master Illyrio would begin, his accent thick and melodic, rolling his R's like they were notes in a song. "Remember, the harp is an extension of your soul. You do not simply play it; you must feel it, let the music flow through you."

Ellyn, ever the impatient one, would often roll her eyes at this. "I'm trying to let it flow, Master Illyrio, but my fingers are rebelling," she'd mutter, shaking her hand as if to ward off a cramp.

"Then perhaps you should practice more, Lady Ellyn," he'd reply with a knowing smirk, never missing a beat. "If your fingers rebel, it is because they do not know the strings well enough."

Maris, always the peacemaker, would stifle a giggle and pluck a few notes on her harp, the sound rich and deep. She had a natural talent for the instrument, her hands moving gracefully over the strings as if she had been born to play. "It's all in the wrist, Ellyn. Like Master Illyrio says, let the music flow," she'd say, her tone light and teasing.

I would watch them, my fingers hovering over the strings of my harp, feeling that familiar mix of anticipation and excitement stir in my chest. There was something about those moments before the first note, that fragile, expectant quiet, that always sent a thrill through me. It was like standing on the edge of something vast and unknown, a precipice where the air seemed to hum with possibility, waiting for the plunge. The world felt suspended, as though it was holding its breath along with me, ready to dive in and see where the music would take us.

Ellyn's fingers would twitch in impatience, her gaze flicking between her harp and mine, while Maris would sit with that quiet determination she always had, waiting for the signal. We weren't just three girls practicing in some forgotten chamber. In those moments, we were something more—artists about to shape sound into something alive, something tangible. The anticipation always made me feel like my heart was pounding louder than the eventual music, and my hands would hover just above the strings, my body coiled with energy, ready to spring.

Master Illyrio would pace behind us, his presence a constant reminder that this wasn't just for our own amusement. He demanded excellence, his sharp eyes never missing a wrong movement, a wrong note. His footsteps would echo through the room, their rhythm matching the beat of my racing heart. Then, inevitably, his voice would cut through the silence, authoritative and crisp.

"Princess Lucerys, start us off," he'd command, with that tone of his that left no room for hesitation, no room for doubt. The title "princess" still sounded strange in his mouth, even though he had been calling me that since the day he arrived in Driftmark to teach me.

I'd take a deep breath, steadying the whirlwind inside me. There was something terrifying about being the one to begin, the first to break that perfect silence, knowing everyone else was waiting for me to lead the way. But there was also something exhilarating about it. Like the first spark of flame before the fire caught.

My fingers would move, finding their place on the strings, and I'd pluck the first note. The sound would resonate through the room, clear and pure, ringing out like the toll of a distant bell. In that moment, everything else would fall away—the weight of my name, the looming responsibilities, the endless court politics. None of it mattered. It was just me and the harp, the music flowing through my fingertips, each note a thread in the tapestry we were about to weave.

The others would follow, their own harps joining mine in perfect harmony. Ellyn's notes were bold, her playing always full of confidence, while Maris' fingers danced lightly, her sound softer but no less certain. The three of us together created something greater than any of us could manage alone. There was magic in it, the way our individual sounds wove together to form a whole, the way we could communicate without words, only music.

It felt like we were speaking a language no one else could understand, a language of melody and emotion that connected us in a way nothing else could. Every note was a conversation, a shared breath, and together we could tell stories that words could never capture. The rise and fall of the music would echo in the chamber, filling every corner with its warmth, wrapping around us like a cloak.

The world outside would cease to exist—there were no dragons, no castles, no looming marriages or expectations. There was only the music, and in those moments, we were free. Free to create, free to feel, free to be something other than what was expected of us.

Master Illyrio would pace behind us, his critical eye watching every movement of our fingers, every shift in tempo. He wasn't one for praise, but I could sometimes catch the faintest nod when we hit a particularly difficult harmony or mastered a passage that had once given us trouble. But that didn't matter to me, not really. What mattered was the music, the feeling of it swelling within me, the way the strings vibrated beneath my fingertips like they were alive.

As the melody built, as the room filled with the sound of our combined efforts, there would be moments where it felt as if the music had taken on a life of its own. It would soar, lifting us with it, and I would feel my heart race in time with the notes. My body would move instinctively, my hands gliding across the strings as if they knew the way without needing to be guided.

Then, as quickly as it began, the final note would hang in the air, fading slowly until the room fell back into that expectant silence. There was always that moment right after the last note, where we would sit, holding our breath, letting the stillness wash over us. It was the calm after the storm, the echo of something beautiful that had briefly existed and was now gone, leaving only its ghost behind.

Ellyn would always be the first to break the silence, her lips curving into a grin. "Not bad," she'd say, her tone light but with that competitive glint in her eyes. She liked to act as though it was all so easy for her, but I knew better. There was nothing casual about the way she played. She wanted to win, even if there was no real competition.

Maris would just smile, her hands still resting lightly on the strings. "We're getting better," she'd say, her voice quiet, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the delicate feeling that still lingered in the air.

And I would sit there, my fingers still tingling, the remnants of the music buzzing through me like the aftermath of a storm. "Yeah," I'd agree, though it always felt like an understatement. It wasn't just about being better. It was about being *alive* in those moments. About feeling something that couldn't be put into words.

Master Illyrio would pace a little longer, his sharp eyes flicking between the three of us. Then, without much ceremony, he'd give a single nod of approval. "That was satisfactory," he'd say, which was as close to a compliment as we ever got from him.

And even though we'd all roll our eyes at his lack of enthusiasm, deep down, we knew we'd done well. We'd made something beautiful, something real. Something that no one could take from us. Because in the end, it wasn't about perfection. It was about the connection. The music that tied us together, note by note, pluck by pluck.

And then there was the singing. If Master Illyrio was demanding with our harp playing, he was relentless when it came to our voices. He approached singing like a craftsman with his tools—precise, methodical, and unwilling to accept anything less than perfection.

"Your voice is an instrument, just like the harp," he would remind us, pacing back and forth in front of the three of us. His sharp gaze would flick from one to the other, watching for any signs of tension or sloppiness. "Treat it with respect. Control it, or it will control you."

Our lessons always began the same way—warming up. We'd start with scales, simple at first, gliding through the notes from low to high. I'd focus on breathing from deep in my diaphragm, just as Master Illyrio had drilled into us. The breath was the foundation, he'd always say. Without it, the voice was nothing but wind. He would stop us often, correcting posture or breath control. Shoulders down, jaw loose, chest open.

The scales would start gently, the notes easy and smooth, just to get our voices moving. But then, as we continued, the exercises would become more challenging. We'd work through arpeggios, our voices leaping from note to note, testing the flexibility of our vocal cords. Every movement had to be deliberate—precision was key. Master Illyrio would stand behind us, tapping out the tempo with his fingers, his eyes narrowing if any of us slipped, even slightly.

"Lady Ellyn, relax your jaw. Don't force the sound," he'd say, his voice a mixture of sternness and encouragement. "Lady Maris, more breath. You're letting the note fall off."

We'd adjust as needed, pushing through the exercises with determination. Each of us understood that these warm-ups were essential; without them, our voices wouldn't have the flexibility or strength to hit the more demanding melodies.

Once our voices were warm and flexible, we'd move on to more complex scales, introducing variations that required quicker changes in pitch and more precise control. This was where it started to get tricky—scales that skipped octaves or required rapid jumps between notes. Master Illyrio would make us repeat the same pattern over and over until we could do it without thinking, our voices moving smoothly and confidently from note to note.

And just when we thought we'd mastered the warm-ups, he'd throw in a new challenge—a trill exercise, perhaps, or a difficult interval we hadn't practiced before. He wanted us to be prepared for anything, to have complete control over every note we sang. There was no room for error.

Once he was satisfied with our control and flexibility, we'd move on to actual songs. We'd practice harmonizing, our voices rising and falling in tandem, each of us finding our place within the music. Ellyn's voice was sweet and light, surprisingly delicate for someone with such a sharp tongue. She would often take the lead, her notes clear and bright, with a purity that made you stop and listen.

Maris, on the other hand, had a deeper, richer tone, providing the foundation that anchored us all. Her voice was smooth and steady, a constant undercurrent that grounded the melody and gave it depth. Whenever she sang, there was a solidity to her, like she was rooted firmly in the earth, her voice an extension of that strength.

And then there was me. My voice was lighter, higher, and more delicate than either of theirs. I was the one who wove in the high notes, the ones that danced above the melody, adding a touch of brightness and playfulness to the harmony. It wasn't always easy to find my place between them, but when I did, it felt like we created something bigger than ourselves.

Master Illyrio, of course, would not be satisfied with simple melodies. He'd push us into more difficult songs, ones with intricate harmonies and complex rhythms. We'd stumble at first, unsure of how to fit our voices together, but with each repetition, we'd find our way. It was all about listening—not just to ourselves but to each other. We had to hear every note, every breath, and adjust accordingly.

"Listen to the others," Master Illyrio would say, his voice sharp. "You are not soloists. You're part of a whole. Your voice must complement theirs, not compete with it."

So, we would listen, carefully, adjusting our pitch, our tone, until the harmonies blended seamlessly. There was a certain thrill in it—in knowing that we were creating something beautiful together. Every note we hit just right, every harmony that fell perfectly into place, felt like a small victory. And when the three of us were in sync, the sound was rich, full, and—dare I say it—powerful.

It wasn't just the technical precision that made it satisfying. It was the way our voices wove together, creating something new with each phrase. The way Ellyn's clear tones lifted Maris' deep voice, and the way I could dance above them, bringing lightness to the sound. We weren't just singing; we were building something. A tapestry of sound, layered and intricate, yet somehow effortless when we got it right.

And when Master Illyrio would finally give that small, approving nod at the end of a session, it felt like we'd conquered something—not just the music, but ourselves. We had pushed past our limits, controlled our voices like true musicians, and the reward was in the sound we had created.

Of course, we'd collapse into giggles afterward, all the tension and focus of the lesson slipping away. Ellyn would throw her head back, laughing about how she'd nearly cracked on a high note, and Maris would tease her about always being just a little too loud. I'd join in, poking fun at my own tendency to rush ahead in the more difficult parts.

"Ellyn, if you crack one more note, I'm going to drop my harp and run," I'd say with a grin, knowing full well she'd hit the notes perfectly most of the time.

"Well, I'll just smash mine against the wall," Ellyn would shoot back, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "See what sound that makes."

Maris would just shake her head, her voice calm and steady. "One day, Ellyn, you'll learn to take your harp seriously."

"Not likely," Ellyn would say with a wicked grin, though we all knew she loved playing just as much as the rest of us.

Once our lesson was finally done, the last note from my harp still hanging in the air, the three of us let out a collective sigh of relief. Master Illyrio gave a curt nod of approval—his version of high praise—and with that, we were free for the day. Ellyn was the first to leap to her feet, practically bouncing with the energy she'd been holding in during the lesson.

"Thank the Gods that's over," she declared, stretching her arms over her head with a dramatic groan. "I thought my fingers were going to fall off."

Maris rolled her eyes at her sister, though she couldn't quite suppress the grin tugging at her lips. "Maybe if you actually practiced more than once a week, your fingers wouldn't be so sore," she teased, earning a mock glare from Ellyn.

I laughed, shaking out my own fingers. Truth be told, they did ache a bit from the constant plucking of strings, but it was a good kind of ache—the kind that came from knowing you were getting better, little by little. "Come on," I said, setting my harp carefully back in its case. "Let's get out of here before Master Illyrio decides we need another hour of scales."

Ellyn was already halfway to the door by the time I finished speaking. "Don't have to tell me twice!" she called over her shoulder, and Maris and I exchanged an amused look before hurrying after her.

We made our way through the winding corridors of High Tide, the familiar white stone walls cool to the touch, the scent of saltwater and fresh air seeping in through the narrow windows. The castle was a maze of staircases and passageways, each corner hiding some new secret or hidden alcove, but we knew it like the backs of our hands. We'd explored every inch of it during our time here, from the dusty old storerooms to the highest towers, and it felt like our own private kingdom.

Our destination today was the garden, a small but beautiful patch of greenery nestled within the walls of the castle. It was one of my favorite spots in High Tide, a little oasis of calm amidst the constant hustle and bustle of the castle. The garden was filled with fragrant flowers and herbs, carefully tended by Rhaenys' gardeners, and in the center stood a stone fountain, its waters sparkling in the midday sun.

We found our usual spot by the fountain, spreading out the blankets and cushions we'd brought with us. The servants had already laid out our lunch—a spread of fresh bread, cheeses, and cold meats, along with a pitcher of chilled lemon water. It wasn't the grandest feast in the world, but it was perfect for a day like this, when all we wanted was to relax and enjoy each other's company. As we settled down on the soft grass, we wasted no time, diving into the meal with the kind of enthusiasm that only comes after a long morning of hard work.

"Do you think Master Illyrio will ever smile?" Ellyn asked around a mouthful of bread, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Or do you think his face will crack if he tries?"

Maris snickered, popping a grape into her mouth. "Maybe he's forgotten how," she said, her tone mock-serious. "I think it's been so long since he smiled that his muscles don't know how to do it anymore."

I laughed, shaking my head as I reached for a slice of cheese. "You two are terrible. Master Illyrio has been nothing but patient with us."

Ellyn snorted, rolling her eyes. "Patient? Lucerys, he's more like a stone statue than a person. I half-expect him to start sprouting moss one day."

"Maybe he's secretly a gargoyle," Maris added, her voice full of mock conspiracy. "He's just waiting for the right moment to spread his wings and fly away."

We all burst into giggles at that, the sound echoing through the garden like music. It was moments like these that I cherished most—the laughter, the camaraderie, the way we could joke and tease each other without a care in the world. For a little while, we were just three girls, enjoying a sunny afternoon, free from the weight of our responsibilities.

But of course, this was Westeros, and even in a place as peaceful as High Tide, the shadows of the world outside always found a way to creep in.

Ellyn, never one to sit still for long, eventually got bored of the food and flopped onto her back, staring up at the sky. "Do you ever wonder what's going to happen next?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically thoughtful. "I mean, with everything going on. With the Greens, and the Blacks, and all the rest of it."

Maris and I exchanged a glance, neither of us quite sure how to answer. It was a question we'd all been avoiding, I think, preferring to lose ourselves in the safety and comfort of Driftmark rather than dwell on the uncertain future. But Ellyn had a way of cutting through the nonsense, of bringing up the things we all tried to ignore.

"I don't know," Maris said finally, her voice soft. "I guess we just… do our best. Stick together. Try to stay out of trouble."

"That's boring," Ellyn declared, though there was no real conviction in her words. "But I guess you're right. We'll just have to see what happens."

I nodded, though a part of me was still turning over Ellyn's question in my mind. What would happen next? The tensions between the Greens and the Blacks were growing, even if we were insulated from most of it here at Driftmark. The whispers were getting louder, the glances more suspicious, and even the servants seemed to tread more carefully when they thought no one was looking.

But what could we do? We were just girls, after all. We could play our harps, sing our songs, and laugh in the garden, but sooner or later, the world outside would come knocking, and we'd have to face it.

But not today. Today was for us, for our music, our laughter, and our friendship. Whatever the future held, we would face it together, just like we always had.

After lunch, I made my way to the library where Aemond and the maester are most likely waiting for me. I still felt the lingering warmth of the afternoon sun on my skin and the echoes of our laughter in my ears. The mood had lightened during our meal in the garden, but as I walked through the corridors of High Tide toward my lessons, a sense of duty settled back over me like a familiar cloak.

The maester and Aemond were waiting for me inside. The maester was a stern-faced man with a sharp mind and a voice that could cut through stone. He was already surrounded by a stack of dusty tomes and scrolls, his fingers stained with ink as he meticulously prepared for the day's lesson. Today's topic was the history of House Velaryon, a subject that was both familiar and daunting in its complexity. It was our history, our legacy, and the weight of it was something I felt keenly every time we discussed it.

As I settled into my seat beside a calm Aemond, the maester launched into his lecture, his voice steady and measured as he recounted the ancient origins of our house. He spoke of the Velaryons' roots in Old Valyria, the days before the Doom. He described the early days of Driftmark, when our forebears had first come to these shores, bringing with them their knowledge of the seas and their hunger for power.

Aemond listened intently, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he absorbed every word. He had always taken these lessons seriously, more seriously than I sometimes did, though I tried my best to keep up. It wasn't that I didn't care—I did. But Aemond had a way of focusing that I could never quite match. He seemed to understand, even better than I did, the importance of knowing our history, of learning from the past so that we could shape the future.

As the maester spoke of the Velaryons' rise to power, of the wars and alliances that had shaped our house over the centuries, I found myself drifting, my mind wandering to the present day. There was something almost surreal about learning the history of a house that I was meant to lead, alongside Aemond. It felt like we were standing at the edge of something vast and uncertain, tasked with carrying forward a legacy that was as old as the stones beneath our feet.

But the more the maester spoke, the more I realized how much was expected of us. We weren't just heirs to a great house; we were the next chapter in its story, the ones who would have to make the hard choices, who would have to navigate the treacherous waters of Westerosi politics with all the skill and cunning of our ancestors.

"…and that is why Driftmark has always been a bastion of power in the Narrow Sea," the maester was saying, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "Our mastery of the seas, our fleet, has kept us strong, even in the face of adversity. It is a tradition you both must continue, should you wish to maintain the power and influence of House Velaryon."

I glanced at Aemond, who was nodding along, his expression thoughtful. For him, this was more than just a lesson—it was a blueprint for how he would lead. He had always been more comfortable with the weight of responsibility, more willing to embrace the demands of leadership. It wasn't that I shied away from it, but I often felt the pressure in a different way, more like a looming shadow than a guiding light.

"Princess Lucerys," the maester's voice pulled me back to the present, and I straightened in my seat, realizing I had been caught daydreaming. "Perhaps you can tell us why the marriage of Corlys Velaryon to Rhaenys Targaryen was such a pivotal moment in our house's history?"

I blinked, scrambling to bring the details back to mind. This was something we had gone over before, but the specifics always seemed to slip away when I needed them most. "It… solidified the bond between House Velaryon and House Targaryen," I began, trying to sound confident. "It strengthened our position within the realm, ensuring that we were tied to the royal family through blood and marriage."

The maester nodded, though I could see a flicker of something—impatience, perhaps—in his eyes. "Indeed. But it was more than just a marriage of convenience. The union of Corlys and Rhaenys brought together two of the most powerful Valyrian bloodlines, ensuring that the blood of Old Valyria continued to flow strong in the veins of their descendants. It was a political masterstroke, one that has had lasting implications for our house."

I nodded along, making a mental note to pay closer attention. It was easy to get lost in the details, to let my mind wander when faced with the endless lists of names and dates. But I knew I couldn't afford to let my focus slip—not when so much was riding on our ability to lead, to continue the legacy that had been passed down to us.

As the lesson continued, I found myself glancing over at Aemond again. He was still as focused as ever, his brow furrowed in concentration as he absorbed every word. There was a part of me that envied his dedication, his ability to throw himself so fully into these lessons. But there was also a part of me that wondered if he ever felt the weight of it all, the way I did. If he ever found himself wondering what it would be like to just… let it all go, even for a little while.

When the lesson finally ended, the maester dismissed us with a final reminder of our responsibilities. I could feel the tension in my shoulders as I stood, the weight of the day pressing down on me. But Aemond seemed as composed as ever, already gathering his things with that same quiet efficiency.

As we walked out of the library, I turned to him, feeling the need to break the silence that had settled between us. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to do something else?" I asked, my voice low. "To just… be free of all this?"

Aemond looked at me, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "It doesn't matter what I wonder," he said simply. "This is our duty. It's what we were born to do."

I frowned, his words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "But what if we weren't? What if we had the choice?"

He stopped walking, turning to face me fully. "Lucy, we don't get to choose. Not really. We can only make the best of the cards we're dealt. And we've been dealt some of the best cards in the realm. We have power, influence, a legacy that most people could only dream of. That's not something you just walk away from."

I sighed, knowing he was right, even if I didn't want to admit it. "I know. I just… sometimes it feels like there's so much more out there. More than just ruling and politics and all the expectations."

"There is more out there," Aemond agreed, his tone softening just a fraction. "But it's not for us. Our path was set the moment we were born. And the sooner we accept that, the easier it is to bear."

I nodded, though I couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that his words left me with. He was right, of course. We were born to lead, to rule, to carry on the legacy of our house. Aemond was right. We didn't get to choose our paths—not really. All we could do was make the best of the cards we were dealt, and hope that, in the end, it would be enough.

As soon as our conversation ended, Aemond was off like a shot, he bolted out the door. He had his sword lessons next, and Aemond never missed a chance to throw himself into training. There was something almost fierce in the way he approached it, as if every swing of the blade was a way to carve out a piece of himself, a piece that could withstand the weight of everything we had to carry. I watched him go, feeling a pang of envy for his single-mindedness.

I gathered up my things more slowly, my mind still lingering on the conversation we'd had. There were times when Aemond's practicality felt like a burden, like he was so determined to stay the course that he couldn't see any other way. But I knew that was just how he coped—how he kept himself from getting lost in the chaos that was our lives.

As I stepped out of the library, I saw my kepa waiting for me down the corridor, his expression softening the moment he caught sight of me. Beside him was Ser Qarl, his ever-present shadow, and the sight of the two of them together brought a smile to my face. Laenor might be my father by blood, but Qarl had become something more than just a knight at his side. He was a second father to me, in every way that mattered, and the bond we shared was something I cherished deeply.

"Finished with your lessons, my sweet pearl?" Laenor called out as I approached, using the nickname he'd given me when I was little. His voice was warm, a welcome contrast to the stern tones of the maester.

"Finally," I replied with a grin, quickening my pace to reach them. "I thought that lecture would never end."

Laenor chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "History lessons never do. But they're important, you know. How else will you learn how to navigate the storms ahead if you don't know where the shoals lie?"

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't help but smile at his words. "I know, I know. But I think I prefer the shipyard to the library."

Qarl laughed at that, a deep, rich sound that always seemed to brighten my day. "Spoken like a true Velaryon," he said, reaching out to ruffle my hair in that affectionate way of his. "We'll make a sailor of you yet."

I grinned at him, feeling a surge of warmth in my chest. Qarl had been a constant presence in my life for as long as I could remember, always there with a steady hand and a reassuring smile. He wasn't just my father's lover—he was family, in every sense of the word. And while Jacaerys and Joffrey had always seen Ser Harwin Strong as their second father, it was Qarl who filled that role for me, much to the knight's delight.

Laenor watched the exchange with a soft, almost wistful expression, his gaze lingering on the two of us. I knew there was a part of him that worried—worried that I might see him differently after learning about his preferences, about the nature of his relationship with Qarl. But if anything, it had only made me love him more. Laenor had always been honest with me, always treated me with respect, and that hadn't changed just because I now know the truth.

If anything, I admired him for it. It couldn't have been easy, living in a world that expected him to be something he wasn't, to fulfill a role that didn't fit who he truly was. But he'd done it, and he'd done it with grace and dignity, never letting the world's expectations crush him. And that made me proud to call him my father.

"Lucerys," Laenor said, his voice soft as he reached out to gently touch my shoulder. "I'm glad you're here with us. I know this life isn't easy, and there are things… things that might be hard to understand. But you're handling it all so well. I'm proud of you."

His words brought a lump to my throat, and I blinked quickly, trying to keep my emotions in check. "I'm proud of you too, kepa," I replied, my voice a little shaky. "And I love you. Both of you."

Laenor's eyes softened even more, and for a moment, I thought he might tear up. But he just smiled, that warm, comforting smile that always made me feel safe. "We love you too, my pearl. More than you know."

Qarl, ever the practical one, clapped a hand on Laenor's shoulder, his expression filled with quiet affection. "Come on, before we all get too sentimental," he said with a grin. "We promised you an afternoon in the shipyard, didn't we? Let's not keep the sailors waiting."

I laughed, grateful for the way Qarl always seemed to know when to lighten the mood. "Lead the way, Ser Qarl," I said, falling into step beside them as we headed toward the shipyard.

As we walked, I found myself thinking about how lucky I was. Not everyone in Westeros had the kind of love and support that I did—certainly not in the world of highborn families, where duty often came before everything else. But my parents had made sure that I knew I was loved, that I was supported, no matter what. And that was something I would never take for granted.

The shipyard was as busy as ever when we arrived, the sounds of hammers and saws ringing through the air as the men worked on repairing and building the ships that were the lifeblood of House Velaryon. The scent of salt and wood filled my nostrils, and I took a deep breath, savoring it. There was something invigorating about being here, surrounded by the hum of activity and the sight of ships being crafted with such care and precision.

Laenor led us to one of the docks, where a new ship was being outfitted, its sleek hull gleaming in the sunlight. "This one's going to be a beauty," he said, his voice filled with pride. "Fast and strong, just like the rest of our fleet."

I could see the excitement in his eyes, the way he lit up when he talked about the ships. This was his passion, his true love, and it made me happy to see him so engaged in something that brought him joy.

As we stood there, watching the shipbuilders at work, Qarl leaned down to whisper in my ear. "You know, Lucerys, your father may be the future lord of Driftmark, but he's always been a sailor at heart. The sea is where he feels most alive."

I smiled, nodding in understanding. "I know. And I think that's why I love it here so much. It's like the sea is in our blood."

Qarl chuckled, ruffling my hair again. "That it is. And you, little princess, are going to be one hell of a ruler one day, mark my words."

I looked up at him, feeling a surge of affection for this man who had become such an important part of my life. "Not without your help, Ser Qarl," I said, my voice filled with sincerity.

He smiled, a rare, soft smile that made my heart swell. "I'll be by your side, always. You can count on that."

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the shipyard, talking and laughing as we watched the work progress. Laenor explained the intricacies of ship design to me, his passion evident in every word, while Qarl added his own insights, his knowledge as a knight complementing my father's expertise as a sailor. It was a perfect afternoon, one that reminded me of how much I had to be grateful for.

By the time the sun began to set, casting a warm, golden glow over the shipyard, I felt more at peace than I had in days. The weight of the lessons, the expectations, the future—all of it felt a little lighter, a little more manageable, knowing that I had my family by my side.

As we walked back to High Tide, the three of us together, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of contentment.