Lucerys the Menace: Reborn

Chapter 3: Succession Of Driftmark I

Six years had sharpened Lucerys Velaryon. The gangly child who had once been the embodiment of uncertainty was gone, replaced by a young man of sixteen, honed by war and tempered by loss. The Dance of the Dragons had arrived, not with the thunder of Westeros, but with the brutal chaos of the Stepstones—an archipelago swarming with pirates and mercenaries.

Corlys Velaryon, his grandfather, the Sea Snake, had always been a legend in his own right, steering the tides of fortune with relentless ambition. His raid on the Stepstones had been a gamble to secure vital trade routes. But victory came at a grievous cost. The news that Corlys had been gravely wounded sent a chill through Lucerys. The man who had taught him everything, who had shaped his very understanding of strength and strategy, was now a shadow of himself.

The weight of his absence hit harder than Lucerys had anticipated. His grandfather wasn’t just a leader; he was a mentor, a father figure. The thought of Driftmark without him made the air in the halls feel thicker, suffocating.

Amidst his grief, however, Lucerys couldn't afford to falter. The matter of Driftmark’s succession now loomed over him like a stormcloud. The title of Lord of the Tides had always passed to the eldest male heir, but Lucerys’s claim was under siege, not just by the world outside, but from within his own family. Ser Vaemond Velaryon, a distant cousin with a sharp tongue and an even sharper ambition, was eager to claim the seat.

Vaemond’s entrance into the grand hall was nothing short of a declaration of war. His voice thundered through the chamber as he bellowed, "The throne of Driftmark stands empty! With the Sea Snake out of commission, the rightful heir must be chosen. A true Velaryon, untainted by Targaryen blood!"

Lucerys’s fist clenched, the heat of anger pooling in his chest. Vaemond, who had spent most of his life idly sipping wine in King's Landing, now deemed himself worthy of ruling Driftmark? He glanced at his younger brother, Jacaerys, whose jaw was tight with barely-contained fury. At fourteen, Jacaerys lacked Lucerys’s years of experience, but his fire burned just as hot.

Whispers spread through the hall like wildfire. "He speaks the truth. The boy is a bastard, a dragonseed."

Lucerys slammed his fist onto the table, the noise like the crack of a whip. "I am Lucerys Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, chosen by my grandfather himself!" he barked, his voice sharp as a blade.

A tense silence fell, only to be broken by the voice of Steffon Darklyn, the ever-shifting castellan of Driftmark. "With all due respect, Prince Lucerys," Darklyn began, his tone oozing false civility, "tradition dictates that the worthiest Velaryon should inherit. Ser Vaemond has a strong claim."

Lucerys’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his anger in check. Darklyn wasn’t simply speaking on his own behalf; he was echoing the whispers of Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower, who had already begun to court the Greens’ interests in Driftmark. He could almost hear their insidious words from King's Landing: Weaken Rhaenyra’s position. Sow discord in her family.

Lucerys’s mind raced. What could they do, two young princes against an army of seasoned courtiers, with no more than their wit and resolve to hold the line? He locked eyes with Jacaerys, and a silent understanding passed between them. They couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Driftmark slip from their grasp. They couldn’t allow their mother’s claim to the Iron Throne to weaken further. Not on their watch.

Lucerys straightened, his posture firm, his eyes flashing with a fierce, unyielding resolve. This was no longer just a battle for Driftmark; it was a battle for the future.

“Ser Vaemond,” Lucerys said, his voice steady, sharp enough to cut through the tension like a blade. "Your sudden interest in Driftmark’s succession is... curious. Perhaps you could enlighten us. What exactly compels you to challenge my claim at this very moment?"

The words were laced with cold mockery, and Lucerys leaned forward, his gaze unwavering as he watched Vaemond’s face flush with irritation. Vaemond stammered, trying to regain composure. "My claim is based on blood, Prince Lucerys," he snapped, his voice tight, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. "True Velaryon blood, untainted by... foreign influences."

Lucerys’s lips twisted into a thin smile, one that carried none of the warmth it might once have had. "Foreign influences?" he repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. "Tell me, Ser Vaemond, where was your concern for Driftmark’s succession when my grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon, was in full health and strength?"

Vaemond faltered, clearly unprepared for such an attack. “That… that is irrelevant!”

"Is it?" Lucerys’s voice was ice, smooth and cutting. "Because your sudden ambition, it seems to coincide neatly with my grandfather's absence. Isn't that... convenient?"

A flicker of unease crossed Vaemond's face, but he quickly masked it. Lucerys knew he had struck a nerve. The timing of Vaemond’s claim was too perfect, too well-suited to the Greens’ desires in King's Landing. The whispers of his support, the quiet promises from Queen Alicent, all pointed to the same thing: Vaemond was a pawn in a much larger game.

Before Vaemond could respond, the chamber doors crashed open, and a commanding voice echoed through the hall. "What's all this commotion? Can't a woman enjoy a decent homecoming without this racket?"

Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, strode into the room, her presence so powerful that even Ser Vaemond, so sure of his position just moments ago, faltered. The room fell silent as she surveyed the gathered lords with a cold, appraising gaze.

“The succession of Driftmark? That matter has already been settled, hasn’t it?”

Her sharp eyes fell on Lucerys, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of pride in her gaze. Lucerys met her stare, chin held high, his resolve steeled by her presence.

Vaemond, never one to back down easily, tried again. “But what of tradition, my Lady? What of the rightful Velaryon bloodline?”

Lucerys’s patience snapped. “Our legitimacy is not for debate, Vaemond. We are Velaryons, grandsons of the Sea Snake. And my grandfather’s word is final.”

Rhaenys stepped forward, her voice dangerous in its calm. "Perhaps you've forgotten," she said, her words cutting as she addressed Vaemond directly, "who currently occupies the Iron Throne? King Viserys Targaryen is not dead. And my cousin would never tolerate such slander about his own blood."

Vaemond’s bravado cracked for the first time, his face paling as the reality of his position sank in. “The King is… indisposed, my Lady,” he mumbled, a flicker of desperation creeping into his voice. “Queen Alicent rules in his stead, and I expect her to… to ratify my claim.”

Rhaenys’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Alicent Hightower may believe she holds all the cards, but you underestimate the power of a dragon, Ser Vaemond. And the fury of a Velaryon wronged.”

The room was electric with tension. Lucerys, standing tall at his grandmother’s side, knew that this was but the beginning. The succession of Driftmark might be settled today, but the seeds of the Dance had already been sown. And they would burn through everything.