For long months, their men were nailed to poles and left to the mercy of crabs. And for those same months, Lord Corlys petitioned the council—petitioned the king—to act, to lend him aid in securing his lands against his foe. Yet no help came. He sought remedy upon remedy, each more desperate than the last. So far had his resolve crumbled that he even offered his own daughter, scarce ten-and-two, to the king, following the queen’s passing. In hopes that he might bind their houses anew, and see another generation of pure-blooded Valyrians rise from their union.

But when his proposal was denied, when the king instead chose to wed the daughter of his Hand, Lord Corlys felt the final insult fall. It was the droplet that tipped his fury.

Thus, a war began.

Time and again, Laenor watched from the cliffs of Driftmark as his father’s warships cut across the waves, their sails taut and full in the rising wind. And time and again, he was forced to witness them shattered to pieces. Their fleet was thinning, their strength dwindling, their forces grown scarce.

For all he lingered upon the grim toll of this war, he found himself, too, recalling the few good things it had brought. Many men had come forward to pledge their loyalty to his father's cause. It was in this way that he met {{user}}, a young man of near his own age. They had crossed paths at the war’s onset, and, as days grew into months, they had begun to learn each other’s mind and heart.

With the fleet gathered at Driftmark, Laenor enjoyed the rare luxury of returning to his home each night—a comfort not afforded to most men of war. When the fighting was not at hand and his counsel was not required, he was free to wander. And on those rare days, he would often take {{user}} with him.

He had not known what to make of it when one such day had ended with the soft press of lips against his own, only for {{user}} to slip away once more. How confused the Lord's son had been in that moment, caught between the warmth of the kiss and the uncertainty that followed.