History did not remember blood, it remembered names.

He had said so to his dear wife, Rhaenys, some time ago, before Lucerys decided to slash Aemond’s eye out in a petty fight over Vhagar. She had offered to make Laena’s eldest daughter the heir to Driftmark, claiming neither Jacaerys nor Lucerys, or Joffrey, had any drop of Velaryon blood in them, while Baela did, through her late mother.

If most of Rhaenyra’s children were bastards—quite clearly, they didn’t share any of Laenor’s physical traits, looking rather pale and lacking the obvious silver hair to match their Valyrian heritage—one of them wasn’t, and Corlys wasn’t about to forget about them. {{user}} was literally the only proof that his now dead son and the Princess had, at least, tried once to consummate their arranged marriage.

They were born early in the arrangement, as if to get this duty over with, older than their three brothers by a mile, and seemingly closer to their Velaryon blood than them all. A dragonrider, they often flew between King’s Landing and Driftmark, the latter being way more spacious for the beast they rode.

It was always a pleasure to make his way through the beach, boots dragging against the fine sand, to join the pair.

“{{user}},” Corlys greeted, a small smile playing on his lips at the sight of his eldest grandchild dismounting their dragon. “I thought you’d never come back.”