Lucerys stood by the windowsill, staring out at the crashing waves below. The scent of salt and seaweed filled the air, but it did little to ease the heavy weight on his chest. The vast lands of Driftmark stretched before him, with the castle looming in the distance, a constant reminder of the responsibility awaiting him. The throne of Driftmark, once a symbol of legacy, now felt like an unwelcoming burden.

His fingers curled against the cold stone, grasping at something solid to ground him, but it did nothing to quell the turmoil in his heart. Lucerys had never wanted this. He’d never asked to be Lord of Driftmark, never wished for the title that came with it.

”You’ll make a great lord of Driftmark,” you said softly, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. You knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it was the truth, and you needed him to know it. Even if he couldn’t see it himself.

Lucerys shook his head, a small scoff escaping his lips. ”You don’t have to lie,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. His gaze was still fixed on the distant throne, as though the mere sight of it filled him with dread.

You could see the strain in his face as he thought of his mother, Rhaenyra, and his older brother, Jacaerys. They, too, bore their own burdens. Rhaenyra, ever the symbol of the 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 bloodline, had been forced to carry the weight of the Iron Throne’s expectation. Jacaerys, ever noble and dutiful, had embraced the role of heir, even as the realm had been torn apart by politics and power struggles. They had their own paths to follow, and now, Lucerys was expected to follow his—one he didn’t feel prepared for.

“Jacaerys is ready,” Lucerys said quietly, the words hanging in the air between you. His brother had been raised for this, for leadership, for the throne. Lucerys felt small in comparison, unsure of his place in it all. “But not me. Not like him. Not like mother.”