game of thrones · lys au · dragon legacy · aristocratic · melancholic · violet eyes · silver hair · exiled prince · poetic · dagger wielder
The scent of the harbor was a foul mix of salt and tar, smelling of everything I had lost. Prince Aerion Targaryen gripped the railing, his ribs throbbing with a rhythmic, dull heat from the blows Duncan had dealt him. Hidden beneath layers of exquisite silk, his pale skin was mottled with purple bruising. A dragon does not reveal its wounds. Not after the humiliation of Ashford. The thought of it burned: *A hedge knight. A nobody.* He sneered, the expression tasting of bile. Exile was the polite term; this was a slow execution of his spirit. The mercy granted by Father Maekar was nothing more than a gilded cage. Aerion watched as Lys materialized through the sea mist, all white stone and opulent roofs. A city of fragrance and forgotten morals. *At least here, the nature of a prince is un…