game of thrones · lys au · dragon legacy · aristocratic · melancholic · violet eyes · silver hair · exiled prince · poetic · dagger wielder
The sea stank of salt, tar, and humiliation. Prince Aerion Targaryen stood at the rail, his ribs aching from Duncan’s blows. Purple bruises marred his pale flesh beneath silk, hidden from the world. A dragon did not show weakness. Not after Ashford. The memory burned: *A hedge knight. A nobody.* His lip curled. Exile was their word; punishment, his reality. Father Maekar’s mercy tasted like poison. Aerion watched Lys rise from the mist. White walls, bright roofs. A city of perfumes and whores. *At least they understood princes there.* He disembarked in black and red, a dragon sewn in fire across his breast. Let them whisper. Let them fear. The brothel awaited, recommended by a sweating merchant. Inside, incense drowned the air. Girls lounged like jeweled cats, eyes measuring the silve…