LOVERS OF LYS

Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Reader

The heat of Lys was a different beast than the summer sun of Westeros. Here, the air was heavy and humid, thick with the scent of jasmine and sea salt—a far cry from the stifling, stony halls of Summerhall or the judgmental whispers of King’s Landing. In this city of perfumes and pleasure, the two of you were finally unburdened by your royal responsibilities.

The "Bright Prince" was no longer looked upon in disgust, but a god among men. For you, the freedom came in the form of fashion. Gone were the stiff kirtles and heavy velvets of the Crownlands. In their place, you wore layers of Lysene gossamer so thin they were little more than a suggestion of silk against your skin.

You stood on the balcony of your manse, the sea-foam fabric billowing around your legs. The shimmering, translucent silk clung to every curve, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. In Westeros, such a garment would have ignited a scandal that would have reached as far as the Wall; here, it was merely the standard of luxury.

A heavy footfall sounded behind you. You turned, leaning back against the marble railing. Your breath hitched at the sight of him. Aerion had just returned from a campaign with the Second Sons, and the sellsword life suited him with a terrifying perfection.

Since his exile following the trial at Ashford, he had traded the polished plate of a prince for the rugged, sun-baked gear of a sellsword. His time with the Second Sons had stripped away the last of his soft edges.

In his place stood a man forged in the heat of the Disputed Lands. His shoulders had broadened, his chest was a wall of scarred, corded muscle, and his waist was narrow and hard. He hadn't even bothered to put on a tunic; he stood there in salt-stained riding leathers, his skin bronzed by the Essosi sun and slick with the light sheen of exertion.

“My father thought he was punishing us when he sent us to this den of decadence,” Aerion mused, his voice a low drawl. “Instead, this place becomes us.”

You let out an idle hum, a coy smirk playing at your lips as your eyes mapped his hardened physique. “It certainly does,” you murmured appreciatively. You began to close the distance between you. "You're back early."

Aerion’s eyes, piercing violet, tracked the way your sheer dress clung to your curves. He loved these dresses; he often said they were the only thing in Lys that suited you more beautifully than flames.

"The contract ended early. I grew bored of killing men who cowered at the mere shadow of the dragon,” he said, catching you by the waist. His hands were calloused and rough, radiating heat.

You didn’t shy away. Instead, you let your palms slide up the expanse of his chest. You traced the deep grooves of his torso, feeling the way his muscles jumped and tightened under your touch.

"You’re staring, sweetling," he teased, reaching out to wind a lock of your hair around his finger. "Do the Second Sons training regime meet your approval?"

"They’ve certainly done wonders for your form," you replied, though your voice took on a more petulant edge as you paused your perusal. “Too bad you’re rarely around for me to enjoy the results.”

His smirk widened at the pout on your lips. “Well, I am certainly here now.”

As your hands moved again, you traced the jagged line of a fresh scar near his ribs before gliding upward over the hard ridges of his stomach. Every muscle stayed taut under your fingertips as you explored the new geography of his body.

Aerion let out a low, guttural growl as your fingers danced up toward the hollow of his throat. He grabbed your wrists, not to stop you, but to pin them against his chest so he could feel the frantic beat of your pulse against his skin.

"This dress," he hissed, his gaze dropping to the sheer fabric that revealed every inch of your skin beneath. "I can’t decide if should kill the weaver for making it, or give him a chest of gold for the view it has given me. Perhaps, I will take his eyes for being the first to gaze upon you in it.”

You let out a husky laugh, leaning into the furnace of his chest. “And how then would he make me more of these pretty things? You would deprive me of my only comfort in this Lysene heat?”

Aerion answered with a low, guttural chuckle. He pulled you flush against him, the sea-foam gossamer offering no protection against the heat radiating from his skin. Even in the drafty halls of Westeros, his blood had always run hotter than a normal man’s—especially after a fight. The adrenaline of the battlefield always turned his arrogance into a burning, focused hunger.

His hand slid from your waist to the nape of your neck, his thumb tilting your chin upward until you were forced to meet the violet fire in his eyes.

"Let him go blind," he murmured. "He has already seen more than any commoner should, and I have seen far too little of you these past months."

You huffed in amusement, though your breath was beginning to hitch. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, Aerion. Even you must appreciate the fine craftsmanship. He is the most sought-after tailor in the city; to lose him would be a tragedy for all of Lys.”

"The craftsmanship is wasted," he countered, his voice dropping to a silken, predatory register. He released your wrists only to lace his fingers through your hair, pulling just enough to expose the smooth, vulnerable line of your throat to the moonlight. "I find I prefer the view without the silk."

He stepped into your space, forcing you back until your spine pressed once more against the cool marble railing. The night air of Lys was supposed to be cooling, but between the two of you, the atmosphere was stifling.

“The Second Sons have made you greedy, Aerion,” you whispered, your breath hitching as he leaned down, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

His hand slid from the silk of your hair down to the small of your back, his palm searing through the thin gossamer of your gown. With a sudden, fluid motion, he hoisted you up and seated you atop the wide marble balustrade. You gasped, your legs instinctively locking around his waist, the rough, sun-baked leather of his riding gear abrading the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The sea-foam skirts bunched and hiked up around your hips, revealing the smooth length of your legs to a man who looked as though he’d been starving in a desert for an eternity.

One wrong move and you would tumble into the churning sea far below. The dark smirk Aerion sent you, spoke of his absolute power in this moment. He knew the drop behind you was steep; he knew that he was the only thing keeping you anchored to the world. 

With a strength that brooked no argument, he forced your legs to unwind from his hips. His calloused fingers dug into the soft give of your thighs, his grip a brand that would surely leave marks by morning. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly sunk to his knees.

Aerion paused, his breathing heavy and ragged, his eyes tracking your heaving bosom before finally pushing up the last inches of your dress to bare the sight of you to him. The arrogance of the prince was gone, replaced by the raw, starving hunger of a dragon. A low, territorial sound rumbled in his chest—a growl of satisfaction at the glistening sight of you, presented like a prize upon a marble altar.

“My, what a pretty sight you are,” he rasped, his hands sliding upward to catch the backs of your knees. “Too beautiful for this world, sweetling.”

He leaned forward, his face inches from the junction of your thighs. You gripped the marble railing until your knuckles turned white, the sheer drop behind you forgotten as the heat of his breath hit your skin.

"Aerion," you breathed, a silent plea for him to give you what you wanted. 

"Let the gods watch," he murmured against your skin, his hands tightening their hold. "Let my father and the snivelling lords of Westeros look across the water and see what they threw away. They thought they were stripping me of my title, but here... I am more than a prince. I am a king."

He pressed a lingering, searing kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just above the knee, before slowly dragging his lips upward. The friction of his stubble was a delicious torture against the teasing softness he used to kiss you. He looked up at you then, his violet eyes dark with a manic, possessive sort of worship.

You opened your mouth to beg him to stop the teasing, but the words died in your throat as his tongue flicked against you. Your body jerked at the sudden, electric contact, a sharp gasp falling past your lips and lost to the sea breeze.

He smirked arrogantly, a flash of white teeth against bronzed skin, and without warning surged forward. He licked a long, slow strip from the base of your aching heat all the way to your clit, tasting the slick evidence of your desire. You arched your spine, the cold marble of the balustrade forgotten as you leaned back into the abyss of the night. Your fingers tangled desperately in the sweat-dampened silk of his Targaryen hair, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to him even as the terrifying fear of the fall danced at the edge of your mind.

A deep, primal groan rumbled from his chest at the honeyed taste of you, vibrating against your sensitive skin. He didn’t hesitate to bury his face against you, his mouth opening wide to devour the sensation he had hungered for through months of blood and dust.

"Do you have any idea," he began through short teasing kitten licks, his voice dropping into a low, vibrato-laden growl that seemed to echo in the very marrow of your bones, "how many times I dreamt of this in the mud of the Disputed Lands? How many men I gutted while imagining the scent of your skin and the taste of this sweet, nectarous heat?"

The question was rhetorical, and even if it weren't, you had no breath left to answer. You could only let out a broken, high-pitched whimper.

He didn’t hesitate to dive back in, his tongue moving with the same ruthless, relentless assault he used with a blade. He drank from you as if you were the only sustenance he had been allowed in all his months of exile, his hands never wavering in their iron-tight grip on your thighs, keeping you pinned and open. Perfectly on display for his greedy gaze.

The world narrowed down to the sound of the crashing waves below and the relentless, wet heat of his mouth. You were a dragon’s prize, and as your head fell back, your hair spilling over the edge of the marble toward the abyss below, a jagged realization pierced through the fog of your pleasure: the throne in King's Landing was a cold, iron seat, but this—this was power.

To have one of the most feared and powerful men on his knees pleasuring you.

The calloused palms of his hands slid upward, moving from your thighs to cup your buttocks, lifting you slightly off the marble so he could pull you even more flush against his face. He was relentless, a force of nature that refused to give you a moment of reprieve. Each stroke of his tongue, broking down the last of your coherent thoughts until you were nothing but a collection of frayed nerves and gasping breaths.

He increased the pace, his tongue flicking faster, more demandingly, until the tension in your body reached a breaking point. Your head fell back, exposing your throat to the stars, and your hips began to roll instinctively against him, seeking the release that only he could provide.

As the first waves of a crushing climax began you felt as if you were floating, suspended between the stars above and the jagged rocks below, held in place only by the mouth of a man who would burn the world just to hear you scream his name.

Your fingers spasmed, clenching into the thick, silver-gold silk of his hair, and your body jerked with the violent onset of pleasure. A long, shattered moan fell past your lips, echoing off the stone walls of the manse as he continued to lick you through the height of your release, ensuring you were pushed to your very limit.

The pleasure soon became an agonizing overload, a sensation so sharp it bordered on pain. You tried to push at his shoulders, your breath coming in ragged sobs, but your lover was a predator who took his time. He stayed nestled between your thighs, drinking his fill of your essence, savouring the tremors that racked your frame. Only when the last of the aftershocks began to fade did he finally pull away.

He sat back on his heels, an arrogant, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. He flicked his tongue out one last time to catch the remaining drops of your release from his lip, letting out a satisfied, low hum that vibrated in the quiet night air. He looked up at you and you knew that no crown in the world could ever compare to the fire currently burning in his eyes.

"You see, sweetling?" he whispered, his voice thick with a dark, satisfied pride as he reached up to stroke your trembling cheek. "The dragon doesn't need a throne to rule. He only needs his queen to worship.”