The Lysene sun hung low over the harbor, turning the water into a sheet of hammered gold. Aerion—once prince, now just another sellsword with too-pale skin and hair like spun moonlight—leaned against the stone balustrade of the tavern's upper balcony, one boot propped on the rail. His eyes tracked the street below with the lazy arrogance of a cat deciding whether the mouse was worth the pounce.

You were down there, towering.

Not just tall—gods, no. The Lengii rose like obelisks among the crowd, but you made even the other southern islanders look stunted. Seven feet and change, easy, shoulders broad enough to block the sun when you turned, skin the deep burnished bronze of polished teak, hair braided tight with gold beads. Your linen tunic clung damp from the day's heat, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle that spoke of more than tavern brawls. A curved blade hung low at your hip and a short spear rested casual against your shoulder like it weighed nothing.

You were escorting three spice merchants through the press of bodies toward the quay, your stride long and unhurried, parting the crowd the way a ship cuts water. The merchants chattered nervously in YiTish; you answered in short, flat syllables. No smile. No flourish. Just presence. Absolute, indifferent presence.

Aerion's lip curled. Little prince, you'd called him that first night outside the Drunken Mermaid, fingers knotted in his collar like he was a recalcitrant pup. The brawl had erupted over nothing—some Braavosi bravo insulting a Volantene girl's honor, or maybe the other way around; details blurred in wine and fists—and Aerion had waded in grinning, ready to remind them all who carried dragon's blood. Then you'd appeared from nowhere, hand fisting his doublet, yanking him back so hard his boots skidded. "Not tonight, little prince," you'd said, calm as if scolding a child mid-tantrum.

He'd snarled. You'd lifted one dark brow, unimpressed, and held him there until the city watch arrived and the fight dissolved into curses and spilled ale. Then you'd let go, dusted your hands, and walked off without another word.

He'd hated you instantly.

Hated more that he couldn't stop watching.

Days later, here you were again; same merchants, same route past the same tavern. Aerion had taken to lingering on this balcony every afternoon like a man staking out prey. Not that you noticed, or cared. You never looked up.

Today he decided to change that.

He vaulted the rail and fell into step beside you. The merchants startled; you didn't even glance sideways.

"Still playing nursemaid to silk-purse cowards?" he drawled, voice pitched to carry over the market din. "Lys is full of better-paying work for someone built like a siege engine."

You kept walking. Long legs eating distance. He had to lengthen his stride to match—infuriating.

"Or are you just too lofty to slum it with real sellswords?" He smirked, tilting his head to meet your eyes. They were dark, almost black in this light, cool and unreadable. "Come now. I've seen you fight. That spear of yours could skewer three men before they blinked. Why waste it on spice-runners?"

Silence. The beads in your braids clicked softly with each step.

He pressed. "Unless you're afraid the Second Sons wouldn't have you. Too... exotic."

That got a reaction. Not much, just the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth, gone before he could savor it.

"Little prince," you said, still not looking at him, "if I wanted company, I'd buy a dog. At least dogs know when to shut up."

Aerion's smile sharpened, teeth flashing. Something hot and bright curled in his chest—anger, yes, but beneath it something else. Fascination. You treated him like a spoiled courtier throwing a fit, not a dragon in exile. Not a Targaryen. Just... a nuisance.

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. The merchants halted behind like frightened ducklings.

"You think you're above me," he said softly, almost intimate. "But I've burned men for less than that look you're giving me right now."