A handmaiden led the Viserys siblings to a patch of ground hastily cleared deep within the Perfume Garden.
The place had obviously been altered in a rush.
The soil had been turned and then tamped down; a waist-high ring of unworked logs formed a crude fence.
Several viewing stands were under construction, the lumber cut unevenly, the whole scene a clumsy, chaotic imitation.
Viserys's step faltered.
This place… felt faintly familiar.
As a child in King's Landing he had glimpsed the great tourney ground outside the walls—grand, orderly, banners flying.
What lay before him now looked like that proud memory poorly copied and flung into the mud.
A makeshift awning had been erected at the edge; cushioned chairs and a table waited beneath it.
Dorian Antalion, the Lysene magister, sat within, dressed in deep-purple velvet, peeling a grape with deliberate grace.
At his side stood his son Cassimir and Sa Melis among others.
When Viserys and Daenerys were brought before the awning, the conversation paused only briefly.
Dorian lifted his gaze, nodded in minimal greeting, and did not stop his peeling.
No one rose, no one welcomed them, no polite smile was offered.
The wordless chill cut deeper than open mockery.
The sting of that meager reception doused the illusory fire Viserys had carried since the road.
Still, he forced himself forward, chest high. "Your Excellency, my thanks for… your hospitality. Lys is unforgettable."
Dorian placed the grape in his mouth, wiped his fingers, then said in Lys-accented Common, "Your Grace has traveled far; you must be weary. Sit."
He indicated a backless, rough-hewn stool.
Daenerys pressed close to her brother, nearly hiding behind him.
She felt the stares beneath the awning—curious, assessing, sneering—like invisible needles.
She kept her eyes on her scuffed shoes.
Viserys sat stiffly; Daenerys hovered at his side like a frightened hare.
"Your Excellency," he began, drawing a breath for the speech he had rehearsed countless times to win allies, "you know the plight of House Targaryen. The Usurper holds the iron throne; the rightful line is cast into shadow. Yet I, Viserys Targaryen the Third, have never abandoned my vow to restore our glory!"
He strove for ringing passion. "Lys is a daughter of Valyria; with your support—coin, ships, a stage to show my mettle—I shall gather loyal swords and strike again!"
"When I reclaim the iron throne, Lys shall be the Seven Kingdoms' closest ally, and your line shall know boundless honor!"
He looked to Magister Dorian, hoping.
Even a flicker of interest, a single bargaining word.
Only wind sighed through the stands.
Dorian sipped his wine and said slowly, "Your ambition is admirable."
"But Lys is one of the Free Cities; we do not lightly meddle in the affairs of others. This matter… must be weighed at length."
Viserys's heart sank. "Your Excellency, the moment slips away! Lannister and Baratheon are not of one mind; the North and Dorne nurse old grievances. If we—"
"Pfft—"
A sharp laugh cut him off.
It came from Cassimir.
Arms folded, he wore undisguised amusement.
Meeting Viserys's eyes, he cocked a brow, raking his gaze over the threadbare coat and forced composure as if savoring a poor play.
Color flared in Viserys's cheeks, then drained away.
Humiliation, fury, and a dawning dread shook him. He turned to Dorian, voice trembling. "Your Excellency, I—I don't understand. If you prepared all this—" He gestured toward the bright bunting and busy workmen. "Surely it was to welcome—"
The last words stuck, tasting of blood; he dared not speak them.
The last ember of hope guttered wildly yet refused to die.
No, no, there must be some mistake… Cassimir straightened, barked an exaggerated "Ha!" and drew the syllable out in cruel mockery.
"Welcome? A grand show? Tell me, exalted 'Beggar King'—you didn't think this arena was for you, did you?"
He lingered over the title "Your Grace," every syllable soaked in scorn.
He stepped closer, eyes like blades. "Where is this confidence? Look at yourself, then look around. Are you worthy?"
Each word landed like a slap.
Viserys's eyes burned; his teeth ground until he tasted iron.
Daenerys wept silently, biting her lip, thin shoulders shaking.
"Enough, Cassimir," Dorian said levelly. "Royal blood, however fallen, deserves courtesy."
"Besides, these siblings are not without their uses," he continued, indicating the lists. "For instance, they can appraise this… tourney of ours. We remain but newcomers to the customs of Westeros."
He looked at Viserys, his tone as if dismissing a dispensable hireling: "Since the two of you are here, help me check—does this venue, these rules, have any oversights? When it's done, I'll pay you."
"Call it sponsorship, call it payment, whatever—no reason you should come all this way for nothing."
With that he turned from the Targaryen siblings to Cassimir. "Your recruited contestants—are they all set?"
Cassimir at once assumed an obsequious smile. "Father, rest easy. With such rich rewards, mercenaries, gladiators—even down-at-heel Westerosi nobles—are scrambling to enter!" He curled his lip. "I'll never understand why Westerosi relish such savage spectacles."
Viserys stood like a statue scoured hollow by wind and rain; every drop of blood in him had frozen, leaving only boundless humiliation and biting cold.
He wanted to turn and flee this hellish place without a backward glance.
He did not.
He stayed rooted, even gave a small stiff nod; no sound would leave his throat.
Because he needed money.
Without coin they could not pay the fare for a ship out of Lys.
Without coin they might sleep in the streets tonight, true beggars.
The last scrap of royal dignity shattered soundlessly before the needs of survival… The next day the hastily erected arena was brightened with extra pennants and crude coats of arms, and looked almost festive.
The stands were divided; the shaded seats closest to the sand were reserved for Lysene aristocrats and rich merchants.
Though these languid Lysene nobles privately scorned such "barbarous Westerosi entertainments,"
curiosity and the fact that the Lord Governor himself had arranged the "amusement" drew a sizable crowd.
Farther out, common citizens and foreign sailors packed in, a deafening, jostling throng.
Aegon and thirty-odd Bloodsworn, now in plain clothes and scattered through the crush, stood among them.
Silent and watchful, they seemed alien to the surrounding excitement.
Gilded carriages clogged the Perfume Garden's approach; lords and ladies drifted in with idle smiles, as if coming to a diverting farce.
And one of the farce's chief curiosities appeared to be the incongruous pair in the corner.
Viserys and Daenerys were not allowed onto the main dais.
They had been placed in an unobtrusive nook at the arena's edge, offered no proper chairs—only two rough wooden stools.
Daenerys huddled inside her cloak, hood drawn so low it nearly hid her face.
She felt the stares from every side—curious, probing, contemptuous, mocking—countless tiny needles pricking her exposed skin.
Well-dressed ladies sat in the foremost row, dainty garlands before them, twittering excitedly like bright-plumaged birds.
They had heard the romantic tale of the "crown of love and beauty," and awaited some champion to seek their favor, turning the bloody contest into a flirtatious game.
All of it felt distant yet glaringly painful to her.
Daenerys shrank still smaller, praying this suffocating farce would end.
Viserys beside her showed neither yesterday's fury nor shame.
Every expression had frozen and flaked away, leaving only hollow numbness and stone-like rigidity.
He stared straight ahead at the empty sand, eyes unfocused.
Soon a discordant fanfare blared, and the hastily improvised tourney began—if tourney it could be called.
First came "knights" in motley armor astride nags, their manners coarse, their gear stained with the grime of years—more pirates than cavaliers.
Following some clumsy mock-ceremony, they guided their mounts to the stands, bowing to the richly dressed maidens—especially those with garlands—begging a favor and tying a colored ribbon to lance or sleeve.
One after another they rode past, grinning, eyes roaming the laughing girls for the prettiest or highest-born.
Not a single man, not even in passing, glanced toward the small figure in the bleached cloak with a crude garland at her feet.
Daenerys kept her head down, staring at the lonely wreath of fresh blossoms before her knees.
The flowers were dewy, bright in the sun.
Yet no knight looked at her.
No blessing was sought from her.
No one would fight for her.
She was merely an overlooked ornament in a forgotten corner.
Tears blurred her sight again; she bit her lip hard to keep silent.
Only one thought remained: let it end—quickly.
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