The port of Lys is always bustling, the salty sea breeze mingled with the scents of spices, sweat, and money.
Beside the exclusive pier of the Perfume Garden, the high-masted ships moored there were all adorned with ornate carvings and sails like clouds.
The hulls were painted with vibrant crests, the sailors wore tidy liveries, and cargo was being moved silently and efficiently by slaves.
This was the threshold of wealth and pleasure.
Thus, when that single-masted small boat—its hull blackened, its sails covered in patches, and barely larger than a fishing boat—creaked into the most obscure berth on the outermost edge of the pier, it appeared exceptionally conspicuous.
Like a plucked crow that had strayed into a flock of swans.
Viserys was the first to step onto the slippery wooden planks of the pier.
He subconsciously straightened his back; the purple velvet coat he wore—once magnificent, now frayed at the edges with fading, ashen color—looked even more shabby under the somewhat glaring afternoon sun.
He tried his best to make his steps appear composed, gazing straight ahead at those magnificent sails as if he were accustomed to such sights.
Daenerys followed closely behind him, nearly stepping on his heels.
She was wrapped in a faded homespun cloak, its hood pulled low to hide most of her face, revealing only a sharp chin and tightly pursed, bloodless lips.
She kept her head down, her eyes dodging the curious or disdainful glances around them, her small hands clutching the corner of her brother's coat so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
The shabby clothing and cowering posture were completely out of place with this port and the garden not far away, from which a sweet, fragrant breeze wafted.
An invisible embarrassment, like a cold tide, silently rose, soaking their ankles and spreading upward.
Viserys felt his sister's flinch; he turned slightly, using his narrow shoulders to shield her, attempting to block those gazes.
This movement made his already upright spine appear somewhat stiff.
He took a deep breath, striving to make his expression look calm, even carrying a hint of the indifference that should be there—the indifference of a king visiting his domains.
Only a single maidservant waited there.
She was very young, dressed in the standard pale green attire of a Perfume Garden maid, with a well-trained, formulaic smile on her face.
Seeing the siblings, she stepped forward and gave a slight bow, a gesture that was standard yet devoid of warmth.
"Prince Viserys, Princess Daenerys, welcome to Lys. Please follow me."
Only one maidservant.
The corner of Viserys's mouth twitched imperceptibly.
He looked around; there was no guard of honor, no musicians, no nobles holding flowers and gifts, not even a proper steward.
Only this little maidservant, who looked even younger than his sister.
This kind of slight was something he had experienced all too often.
In Qohor, in Tyrosh, in Volantis... every time he arrived full of hope, he was struck back into the dust by an even more realistic, more bone-chilling indifference.
He should have been used to it.
But the flame in his heart named "Targaryen" refused to be completely extinguished; every time he was treated coldly, it would sear his already battered pride.
"My letter of introduction," Viserys began, his voice sounding somewhat dry due to forced control, "the Magister of Lys should have received it by now, shouldn't he?"
"It has been received, Your Highness," the maidservant replied, the curve of her smile not changing in the slightest.
"The Magister is currently within the garden. Please follow me to have an audience."
An audience.
This word caused the gloom in Viserys's heart to dissipate slightly. Yes, an audience.
A king receiving an audience from a subordinate—this was only logical.
Perhaps the Magister intended to express his loyalty in a more formal and private setting?
After all, the Targaryen identity was sensitive; a public welcome might attract unnecessary attention... he convinced himself so, ignoring the business-like detachment in the maid's voice, the overly flat tone when she said "audience," and the true implication of that word.
"Lead the way." Viserys lifted his chin, trying to maintain his aura.
The maidservant turned and led the way with light steps.
Viserys and Daenerys followed, their old boots making hollow sounds on the polished stone path.
They passed through the harbor district, heading toward the renowned Perfume Garden.
The closer they got, the more intense the sweet, cloying scent—a mixture of countless floral fragrances and expensive spices—became, nearly making one dizzy.
The ornate carved iron gates stood open, like a lazily yawning giant mouth smeared with bright red lipstick.
And inside the gates, the sight made Viserys pause slightly.
Unlike the tranquility he expected of a noble's private residence, people were moving to and fro in the garden, exceptionally busy.
Servants hurried past carrying massive bouquets, rolls of expensive carpets, and glittering silverware.
Further away, craftsmen could be seen building a high platform, the sound of hammers and chisels clinking.
Fresh flowers and colorful silks were wrapped around the columns; everywhere was an atmosphere of bustling luxury, as if final preparations were being made for some grand occasion.
This was definitely not an everyday scene.
Viserys's heart skipped a beat, then began to quicken uncontrollably.
He couldn't help but speak, asking the maid leading the way, "What... is being prepared here?"
Without turning her head, the maid's voice drifted on the wind: "In response to Your Highness, it is to welcome a distinguished guest."
A distinguished guest!
Viserys's eyes instantly lit up.
Suppressing the urge to question her immediately, he continued to probe in a slightly hurried tone: "Oh? What kind of guest warrants such... grandiosity?"
This time the maid paused, seemingly weighing her words, before answering: "It is... a royal descendant from Westeros."
A royal descendant from Westeros!
Who else could it be?
On both sides of the Narrow Sea, besides him, Viserys Targaryen, what other "royal descendant from Westeros" was worth such a massive undertaking by the Magister of Lys?
Confirmed! All of this was indeed prepared for him! To welcome him, the true dragon of Targaryen, the king in exile!
The previous slights and the cold reception of being met by only one maidservant instantly had a logical explanation in Viserys's mind—the Magister intended to swear fealty to him in a more private, safer, and grander setting!
The current "neglect" was perhaps for secrecy, or perhaps the subordinates didn't know the protocols... Excitement, like warm wine, rushed to his head, making him feel a bit dizzy, and an abnormal flush appeared on his cheeks.
He barely noticed the overly flat, even slightly odd tone of the maidservant's answer, nor did he see the fleeting, almost pitying look on her profile.
He was simply immersed in his own deductions and imagination, finding a perfect explanation for it: "What does a mere maidservant know?"
"How could she know the true weight of a Targaryen king? I am a magnanimous man; why bother stooping to the level of a servant?"
He subconsciously straightened his back, and even his steps became lighter, as if that shabby coat had regained its luster.
He even took a moment to look back at his sister, who was still following closely behind him with her head down.
His brow furrowed immediately.
"Daenerys!" he hissed in a low voice, his tone carrying a dissatisfied reprimand. "Lift your head! Chest out! Look at yourself! Cowering like that—where is the dignity of a Targaryen princess?"
Startled by his shout, Daenerys trembled and hurriedly lifted her head.
Her small face was pale, and her purple eyes were filled with unease and bewilderment, like a frightened fawn.
"We are about to see the Magister and the nobles of Lys," Viserys continued in the majestic tone he imagined a king would use to instruct his sister.
"Remember your identity! You are Daenerys Stormborn, a princess of House Targaryen! Show some poise; let them see the grace of a true dragon's descendant! Do not shame me, do not shame our house!"
Daenerys's lips quivered as if she wanted to say something, but under her brother's burning gaze, which was filled with a certain illusory euphoria, she ultimately just pursed her lips tighter. Her small hands secretly gripped the rough fabric of her cloak at her side, her knuckles turning bluish-white from the effort.
She watched the busy servants, seeing the indescribable glances they occasionally cast their way, and looked at her brother's profile—suddenly radiant, yet possessing a strange sense of detachment from their surroundings... The inexplicable unease in her heart, far from dissipating because of her brother's "explanation," instead weighed down on her like a heavy dark cloud.
This path did not seem to lead to a hall of glory.
But rather toward some unknown place she could not see clearly, yet instinctively feared.
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