The afternoon sunlight spilled over the streets of Lys.
Compared with when Daenerys first arrived, the air held less of that oppressive briny stench and despair, and more of a bustle brimming with hope.
Along both sides of the street, some of the once-dilapidated shops had been repaired and hung with new signs.
Daenerys walked slowly, her long silver-gold hair gleaming faintly in the sunlight.
Even in Lys, where Valyrian features were hardly rare, such a pure shade was enough to draw attention.
But more striking still was the light that sprang into the eyes of those who saw her.
Especially the former slaves.
A woman hanging dyed cloth to dry outside a weaving workshop by the street glanced up and caught sight of Daenerys.
The wet cloth in her hands fell to the ground with a slap, but she did not even notice. She simply stared, her eyes quickly filling with tears.
She seemed to want to rush over, her lips trembling as she tried to speak, but the vigilant guards beside Daenerys stopped her.
Daenerys raised a hand, signaling that the guards need not be alarmed.
She took a few steps closer and looked gently at the woman, who was too overcome to speak, then at the other faces inside the workshop that had turned toward the commotion, filled with gratitude and awe.
Most had darker skin, typical of descendants of the Summer Isles or the Ghiscari, and had once been property at the very bottom of this city's society.
"Live well," Daenerys said, her voice clear and calm, carrying a soothing strength. "You deserve it."
The woman nodded vigorously, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. She bent to pick up the cloth, her movements seeming a little lighter.
Other former slaves nearby who recognized Daenerys also stopped