The harbor of Lys was always clamorous, its salty, damp sea breeze mingling with the scents of spices, sweat, and money.
Beside the Perfumed Garden's private pier lay tall-masted ships with lavishly carved and painted fittings, their sails billowing like clouds.
Bright heraldic emblems adorned their hulls, sailors wore matching livery, and slaves moved their cargo in efficient silence.
This was the threshold of wealth and pleasure.
And so, when a single-masted boat with a blackened hull and heavily patched sails, scarcely larger than a fishing boat, creaked into an inconspicuous berth at the far edge of the pier, it stood out painfully.
Like a bedraggled crow that had strayed among swans.
Viserys was the first to step onto the pier's slippery planks.
He instinctively straightened his back. His purple velvet coat, once sumptuous but now frayed at the edges and faded to a dull grayish hue, looked all the shabbier beneath the afternoon's rather glaring sunlight.
He tried to keep his steps measured, gazing straight ahead at the magnificent sails as though such sights were commonplace to him.
Daenerys came down close behind him, almost treading on his heels.
She wore a coarse cloak washed nearly white, its hood pulled low in an attempt to hide most of her face. Only her pointed chin and tightly pressed, bloodless lips showed.
With her head lowered, she avoided the curious or contemptuous looks around them, her small hand clutching her brother's coat so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Their threadbare clothes and shrinking posture were utterly out of place in this harbor, and beside the nearby garden from which wafted a sweet, cloying fragrance.
An invisible embarrassment rose silently like an icy tide, soaking their ankles and creeping upward.
Viserys felt his sister shrink back. He turned slightly, shielding her