A maid led Viserys and his sister deep into the Perfumed Garden, to a clearing that had been hastily made.
The place had clearly been converted in a hurry.
The earth had been turned over and tamped down, with a crude, low fence of unpolished logs enclosing it.
Several raised platforms were still under construction. The timber had been unevenly cut, and the whole place had the air of a clumsy, haphazard imitation.
Viserys stopped short.
This place... looked vaguely familiar.
As a child in King's Landing, he had once glimpsed the tourney grounds outside the city from afar, grand and orderly, with banners fluttering overhead.
But this place looked like a botched copy of that glorious memory, discarded in the mud.
A simple awning had been erected beside the grounds, sheltering cushioned chairs and tables.
Dorian Antaryon, the governor of Lys, sat beneath it in a deep purple velvet robe, leisurely peeling a grape.
His son Casimir stood beside him, along with Sa Melis and the others.
When Viserys and Daenerys were brought before them, the conversation beneath the awning paused only briefly.
Dorian glanced up and acknowledged them with a nod, never stopping what he was doing.
No one rose. No one welcomed them. They were not even offered a polite smile.
That invisible, icy indifference stung more than mockery.
This excessively "modest" reception was like a bucket of ice water thrown over the illusory fire that everything Viserys had seen on the way had kindled in his chest.
Still, he forced himself forward and squared his shoulders. "Your Excellency, thank you for your... hospitality. The sights of Lys are unforgettable."
Dorian put the grape into his mouth and wiped his hands clean before speaking in Lys-accented Common Tongue. "Thank you for making the long journey, Your Highness.