The fighting in the arena was brutal and chaotic. The clash of weapons mingled with the crowd's cheers and jeers like a boiling stew thick with the taste of rust.
Daenerys watched blankly.
The warriors who had received blessings wore bright ribbons representing different ladies on their helmets and spearheads as they charged and hacked at one another.
The cheers, the gasps, and the mocking laughter that occasionally drifted from the nearby noble stands at some clumsy performance all seemed to reach her through a thick pane of clouded glass. None of it had anything to do with her.
She only clutched the rough hem of her clothes tighter, her nails digging into her palms and leaving deep white marks.
Her head sank lower and lower, almost disappearing into her shabby cloak, as though she could retreat into a safe shell that way and shut out every malicious gaze, every curious, scornful, or mocking look.
Amid the deafening clamor of the crowded outer stands, Aegon stood in silence.
His violet eyes calmly swept over the inept display in the arena, then over the bored, weary faces of the Lysene nobles in the main stand.
Finally, they settled on the thin, small figure curled up at the edge of the arena, all but forgotten, and on the statue beside her that seemed utterly drained of life.
Around him, mockery of the Targaryens and sneers at the "beggar king and his sister" buzzed like flies, growing clearer and more grating by the moment.
"Look at that 'princess.' She doesn't even dare lift her head..."
"Targaryen? Hah. That family should have been swept onto history's rubbish heap long ago."
"I hear her brother's still dreaming of getting back on the Iron Throne..."
Henry stood beside Aegon, his round face flushed crimson, his chest