Daenerys tilted her head back, staring helplessly at the dazzling Laurel Wreath hanging from the bloodstained lance tip just before her.
Its golden vines, glittering gems, and lustrous pearls formed a contrast with her faded homespun cloak and frayed cuffs so stark it was almost cruel.
Instinctively, she reached out. Her fingertips did not touch the magnificent Laurel Wreath, but gently brushed the old, faded black-and-red ribbon below the lance tip, making it flutter faintly.
The rough ribbon carried a barely perceptible chill, a remnant of days long past.
Aegon lowered his gaze to watch her movement, and the light flickering in the girl's eyes-a mingling of bewilderment, a flutter of emotion, and an instinctive sense of closeness.
He lowered his wrist ever so slightly, and the Laurel Wreath slid from the lance tip.
It landed squarely and gently on Daenerys's soft silver-gold hair, which was a little dry.
Cold metal touched warm strands.
The weight settled over her, making her slender neck dip involuntarily.
The radiance of gold and gems instantly lit her pale little face, making her violet eyes look clearer still, yet rendering her shabby clothes all the more pitiful.
Utter splendor and utter destitution came together in a striking tableau.
"Ah..." A wave of stifled gasps and low cries, laden with jealousy and resentment, swept through the stands.
The noblewomen of Lys, so carefully dressed and so eagerly waiting, could only stare at the Laurel Wreath that symbolized supreme honor and admiration.
It had actually landed on the head of that Targaryen girl in the corner, dressed like a beggar. They nearly ground their teeth to pieces, their gazes stabbing at Daenerys like poisoned knives.
Aegon seemed oblivious to it all.
He withdrew his lance, his gaze lingering briefly on Daenerys and on Viserys beside her,