She stands out always.
Amongst the people she was given to and then swore to look after, she is the sun, she is white-hot fire. Amongst these people who perhaps resemble the society she should have grown up in, she is the moon, patient and radiant, true inside their lies. You have learned their myths, the sun-husband and moon-wife, but she transcends that. She is her own wife, master of her own desires, so wholly self-possessed and self-containing.
Even in the great cities, her straw-colored hair catches eyes, like rays of sun's and moon's light entwined down her back. She steps like a dancer (you know she's never had so much as a minute of instruction) and holds her head high as if she's already wearing the crown she desires (it's easy to imagine).
These strangers bustle her about, all of them admiring (how couldn't they be) and eager to entertain the shiny new thing. A plaything: you hope that's not what they see in her, and maybe you're just wary (knowing from experience, protective of your khaleesi) but you suppose that it is.
You do your job as she is doing hers: you let them entertain you, you fix on your practiced smile. It's the one you've developed over years and years, the one that nobody else can tell is false. You don't fuss with these clothes they've brought for you (hardly as fine as hers, but then, it doesn't matter, not really) but you let the men who speak to you imagine them being torn off as they please.
When you glance across the room, you think you see the same smile across her lips: she so rarely gives a smile that's true. You think of the true one now as her dragon-smile, the one that's reserved for her children, sometimes witnessed by you. It's in her eyes.
She's playing her part well, none of these strangers seem to suspect she's anything less than ecstatic. She is gracious, certainly, she is flattered and hopeful. But even many of her people never see the dragon-smile. There is no need. She is truer than anyone, but she keeps many things to herself.
You have learned this about her: her grief and her joy alike remain largely private. You have seen her so beautiful, so pale and bare time and time again, but you can count the times you have seen tears in her eyes on one hand. She doesn't feel it her place to burden others with such things.
She is flashing that not-quite-real smile at these strangers, wearing their dresses, drinking their wines; she is telling them stories, over and over at their insistence, she is widening her eyes as she listens to them (her eyes like jewels you could barely dream of) and laughing appreciatively.
When you look again (you've been casting glances sideways as the men talk to you all this time, playing with the rings on your fingers) she catches your eye. You twist your lips upward – might as well look as if you meant to offer some encouragement, not as if you were spying from across the way – even as you keep speaking to the men, and as the couple who have cornered her continue to go on at length, she matches it, lowering her gaze just enough but never breaking.
You know the smirk on her face, and it's better than the dragon-smile. You dare to think it may be one just for you.