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Daenerys was young, though you would not know it from the stories. Watching her from a distance, it was the first thing that struck Lacey. That hardened youth reminded her uncomfortably of herself, however different they might be. She knew Daenerys had been married young. She pitied her, and resented that pity in herself.
She resented the whole situation, really. It wasn’t truly Daenerys’ fault that she was such a reminder of everything Lacey thought she had left behind, but she was nonetheless. Daenerys’ eyes looked like Lacey’s own, inherited from the same man. With a sick kind of urgency, she tried to find other features of her own in that face, but she was too far away to truly tell. The idea that they might look recognisably alike disturbed her. She had no desire for that association, and yet she could never avoid it. All she wanted was to live her own life.