An ancient Targaryen song rolled in Viserys's throat, charged with an off-key, almost hysterical excitement.
"...The dragon has three heads... the dragon has three heads..."
He hummed as he strode through the last dark alley.
His heart hammered wildly in his chest, almost bursting free of his ribs. His palms were slick with sweat against the jewels of the ornate sword hilt.
But he forced his back straight and held his chin high, keeping an expression of fear, resolve, and feverish excitement on his face.
Soon. Any moment now.
Just around that corner lay the Backstreet, where his loyal soldiers awaited him, where his return as king would begin!
His footsteps echoed through the empty alley, accompanied by his own ragged breathing and tuneless song.
The moment he rounded the corner, every expression on his face-excitement, tension, the bravery he had talked himself into-froze, shattered, and was swept away by a bone-deep chill.
As the scene before him registered, his pale purple pupils contracted to pinpoints and began to tremble violently.
Torches. Hundreds upon hundreds of torches lit the supposedly dark Backstreet as brightly as day, their dancing flames casting huge, twisted shadows across the walls.
Where light met shadow, black-armored soldiers stood in grim ranks, like a forest cast from steel. Silent and cold, they held weapons gleaming dark red in the torchlight with blood that had yet to dry.
Before this steel forest, at the center of the gathered torchlight, a dense mass of people knelt.
Bound with ropes and gagged, their heads were forced against the cold, filthy ground, their bodies shaking uncontrollably with fear.
He recognized some of the faces that occasionally lifted, streaked with tears and snot and filled with despair. Dargold had introduced them to him. They were his supporters, the cornerstones of his