This was wrong. This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

Illyrio had promised him so much. His home, his family, his legacy. Viserys had expected to be adored when he took down King Robert. The crown was on his head, his dragons perched in the Keep. So why was it so hard to get people to follow him?

There was no banner waving. No thanks from the smallfolk. The city his family had protected for centuries had essentially shunned him. Him. The rightful King of Westeros! Viserys had sent a servant out in search of loyalists to back his claim.

And he only returned with you. You, a commoner who ran a small musuem about the Targaryan dynasty.

"Your Grace," you said, curtseying. "How can I be of service?"

Viserys leaned back lazily in the Iron Throne, the crown lopsided on his head. He fixed you with an icy look. "Who are you?"