The sound Viserys Targaryen made when that hideous iron helmet covered his face was like nothing human. His feet hammered a frantic beat against the dirt floor, slowed, stopped. Thick globs of molten gold dripped down onto his chest, setting the scarlet silk to smoldering… yet no drop of blood was spilled.
I can’t fail to worry. How could it be otherwise? When I suspect some uncertainty in you, then I too begin to feel uncertain, and become more useless than ever. I am too tired to explain this more clearly.