The man in the mirror wore a splendid brocade robe embroidered with three-headed red dragons. His silver hair had been carefully combed, and the jewel-studded sword hung at his waist.
Viserys studied himself in the mirror, his fingertips brushing the intricate gold embroidery on his cuffs.
The robe fit perfectly. Dargold had found a skilled tailor somewhere to make it overnight, and even the fabric was finer than that of his best garment before his exile.
The figure in the mirror seemed to possess a faint trace of the regal bearing he remembered his father, Aerys II, displaying on important occasions.
But his fingers were trembling slightly.
His heart hammered in his chest, pounding hard enough to hurt his ribs.
His stomach twisted into a knot. The familiar, icy fear coiled around him like a venomous snake, almost choking him.
Tonight. It would be tonight.
Dargold had helped polish those impassioned lines, and he had memorized, revised, and rehearsed them countless times.
He had imagined standing on the dais at the Prince's Residence, facing whatever confusion and doubt might arise, and delivering a forceful speech full of kingly authority that would win over the bewildered soldiers, the wavering officials, and even... that dragon, bringing them willingly to their knees before his authority.
He would become the great ruler who set things right, the king who led House Targaryen to a true restoration.
He drew a deep breath, straightened his back before the mirror, and tried to make his expression look resolute and decisive.
His lips moved as he silently recited:
"...Loyal people of Lys! Brave soldiers of House Targaryen! Behold, the man standing before you is the true king of House Targaryen! Viserys Targaryen III! Son of King Aerys and Queen Rhaella! The true Targaryen king!..."
His voice was dry