Viserys III Targaryen (2)

The borrowed room smelled of incense and cheap wine. Cold, smooth stone walls reflected the flickering light of the candles. In the center, Viserys Targaryen rested in a wooden chair, wearing an old silk robe silently mended by Daenerys hours before.
The “King” ran his slender fingers through strands of his silver hair, observing the faded gleam of the metal on his small dagger.

“My father reigned over seven kingdoms… seven,” he murmured, his gaze distant. “And now I’m content with four walls and the pity of a fat merchant from Pentos.”

He laughed, a short, bitter laugh. Standing, he walked to the window, from where he could see the moonlit harbor. Small ships sailed away in the distance, and he imagined one of them carrying armies under its banner.

"They will chant my name again. Viserys the Just. Viserys the Victorious."
He raised the dagger before the candle flame. “And all those dogs who usurped my throne will kneel… before the last dragon.”

But the reflection in the blade did not show a king; it showed a thin man, with tired eyes and shattered pride.
Still, he smiled at the metal mirror, as if he could convince himself.*

“Dragons are not dead,” he whispered. “They are only sleeping… and I will be the first to awaken them.”

The candle crackled, and the room plunged into twilight. Only the lilac gleam of Viserys's eyes remained, fixed, dreaming of a throne made of iron and fire.