Her boots stepped on the stone slabs of the corridor, making a crisp, rhythmic sound.
The morning light shone in from the high window, casting diamond-shaped light spots on the ground in front of her. She stepped on those light spots, one step, two steps, three steps, each step was extremely steady and calm, as if she was measuring this corridor that she had walked countless times.
The corridor is very long. From Viserys's bedroom to her room, you have to pass through three corners, two flights of stairs, and an open-air corridor.
She walked through those places and saw things she was familiar with - the crooked "family portrait" on the wall that she had painted when she was a child, framed and hung here by Viserys. On the picture were her, Viserys, and Queen Emma, holding hands, standing on the wall of Red Keep, with blue sky and white clouds behind them, and green grass and red roofs under their feet.
The painting has faded, the paper is yellowed, and there are some small holes in the corners that were eaten by insects, but Viserys has never been willing to take it off. Every time she comes here, she will stop and take a look, and then smile and say to her, "This is my most precious treasure."
When she passed the painting, she didn't stop or even glance at it.
She felt that the person in that painting was no longer her.
Rhaenyra When we returned to the room, it was already broad daylight.
Her maids are busy in the room, some are changing the water in the vase, some are making the bed, and some are ironing the dress she will wear today.
Seeing her walking in, the maids stopped what they were doing and bowed to salute.
Rhaenyra ignored them, walked straight to the bed, took off his boots, untied his cloak, threw the leather armor that was wrinkled by the night wind and stained with volcanic ash and sea salt on the ground, then fell down on the bed and closed his eyes.
The moment her body came into contact with the soft bed, it seemed as if all support had been taken away. Her whole body changed from a tightly stretched steel plate that could break at any time, to a soft, boneless muddy water that just wanted to sink into the darkness.
Her eyelids were as heavy as lead, and her limbs seemed to be bound by countless invisible threads, pulling them down, down, into a warm, dark, soundless abyss.
The last image that came to her mind was Viserys's eager eyes. There was no her in those eyes, only the message itself.
At that moment she was not his daughter, she was just a messenger, a messenger who delivered messages, rode a dragon, flew over Narrow Sea, and ran errands.
She closed her eyes and sank into darkness.
In Viserys's bedroom, Viserys's breathing soon became even and slow. It was the breathing after truly falling asleep, not the kind of breathing that occurs when you are in a coma or semi-coma, with phlegm and murmurs, which makes people involuntarily follow the heart-wrenching breathing after hearing it.
His brows relaxed a bit after falling asleep, and the wrinkles like knife carvings carved into his brows due to anxiety and fear became lighter in his sleep, and he looked no longer so old or pitiful.
Alicent stood beside the bed, looking down at him.
She took her hand away from the quilt and placed it on her belly.
The swollen belly rose and fell slightly under her palm, and moved with her breathing. There was her fourth child, the fourth child of Viserys, a growing new life with the blood of Targaryen and half of the blood of sea Tarth.
She didn't know whether the child was a boy or a girl, what he would look like, whether he would be as lively and restless as Aegon, or as quiet and reserved as Helaena, who likes to hide in a corner and read a book alone.
She only knows that this child is another cornerstone for her to gain a firm foothold in this Red Keep, another insurance for her unshakable position in Viserys's heart, and another reason for her to straighten her back in front of Rhaenyra.
She turned around and her steps were so light that she almost didn't make any sound.
She walked the distance from the bed to the desk, taking every step with extreme caution, as if she was afraid of waking up Viserys, and also as if she was afraid of waking up the invisible, ubiquitous, eyes and ears of Rhaenyra in this castle.
There was a candlestick placed on the table. The candle was mostly burned, and the tears of the candle solidified on the copper base into an irregular, dark yellow, amber-like trace.
Next to it lay a quill, a box of ink, and a stack of neatly cut parchment.
Alicent sat down, pulled the chair in front of the table, adjusted his sitting posture, and leaned his bulging abdomen on the edge of the table to make himself more comfortable.
She picked up her quill, dipped it in the ink, and started writing on the parchment.
Her handwriting is neat and smooth, each letter is round and full, and the rise and fall of each stroke is just right, as if she were tracing on a carefully designed drawing.
This kind of handwriting is not natural. She was forced to practice it day after day by her father Otto·Hai Tarth since she was a child.
She remembered that when she was a child, her father would check her calligraphy homework every day. If any letter was not round enough, smooth enough, or "like a noble lady should write", she would be punished to copy a whole page, from beginning to end, without a single letter being wrong or a stroke being crooked.
She thanked her father for being strict back then. Now, every letter she writes is like her, perfect without any faults.
She wrote those indispensable words at the beginning of the letter - greetings about her father's health, greetings about her mother's knees, greetings about her younger brothers and sisters' studies, and greetings about the weather and sea breeze of Oldtown.
These words poured out from her writing like flowing water, without the need to think or recall. She had written it countless times, and every time it was the same wording, the same tone, and the same temperature, as if she was assembling a piece of precision-designed machinery that had been split into countless parts.
Then, her pen changed.
"Rhaenyra went to Dragonstone last night and returned early this morning. When she came out from Dragonpit, she went straight to His Majesty's palace without changing her clothes or washing up.
She was stopped by the guards outside the door and could only enter after being notified.
I saw her expression at that moment. It was not anger or grievance, but a deeper and more essential kind of confusion, like finally realizing that something has been lost forever."
Alicent stopped writing and looked at the words he had written.
Her handwriting is still so neat, so smooth, and so round, but the meaning behind those words is like knives hidden in velvet gloves, sharp and precise, each knife hitting the most critical position.