He couldn't sleep.
His body was very tired, and being in bed for nearly a month had made his muscles loose, weak, and inoperable.
It took almost all his energy to sit up, stand up, walk, sit on that chair, chair that meeting, and say those words to those people today.
His body was clamoring for rest, his bones were protesting, his muscles were sore, and his eyes were numb. But his brain wouldn't let him sleep.
Dorne surrendered. Already surrendered a few days ago.
And he, Viserys·Targaryen I, the king of Seven Kingdoms, the owner of Iron Throne, and the patriarch of House Targaryen, was the last one to know the news.
He turned over, lying on his side, facing the wall, and closed his eyes.
The picture on Small Council came to mind. When Tyland·Lannister said the words "Prince of Dorne expresses its willingness to surrender to Iron Throne again", everyone here already knew it.
Their expressions, their eyes, their feeling of relief that "this matter has finally been told" - everyone knows it, only he does not.
How many times has this happened?
He asked himself this question in his mind. He thought about it for a long time, but could not figure out the answer. Not because there were too many times, but because he had never counted it carefully.
He always felt that he was the king, the person on Iron Throne, the end point of all information, and the starting point of all decisions.
But I don't know since when, he became an island of information, a rubber stamp that was tacitly bypassed by everyone, who didn't need to know "those things" and only needed to sign at the end.
He didn't want to be a rubber stamp. He was a king. The day he sat on Iron Throne, the crowns of Aegon the Conqueror were put on his head during the coronation ceremony. At that moment, he felt that the top of his head touched the sky, and he felt that he was the center of the whole world.
Today, the crown is still on his head, but its weight is no longer glory. It is a stone weighing on the top of his head, getting heavier and heavier, and is about to break his neck.
He turned over, lying on his back, and looked at the shadow of the dragon on the ceiling again. The dragon was flying, but its shadow was nailed to the ceiling and could never fly away.
Alicent lay next to him, pretending to be asleep.
Her breathing was even and slow, her body motionless, her hands on her swollen belly, like a living, breathing statue placed on the bed.
But she didn't fall asleep. Viserys She heard every time she turned over, every sigh, and every time her fingers unconsciously tapped on the quilt.
She waited for a long time, until Viserys's sighs became more and more frequent, heavier, and unable to be hidden. Then she slowly opened her eyes, turned her head, and asked in a just-awakened, somewhat confused, and appropriate tone. "Your Majesty, what's wrong with you? Can't you sleep?"
Viserys was silent for a moment. His hand groped on the quilt, found Alicent's hand, and held it.
Alicent's fingers moved slightly in his palm, and then she also held his hand.
"Dorne has surrendered to Iron Throne again." Viserys said, his voice was very low, as if he was afraid of disturbing the shadow of the dragon on the ceiling.
Alicent's hand tightened slightly. "That... that's a good thing."
There was just the right amount of surprise and confusion in her voice after hearing the good news, "Your Majesty, why..."
Viserys didn't answer. He stared at the ceiling, at the shadow of the dragon, at the nailed shadow projected on the white plasterboard by candlelight that would never fly away.
"Rhaenyra didn't tell me."
When he said this, his voice was so calm that it didn't sound like he was talking about something that kept him awake all night. It was more like he was talking about gossip like "The weather is nice today, but the wind is a bit strong." "Everyone here knows it, but no one told me. I am the last one to know."
Alicent was also silent. Her silence was not silence without anything to say, but silence while thinking about "what should be said."
After a moment, she spoke.
"Perhaps everyone thinks that His Majesty is still recovering and they don't want to disturb you with these things."
Alicent's voice was gentle and considerate, as if he was defending Rhaenyra and the ministers, and also seemed to be testing Viserys's reaction.
The good thing about this sentence is that it can excuse anyone or not.
If Viserys wants to accept this explanation, he can feel that "everyone is doing this for my own good."
If he doesn't want to accept it, he can also feel that "no one cares about whether I am a king or not".
The right of interpretation is completely in the hands of Viserys. Alicent said nothing but everything.
Viserys did not accept this explanation, nor did he reject it.
He just turned over again, facing the direction of Alicent, and looked at her profile in the candlelight.
The lines of the face became soft and blurred in the candlelight, like a faded oil painting that had been polished by time.
She is still beautiful, even though she is pregnant with her fourth child, even though there are fine lines on her face, even though the corners of her eyes and mouth have traces of being carved by time and worry.
Her beauty is no longer the fresh, dew-like beauty of Maiden that people cannot bear to touch, but a beauty that still stands upright after experiencing wind, rain, frost and snow, with toughness and thickness that people dare not touch easily.
Viserys looked at her for a long time. His fingers gently stroked the back of her hand, as if stroking a precious, fragile piece of porcelain that might slip from between his fingers at any time.
Alicent didn't speak, didn't ask, didn't interrupt. She just lay next to him, holding his hand, waiting for him to figure it out.
This is the most important skill she has learned over the years - don't draw conclusions for him before he speaks, don't make decisions for him before he makes a decision, don't think things through for him before he thinks it through.
He is a king, and he needs to be treated like a king. He needs to feel that all decisions are made by himself, all roads are chosen by himself, and all directions are set by himself.
Even if those decisions were made for him by others, those roads were paved for him by others, and those directions were pointed out for him by others, he would not admit it or even realize it.
"I was thinking -" Viserys's voice suddenly sounded in the quiet palace, as if something had been dragged up from a very deep place, with the smell of water plants and sand, "Should we let Otto come back?"