digging that eternal bed
Robert Baratheon's kisses are not sweet. They are vicious and quick and cruel, and they come not long after Cersei has spit venom at him. They come with a closed fist or an open hand.
They are badges she wears with honour. Honour and silence.
The latest is a bloom of bruise-purple and muted red around her lip. She has made no effort to cover it with cosmetics, much to his disdain. She wonders why he makes such outward gestures if he so wants them hidden. And then she remembers that she is thankful he did not swing for her gut -- she bears a life inside, one she has told no one about.
He has long since passed out, a glutton on wine and red meat, and will no doubt sleep well into the next day. And Cersei, wrapped in her furs with her hair braided back, seeks out her brother, pressing her palm against the wood of his door, before curling her fingers against her palm to knock, rapping lightly.