AHHAHAHAH SHO OUT PEACE LANNISTER FEEEELS
He woke her sometimes, standing in the doorway of their bedroom in the night. The summer nights were blistering at the Rock, but the light from the doorway was cold upon the floor. His shadow thrown across her sleeping form, he stood there for mere moments, as she stared at the delicate gold gilding on the crimson walls— all black to her in the darkness —her open eyes hidden from him by the night. He would watch her, for just a moment, and then return to his study, to his desk and his oil lamp and his neat, angry scrawl, leaving her to her thoughts and to the dark.
He woke her sometimes, climbing into bed just before the light of dawn. She knew the smells of ink and of oil and of his sweat. Still as stone, she could feel him with his back to her and hear his heavy, waking breaths. And then, after a moment, the shuffling of the covers and the creaking of the bed as he turned to her, his parchment-coarse fingers stirring her, cold on her stomach as he curled himself against her back. Dawn cracking, neither of them sleeping, both of them pretending with their even, practiced breaths.
He woke her sometimes, in the glinting gold of morning, cradled by their crimson splendor, hard against her lower back. Her smile was quick and tricky like a silverfish, against the pillows, at his muffled apology. It’s morning, darling. And how beautiful you are. The palm of his hand was warm against her breast. Their easy laughter turned to breathless gasps before his weight fell on top of her. The Rock had come awake around them. There was a gull landed on the windowsill and a spot of gold ink on his trousers. I didn’t mean to wake you, he said. And her laughter was like a bell.