Robert Baratheon's bedchamber looked more like a battlefield swept by a storm.
Deep red Dorne strongwine had spilled across the expensive Myrish carpet, giving off a pungent, overpowering smell.
Shattered pottery, twisted golden cups, and torn silk curtains littered the floor.
Robert's enormous body sank into a broad chair, his chest heaving.
His face was scarlet, his eyes bloodshot as he stared blankly ahead.
At his feet, Cersei Lannister lay curled on the floor.
Her golden hair clung in disarray to her pale, sweat-damp cheeks. Her split mouth seeped blood, one eye was swollen and bruised purple, and her torn, sumptuous nightgown exposed a shocking bruise across her shoulder.
Cersei stifled her sobs, her body trembling slightly with pain and fear, but deep within her green eyes, alongside the pain, burned a searing hatred.
Jaime Lannister stood in the shadows by the bedchamber door, dressed in the white cloak of the Kingsguard.
His fingers clenched the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles whitened, his nails digging deep into his palm and leaving crescent-shaped bloody marks.
Every stifled moan of pain from Cersei, every heavy breath from Robert, seared his nerves like a red-hot iron.
Beneath his golden hair, his handsome face twisted with extreme fury, his jaw clenched so tightly that the grinding was almost audible.
He wanted to rush forward and cut down this drunken beast who was beating his sister, his lover.
He wanted to curse this king who trampled upon his beloved with the vilest words he knew.
But when he caught sight of Ser Barristan Selmy standing silently at the other end of the bedchamber, also clad in white, the impulse and rage in his heart instantly died.
The old knight's gaze was calm, his hand resting seemingly casually on his sword hilt.