King Robert was nothing more than a heavy, round deadweight taking up too much space on the bed, loud and obnoxious, snoring away, completely oblivious to the twins fucking in his bed right next to him. The King didn't care for his Queen. If he found out and condemned the two of them to death, it would be because he only cared for his reputation and that black and gold veneer that would not stand for his bed being defiled by his Queen and his Kingsguard.
Her fingernails leave long, white scratches down her brother's arms, but he only laughs breathily, softly, and his laughter is drowned out by the snoring and the bed creaking beneath them and her moans of pleasure that only he could give her. A secret they had kept for more than twenty name days, and for every year that Robert Baratheon wasted away indulging in his garish pasttimes, they grew bolder and took more risks that only brought them closer.
A crown did strange things to people. The last king had been crushed under it. This one had worn it for so many years that it had fallen over his eyes and he became blinded to everything.
"Jaime," she moaned, writhing and creasing the sheets beneath her, and he pressed his lips against hers to silence the screams of her orgasm to a breathless, quiet sigh.