"It will break in time," she corrects him, none too tenderly. A mere few moments ago, he spoke of his mother as though she were present in this room, as she has none been dead for decades. If she had needed even an ounce more of confirmation that he should be diligent in his resting today, it was that – and if she has ever known her husband, then she knows what she must prevent now is another over-eager attempt at seeing to his manifold duties. Not that he gives her now the impression that he could stand, let alone walk, though the glaring seems to work just fine.

"You scarcely slept three hours. It is nearly time for supper." She pretends as though she hardly noticed his coughing; her eyes most certainly did not widen with the same concern she had felt when Joffrey had suffered from the self-same coughing fits a few days prior. It is nothing, his sickness, it is a common ailment, it cannot bring him down, and if it did, she would celebrate at the head of the empire she stands to inherit until Joff comes of age. She should feel nothing, really, except mayhaps anticipation.

Then it must be anticipation when she runs her free hand through his hair, touched light as it is by the sweat that comes with heavy sickness. "You will have to endure a good night's rest."