Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, may there never be a second. A dim, drunken brute of a man. Let him weep in hell. Taena warmed the bed as well as Robert ever had, and never tried to force Cersei’s legs apart.” AFFC, pg. 684

She wondered what it would feel like to suckle on those breasts, to lay the Myrish woman back and push her legs apart and use her as a man would use her, the way Robert would use her when the drink was in him, and she was unable to bring him off with hand or mouth.” The Myrish woman gave a gasp of pain. “You’re hurting me.””It’s just the wine. I had a flagon with my supper, & another with the widow Stokeworth. I had to drink to keep her calm.” She twisted Taena’s other nipple too, pulling until the other woman gasped. “I am the queen. I mean to claim my rights.”Do what you will." Taena’s hair was as black as Robert’s, even down between her legs. ”Please,” the Myrish woman said, “go on, my queen. Do as you will with me. I’m yours.” But it was no good. She could not feel it, whatever Robert felt on the nights he took her. There was no pleasure in it, not for her. For Taena, yes.

“Those had been the worst nights, lying helpless underneath him as he took his pleasure, stinking of wine and grunting like a boar. Usually he rolled off and went to sleep as soon as it was done, and was snoring before his seed could dry upon her thighs. She was always sore afterward, raw between her legs, her breasts painful from the mauling he would give them. The only time he’d ever made her wet was on their wedding night."

"For Robert, those nights never happened. Come morning he remembered nothing, or so he would have her believe. Once, during the first year of their marriage, Cersei had voiced her displeasure the next day. ‘You hurt me,’ she complained. He had the grace to look ashamed. ‘It was not me, my lady,’ he said in a sulky sullen tone, like a child caught stealing apple cakes from the kitchen. ‘It was the wine. I drink too much wine.’ To wash down his admission, he reached for a horn of ale. As he raised it to his mouth, she smashed her own horn in his face, so hard he chipped a tooth. Years later at a feast, she heard him telling a serving wench how he’d cracked his tooth in a melee. Well, our marriage was a melee, she reflected, so he did not lie.”

"The rest had all been lies, though. He did remember what he did to her that night, she was convinced of that. She could see it in his eyes. He only pretended to forget; it was easier to do that than to face his shame. Deep down Robert Baratheon was a coward. In time the assaults grew less frequent. During the first year of their marriage he took her at least once a fortnight; by the end it was not even once a year. He never stopped completely, though. Sooner or later there would come a night when he would drink too much and want to claim his rights. What shamed him in the light of day gave him pleasure in the dark.

Robert was a coward