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Red.
Her favourite color since she was a child, the lion cub with blonde hair, a wicked smile and the burning passion of a thousand suns.
It was the color of the big, bloody, beautiful roses her father used to give her mother and her smile was so wide and warm and beautiful, bright as gold, it made even the sun pale, it could melt her father's heart and turning him into a green boy in love for the first time.
It was the color of her finest clothes, the ones she used for the biggest occasions, the ones that made the Septas shake their heads, red is not the color for a child they used to say, but she was not a child: she was already Cersei of House Lannister and a Lannister listens to no one but herself.
Her father loved to dress her in red and Jaime in gold, a superb pair of jewels, the ruby and the gold, loved to see his enemies and his friends alike burning with jealousy and envy.
Red was the color the bonded her to Jaime, the blood in their veins, the burning heat that consumed them since the first moment they laid their eyes on each other.
Red like a beating heart, red like an open wound, red like her lost innocence.
It was the color of the blood that covered her mother when she dies, the blood that covered the abomination that killed her, the color of her father's rage and pain, the color of her broken heart and shattered dreams.
It's the color of the blood of her enemies, she decorates her dreams with those red drops, counts them and every time a new one falls, she gets herself a new red dress, a new red hairpin, a new pair of ruby earrings to celebrate: because she's alive and they're not.
She did it when Jon Arryn died, when Robert died.
She didn't do that when Joffrey cut Ned Stark's head: that wasn't a victory, it was the beginning of the end.
Now the battle is infuriating just outside her door, so close she can almost see the blood flowing on the groud and she pours herself another glass of wine, red as blood, sweet as oblivion, and wonders when her red, hot, salty blood will spill.
And how it'll feel.