.Antonio Baratheon.
« –– And I think we should mantain our positions. After all we are more numerous than them, better equipped and- » The sentence, probably pronounced by one of the little Tarly brothers, was rather vain in the dull buzz of that – too little and too full – hall. As the Lord of Highgarden kept going on boasting about the great values of that solarium, right next to him, Antonio was really bored about that.
Seated on an uncomfortable chair Antonio, pretty absent-minded, looked at his empty globet, replacing the golden of the cup inlaid with small roses in a simple heap of color, like Francis' face, which was too smiling to be recognised by the Baratheon young man.
Damn, how much had he drunk? He did not even remember, but the big purple stain on his golden doublet surely had something to do– as the Berwald Stark's icy gaze seemed to suggest.
He tried to lift up the cup and smile very warmly at him, but the result was not the one expected by Antonio Baratheon, who then forced himself to go back, with his bleary green eyes, to the Tyrell man, still ranting in his flowing golden hair. A very animated discussion had to take place, but actually all those noicy voices and frantic hands distracted him from the search of his precious wine, which- oh, there it was!
Reaching out the hand to grab the green painted handle was probably the most difficult move made by Antonio during all the evening and, maybe, during al the previous month, and the one before. And considering how that meeting was going on, everything could only get worse: no solution, no agreement. Many voices rised up from that table -noble voices, of course-, but nothing was really about to change.
Was there something able to break the deadlock? If it had been him, and he even yelled that at the proud but kind Francis Tyrell in a face to face discussion, he would have left immediately – even if only armed of his great halberd – to meet /him/ and smash his head off, to make him suffer just as he had hurt her.
His fiancée, the only woman he had dared to look at, Bella Stark. The cold man's sister, who – despite the layers of honor sewn on him – always managed to tell him straight what he was thinking.
Why that night should be different than the others? Luckily there was wine, that excellent wine from Highgarden so generously bestowed by Francis Tyrell, in a pale and foolish attempt to make that alliance even more sealed, because it standed on- what, exactly? Money people said, many others said on the will to get rid a mad king, and others blamed and believed at the charisma of that man who was still drinking. The crowned stag was his sigil, but could the stag get drunk?
« –– We might even give up! I mean- there is nothing wrong and we could have Gil's forgiveness- »
A small voice, a reedy one, but never before the twin Tyrell, even if held hostage, shut up so suddenly. Feliciano's brown eyes lifted up enough to meet the fury of the man who had just slammed the finely decorated jug on the white tablecloth. The red stain became larger and larger, a real shame, but even the rest was red. Just the idea of granting forgiveness to the man who had taken away all his life remained out of the question and not even a silly little flower could somehow make him change his mind; and everyone, in the room, fell silent.
Not even a fly could fly by and if on one hand there was the Stark's icy silence, on the other hand the absence of the Lannister's voice was worthy of note. Then, it was up to Arthur to break the doldrums, to lay his eyes on the Baratheon ready to fight, like a furious stag which wants to deal with an affront bigger than him. « We will not allow it. » The Lannister's glacial voice was barely heard from who was supposed to lead all of them, but who preferred to remain with his eyes cast down until every trace of anger would dissipate in the bottom of his glass.
One more sip, one more.
« I will kill him, I will kill them all. »
And they all nodded.
.The End.