.Arthur Lannister.
There is no mud on the granite, neither after some heavy rains which could filter in the cervices of the rock, 'till falling deep into the too high, too impenetrable and too hard rock, which cannot even be split in two, There was not any mud beneath the horses hooves, the proud head bowed under the weight of the water falling down from the sky; each color blended into the next one, upon the column of men who rose towards the impregnable Casterly Rock, all except red.
The only color capable to stand out in the most terrible storms too, darkening to become the vermilion of the shed blood. And, actually, from above, those knights and foot soldiers seemed more a column of blood than men; there was no satisfaction in not being able to distinguish the gold embroided lion from anywhere, engraved as rampant animal even in the armor of the most basic infantry, on the flesh ready to be slaughtered.
The mighty wind shook the solarium curtains, which snapped against the columns placed at their side with the same sound of a whip, but – despite anything – the chair and the body placed opposite the huge dark table, along with a glass of red wine remained motionless, as if they were not touched at all, except by inner turmoil. Arthur Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, was granite indeed: wine had not been touched and the shadows danced on the accentuaded cheekbones of his sharp face, following the direction of the wind which moved the flames of the candles, the fireplace and the lamps.
The bony hands, crossed on a crumpled letter, gave no sign of life as well as his chest which barely rose and lowered below the heavy crimson brocade doublet, no broach to stop a non-existent cloak.
How long had it been since he had taken off that broach hand-shaped and had it left in front of those burning red eyes, which had followed him step by step until out the door?
A long time, too long; he still felt the weight of the heavy necklace made with many small clasped hands, he still felt the disgrace on his skin. The shame of a rejection which Arthur's green eyes had not been able to forget, and the son's letter showed it a lot. Leaving that psycho, watching him while burning alone in his own illness, realizing how the Targaryens could destroy themselves after refusing the Lannister help, the Lannister minting, the Lannister themselves.
Arthur's mouth froze in a grin, remembering how the king had preferred staying with the kingdom of Dome, seeking an alliance which would not have helped at all. He had been stupid? No, he had been insane, because everyone knew him that way. Take the side of the strongest, however, was a clever design, because he knew Antonio Baratheon had the chance to crush the Targaryens due to his burning hatred; he knew that the alliance with the powers of the North would work.
The Lannisters always pay their debts, and Arthur would have paid very soon his own debt to Gilbert Targaryen. The chair scraped the floor as the body of the Lord of Casterly Rock moved slowly back, fiercely tightening the letter in his right fist. That fool- was he so scared of Antonio to be able to set fire to the city? He really had believed he was so much invulnerable, so precious for the Seven Kingdom to put in danger the very heart of that realm which danced on the wire?
The answer was closely to being yes, and anyone who was present at the meeting two days before knew it. He had read it in the steaming eyes of Antonio Baratheon, in the silence of Berwald Stark, in the increasing anger of Lucas Greyjoy, too far from his long ships and too similar to a statue, in his violet eyes and that absent expression of his.
The necessary steps brought him in front of the fireplace, in which he dropped carelessely the letter sent by his son. He watched it burn in every single limb; flames probably reflected in his as cold as ice eyes, in his golden and leonine hair.
He ignored the tolling of a fist against the door, he even ignored the fact that the rain had stopped on Casterly Rock, busy to see the wax of the seal of the Royal Guard casting away.
« A Lannister always pays his debts. » He promised to the wind, pulling the right corner of his thin lips up. A lion ready to pounce on a prey which could considered herself already dead.
« You can come in. »
.The End.