Renly’s eyes followed his wife’s lithe form as she crossed the room to fetch up their glasses. He sat low against the headboard, sinking into the feathered mattress. King. He laughed to himself. Right. As he’d learned from Robert as his brother had grown fonder and fonder of drink and women, a crown did not a king make. Renly may have sacked King’s Landing, but here he was, the morning after, on the receiving end of what may as well be called a lesson, feeling wholly unkingly, deflated, and rather like he’d like to enjoy his glass of wine in peace. He said none of this aloud, of course, and accepted the goblet with a small inclination of his head.
He lifted the thing to his lips and tipped it back. The wine was sweet on his tongue and its red warmth spread through him, flowing down his throat and into his stomach. The king shifted as Margaery’s weight settled next to him again and glanced over to her as she spoke. His hands played over the intricate woodland theme carved out on the silver beaker. He sat in silent contemplation a moment.
The game. Renly took another sip of the sweet red wine.
“I think that your brother ought learn when to hold his tongue,” came his reply, meant only half in jest.