The wide, hanging sleeves of Margaery's dress pooled on the floor by the clawed feet of her chair. Renly considered them and the rest of the queen's raiment idly as she spoke. She wore a form-fitting gown the deep garden green of her father's House, trimmed in delicate swirls of gold, the neckline cut low enough to make some men stare, and others, like Renly, quite uncomfortable. For a moment, he wondered if it might be better if he snuffed out the candle and doused the warming fire and returned his chambers to the dark. It would be safer, certainly.
The king's eyes did linger - how could they not? - though there was less lust behind his gaze than curiosity and discomfort (both of which he hid reasonably well). He returned his attention to the bejewled goblet he held in his fist - and, more importantly, to the red wine inside. Many said that Renly appeared as Robert had in his youth - that he was a ghost of his oldest brother, appetites included. The new king had as much of an affinity for wine as the old, though he knew more moderation than Robert ever had. He certainly bedded less women.
"There is no one else," sighed Renly, still kneading at the pain behind his temple. "With the Starks in the North, the Tullys overrun, the Arryns locked in the Vale, and the Martells hidden in their sand, who else have I?" He paused, not wanting to give insult where none was due. "That is not to say that your father isn't fitting for the position. He is. As you say, I am sure he will prove most leal and loyal, but again, what choice do I have? Though in truth I'd sooner name your lady grandmother."