"Any other news? Well, lets see," he hissed.
All the rage, all the stress, all the news, good and bad, rushed to his knees at that moment, to his shoulders, bringing him down, crippling him once again. The hand occupied with the lion’s head of the cane went cold, however, like stone, keeping him steady even as he wished to just fall. To break his neck or die in any other quick, somewhat-painful way, so that he could just move it on to whichever hell or afterlife he’d be given. But some part of him said that he was already in hell.
A hell where the gods decided to torture him with the vague idea of seeing his siblings again before taking them from his grasp like they usually decided to take his cane, whether it be with mud or stairs or the cold, hard ground. A hell where the gods decided to torture him with making decisions between angering his wife or angering his vassals, never able to satisfy the both of them.
He held up a long, dark red, leather-gloved finger in the air. It was embroidered with gold, and it stood like the Rock against the Sunset Sea, despite Lucion's growing anger; it looked as if it was stained with blood.
"My brother and sister are in Highgarden, possibly plotting my demise or cursing my name or praying to all the fucking gods that I trip and fall down the stairs.”
A second finger.
“Alester Tyrell might be about to help him because my gods-be-damned father married my brother to that rosey whore from Highgarden.”
A third finger.
And lets not forget the fucking High Septon, who damns our entire cause because we're about to sow their fucking soil with the blood of their smallfolk -” a fourth finger nearly came up, but sat itself down right quickly”- and that’s not a good thing, you see, because the continent of Westeros happens to worship the Seven.”
Lucion looked back to stare at the lords, to catch their reactions. But he’d forgotten one. There was the fourth finger.
“Oh,” he turned around again, “and lastly; finally, that entire council and wedding we had last night matters nothing because I ruined the fucking vows and we’ve received this letter.” He took it back from King Torric, and crumpled it in the air with his gloved hands; they acted more like the vicious claws of a catamount in the half-light of morning, ravaging the gritty, rough texture of the parchment, casting a shadow on the far edge of the tent.
“So, King Torric, it appears that you and my uncle going to Highgarden isn’t the best of ideas.”