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His mind is spinning when he draws the wine to his lips again. Spinning so much that he almost doesn't feel the uncontrollable, consuming fear anymore. He takes another long drink, waiting for the wine to turn his fear into anger.
If it weren't for the damned fire. Fire makes him think of stealing the toy knight and how he couldn't even breathe because he knew Gregor would find out and find him. It makes him think of Gregor's iron grip that kept his face in the fire as he screamed and never once faltered.
His hands are shaking, he realizes. He swore he'd never be afraid anymore. He would turn it all into hatred. And there are many things to hate. He hates the Imp and his wildfire; he hates the money-hungry sellswords and the glory-hungry knights; he hates Joffrey and the queen and all the Lannisters; he hates the stupid, obsequious Stark girl and the fear in her eyes, the silent appeal for help. He hates how weak she is, like a little bird that can be crushed in one hand.
Most of all he hates how he cares about her. In his haze-filled mind, he sees his sister and he throws his stein against the wall where it shatters. He is angry now, and unafraid. He'll take her from them. They can't touch her or him -- he'll kill anyone who dares. And when it's all over, there won't be any more fear in her eyes.
He opens the door to her room with a crash but there is no bird inside to jump at the noise. He turns away from the green fire raging outside the window and falls onto the bed, lightly dozing until the door room opens again with a click.