(121-01-28) My Dad Can Beat Your Dad!
My Dad Can Beat Your Dad!
Summary: A Dornishman, a Stormlander, a Pansy Lord, and the Maiden's Knight walk into a bar….
Date: Date of play (28/01/2014)
Related: none

The Tooth and Nail

This squalid winesink never closes — somebody broke the front door, probably with an ax, years ago. It doesn't latch, and it'd not even a complete door. Bad weather can leak in through its broken edges. There are a few battered tables, and stools and benches or just empty barrels to sit on. The furniture, such as it is, doesn't match and is probably mostly stolen. It doesn't last long in here. The place has a dirt floor strewn with straw and rushes. They don't appear to have been changed for decades and they emit a dank smell.

The drink is cheap, the food cheaper, and the whores may be cheapest of all.

For a penny one can sleep, or do any other thing, on the second floor. It's drier up there. However, it is all one room and there are neither beds nor a limit to how many 'guests' are sold lodging there each night

The deeper into the undercity that Xhabo and Peri walk, the more looks of recognition and greetings Xhabo receives. Some are wary, even fearful. On the contrary, others are warm and welcoming. Love him or hate him, he is well known in this part of the city. Pushing open the broken door of the Tooth and Nail, he pauses to let Peri enter. "After you, Pearl."

Peri slips in, her hips swaying enough for the shifting linen to reward the man with a nice view of her tanned thigh. No apparent tan lines on the woman! She greets a few men before finding a table, taking a hankerchief out of her pocket to set over the chair before sitting, likely because the linen slip is not too terribly long or thick.

Xhabo doesn't remotely disguise his admiration of the exposed flesh. Nevertheless, he is a gentleman about taking out Peri's chair for her before sitting. He waves down a wench, ordering two ales, slipping a extra few stars into her hand to make sure it's the best of the cheap crap they sell here. "So, how does a woman of Lys end up on an Ironman's longboat?"

Peri 's legs fold, her elbows on the table "The same way everything else ends up on an Ironman's longboat, lovely. Carried right off the silk trading vessel and on board. I'll likely be yelled at when he realizes I've snuck off again. Although so long as my face doesn't get slashed or my person arrested, we should be alright." she rubs her face "Although if she slashes my face, I'll just wear a half veil over my lower face."

Xhabo arches an eyebrow. "She? Whoever she is, I promise, she'll cause you no harm in my presence. Why would anyone want to harm you? Especially at the risk of angering your Ironman?"

Peri nose scrunches "Maltemperment. Something about not knowing my place because I was gifted a silk gown from a local rich man." she offers with a chuckle, leaning to rest her bare feet on Xhabo's knee, her delicate tatoo work showing.

Xhabo chuckles at the boldness of her foot placement. But he can take a hint, and immediately applies his strong hands to her foot, massaging the arch. "Who is she?"

Peri looks honestly surprised at the massaging, her slight wince showing it is something she is not used! She seems to be accepting of it "Oh do be gentle. One of the local ladies, dresses unfashionably in linens." she offers, flexing her feet a little on her "Mormont. She wants to give me a Dornish Smile."

Xhabo frowns, nodding. "The bear woman. Ah, she is a formidable one. Still, if it did come to a fight, I'm glad it's her, and not some dainty flower. I don't much enjoy hurting women. But she is a warrior." He does soften his touch at her request, but continues the massage, occasionally sliding up to her calves and down again.

Peri 's eyes lid "Well, given I am not supposed to leave the boat, I plan to avoid her if possible." she admits, her leg flexing when rubbed. "I am not a warrior, but I'll not let people hurt my iron man nor me. I should say I soundly thrashed that Kai man the other day. I hit him with my scale mail skirt."

Xhabo bellows out a hearty laugh. "That sounds like it was quite a show." He smirks at her, his dark eyes drifting over her form. "So, why did you sneak away with me? Are you not worried this will hurt your ironman in other ways?"

Peri eye lids "Because I was lonely and you were there, and while he doesn't grasp being social, I do. I find being the only woman on the Homely Whore to be nearly a punishment." she offers, taking her ale up to sip from as soon as it is on the table. She is tall, thick, and a bit muscular, a presence that would be impossible to miss.

"The Homely Whore." Xhabo chuckles, shaking his head. "You shouldn't be on a ship named like that. So why does your ironman not send his men to look after you so you can go into the city? Perhaps he is not so afraid that you will be harmed, but rather that you will be stolen away, as he stole you away."

Peri chuckles "The ship is named for me. Someone accused me of being such." she admits "I suspect he fears I'll be stolen away, honestly, but he won't admit it." she jokes, chipperly, her grin forming

Xhabo smirks, stroking his thumbs along the arch of her foot. "And you? Do you fear being stolen away again, Pearl of Lys?"

Peri snorts "No. I'm getting old and fat. I've a bad temper and the ironmen think I'm a mermaid given legs." she offers, shifting slowly to settle her chair beside the man's, legs over his lap. "No one steals a fat old cow when there are pretty women running around in droves for the taking."

"Pretty, tiny women are fine distractions," Xhabo says idly with a shrug. "But it takes a real woman to handle a real man. A woman that will not break so easily." With her legs across his, his hands move further up, working along her calf muscles, then those around her knees.

Peri chuckles "Even when I was tiny I was not weak." she jokes, her eyes closing as she rests for the rubbing, legs flexing into the attention. "I am a lot larger than most Westerosi women, I've noticed this." she chuckles "yet I know how to behave myself around proper people." she snorts, laughing loudly

Xhabo's hands boldly slide up to her thighs, beginning to nudge the hem of her linens. "And I am larger than most Westerosi men," he says with a confident smirk. It's true, he's taller and broader than most…but maybe that's not what he's talking about.

Garvin is indeed a pretty noble boy, and his clothes do little to disguise the fact. He did try though, choosing hose, doublet, and hooded cloak of plain grays and blacks, with a harpcase slung over one shoulder, He pushes his way into the dive, looking around for a few moments, nose slightly wrinkled. When he catches sight of Peri, his eyes light, though he manages to suppress a grin. He makes his way toward her, but sits himself on at a barrel-table nearby, eyeing Xhabo rather warily.

Peri is calm, leaning to relax a bit "I am admittedly in a foul mood today, perhaps I will find out, perhaps not. I will say I quite miss my wool leggings today, as this chair, even in the summer heat, is chilly to sit on in this thing. I feel like I missed some basic dress lesson regarding Westerosi fashion." she eyes the man, lifting her brows and slowly shifting to sit up properly and hug around the man "Oh are you? You men, always so quick to brag." she teases faintly, fingers creeping to rest on the large dark man's stomach.

Xhabo welcomes the embrace, putting an arm around the foreign woman. "Women brag with their clothing and sly glances. Men brag with words. In the end, it is all the same. We men are simply not as subtle. That strength is with your sex." His eyes shift to the hooded young man sitting nearby, having noted his entrance. "I believe you have another admirer," he nods in Garvin's direction.

<FS3> Peri rolls Alertness: Good Success.

He shouldn't be here, and a knight has no business being here. Especially a knight of the non-hedge variety whose badge of House is so very clearly visible. When the man enters, already partly intoxicated, he lacks for the same delicate and colorful finery as Garvin. Instead, the taller, broader man is dressed in supple leather; a fitted doublet over a looser linen tunic, leather breeches, and hard-worn riding boots. Griffyth smells of leather, horse flesh, and wine—not terribly watered down or cheap wine, and despite an alert gaze, his face is slightly flushed with drink. His path is dogged, intended for the battered, unstable table closest to a presently standing barmaid.

Peri glances at Garvin "So I do." she offers, chuckling a bit "I miss, sometimes, wearing the broad low slung silken skirts with ornate jewels on the hips, and jeweled breast coverings that make anywoman look glamorous and beautiful." she offers to Xhabo, "Oh darling stranger, you should come closer, lest your perfume give you away from there." she sighs out, her fingers smoothing her linen gown down.

Garvin can't help but blush at the goings-on, stealing glances toward the enormous man Peri's reclining on. "I did not expect to see you here," he says softly to Peri, finally grinning a little. "What would your captain-husband say, to see you in such a state?" Perfume indeed, Garvin smells of lavender and rosewater, even though he doesn't have any actual flowers about his outfit tonight. He scoots his chair a bit closer to their table, still unwilling to look directly at Xhabo for more than a stolen moment or two. "Who is your friend?"

Peri eyes Garvin "He would punch me and put me back on the boat and we would quarrel loudly enough to wake the crew of the Moondancer and SummerSwan." she admits, honestly "Riker is already mad, what is a bit more manure on the pile, lovely man?" she asks, in a rather defiant and haughty move, the woman curls onto the large man's thighs, stretching out "I had to return this lovely silk dress I absolutely adored to a noble friend because it very nearly got me killed."

"He will say nothing," Xhabo says to Garvin, "Because he will see and hear nothing, friend. Come, sit and drink with us. You seem to know our Pearl of Lys," he rubs Peri's back indicatively. He waves a hand to summon a wench. "Ale for my young friend here. The same that we are drinking." He gives Garvin a solemn nod. "Believe me, it is the only ale here you want to drink."

He isn't dead to the goings-on about him, and perhaps the fact that it's a dive leaves Griffyth more interested in his surroundings. In in protecting his purse. Either way, the man's vivid blue eyes study each of the customers, scan as they are, with a critical scrutiny. His gaze lingers upon Peri several moments longer than either man, but then his attention is caught by a woman eager to part him from his money on her way to taking the rest of the group's order. "The strongest swill that you have that someone hasn't pissed out yet," Griffyth asserts in a self-assured tone, making no efforts to quiet himself or raise his voice.

Garvin lowers his hood, revealing that curly Tyrell hair he likes to wear a bit too long, as he gives Xhabo a quick smile. "My thanks, friend. I could use a strong ale tonight." He adjusts the harpcase in his lap, stealing glances around again. Griffyth catches his attention, more for what he's wearing than the look of the man himself. "Peri, why is your captain wroth with you? And why would you return your pretty gown?"

Peri is quiet "Because I did not ask his permission to go out, and the dress nearly got me killed." she repeats, voice low "So until his anger subsides I will cook nothing but salted fish, and wear linen tunics." she chirps, weight curling against the large dark man, partially for show, partially for warmth. Garvin might notice she did keep the jeweled mermaid pin he gave her though.

Xhabo chuckles at Garvin, speaking in his deep, accented voice. "I cannot promise that it will be very good. In fact, it will probably taste like aurochs piss. But it's strong enough." With Peri fully in his lap, he is able to rubs her back and continue massaging her bare thigh at the same time. Inappropriately, his hand is partially beneath the linen tunic covering her.

Derrioth walks into the Tooth and Nail, looking around in a bored, somewhat angry manner, bringing his left hand to scratch the back of his head. Oddly he wouldnt be wearing anything that refers to House Brax, only his simple charcoal armor. When he looks over to Xhabo massing Peri's thigh, he raises his brow, and talks in a monotone, cold, and maybe even incidentally rude tone, "…Did I walk in on /another/ orgy?"

"An orgy requires more than two, and if it's a proper orgy, more than three," offers the helpful knight at his erstwhile table, alone and without company but for several tankards of the strongest alcohol in the place. It smells awful, it tastes awful, and it looks awful, but that doesn't stop Griffyth from grasping it in a well calloused hand and gulping down a good draught of it in one go. The expression that follows is one of disgust, yet no regrets. When Garvin dares glance at him, Griffyth flashes the man an amused smile, but little else.

Garvin's eyes continue to focus on Griffyth's badge, and he murmurs absently, either to Peri or Xhabo or just himself. "Aquamarine maelstrom…That's the Stormlands, unless I mistake me. One of Lord Wylde's men?" He blushes profusely at the talk of orgies, attention drawn toward Derrioth. He leans a bit closer to Peri, whispering, "Do I know that man? He has a familiar look to him."
You cannot invite someone unless you both are IC.

Peri claps for the man "Oh quite brave ser knight." she calls out, her eyes go to Garvin "Essosi. Life at sea. I don't know heraldry unless it is Tyrell or an ironman's." she points out calmly. She offers, her weight wiggling in on the large dark man "So where do you hale from large one?" she eyes Garvin and Derrioth "He is Derrioth, a sell sword. Handy chap."

Xhabo chuckles. "A man who has walked in on another orgy is fortunate indeed." He regards Peri's question with an amused smirk. "I am from many places. In recent years, I am from here. Ask around the Undercity. Many know the name Xhabo Duna."

"Not if they all look like the backside of a dog's arse," Griffyth laughs a little roughly, shaking his head with a wry twist of a smile upon his lips. Garvin earns himself a shrewd look and closer intention. The smile isn't wiped away, but Griffyth drinks down another gulp of the tepid liquid before responding. "Lord Wylde's second best son," he replies while enjoying the faint burning sensation that trails its way along tongue and throat before numbness sets in along with that pleasant, untempered haze. "I didn't expect any trueborn nobility to show here. Oldtown is stranger than initially thought."

Derrioth looks to Garvin as he sees him leaning in, whispering to Peri, giving him a nod before walking on over to a empty table in the corner, pulling out a seat and sitting down upon it, leaning forward onto the table with his forearms. Raising his hand, he hails over a barmaid, ordering the strongest thing they have before proceeding to sigh, sitting all grumpy by himself.

<FS3> Garvin rolls Mind+heraldry: Good Success.

Ser Daevon is not dressed for a place like the Tooth and Nail, he sticks out like a shining star in the dark night's sky. Quite literally, his highly polished, armour gleams and glitters in the light, and those amethyst eyes of his aren't going to let him blend in even on the best of days. He's not even made an attempt at disguise. Surely he's not the first, nor will he be the last, noble to go slumming it in The Tooth And Nail.

Peri chuckles "If I get to explore the undercity for more than trinket shopping or perhaps moon tea purchasing." she offers, arching up to wrap her arms around the back of Xhabo's head, rubbing gently. The thin linen doesn't hide much on her, but it does keep her modest to the law's specification "I may go purchase a pair of pants, for instance." she leans to press her lips to Xhabo's chin, calmly, watching Garvin, unupset, unbothered, entirely calm. She chuckles "One generally does not walk into an orgy. Stumbles - drunken shambles, swimming into one? yes." she rubs very lightly, her eyes scanning the men around "I'm starting to feel under dressed in the shittiest bar in all of old town." she quips, softly mostly to Xhabo.

"Derrioth," Garvin repeats slowly, his gaze moving up and down the man. "I will remember that for the future." He finally turns to Peri again. "I'm sorry the gown caused you so much grief. If the lord you gave it to you had known, I'm sure he'd never have made you take it." Again, he looks at Griffyth, an eyebrow rising. "Lord Wylde's second son?" His eyes go distant for a long moment. "Not Ser Griffyth, surely? In a place such as this?" A quick glance to Xhabo, he's still too intimidated to look directly at the man. "I am simply Harper." And then Daevon appears, and Garvin's eyes saucer wide. "The Maiden's Knight!" he whispers, voice filled with awe. "This is proving quite an interesting night indeed."

This is the last place one would expect to find a Targaryen, and so Griffyth does what anyone might do. He stares, he stares hard as if suddenly distrusting his eyes. Deliberately, Griffyth straightens from his slouch in his battered wooden chair and peers into the mostly empty tankard still caught in his grasp. "Think I'll have more of whatever's in this," he muses aloud to the woman who sweeps past him with barely a glance for the man's leering gaze. "Just a harper." That's observed a little more scathingly, and Griffyth sinks a little more deeply into his chair as the fog of inebriation settles more thickly over his mind.

Xhabo snorts a chuckle as the latest slumming noble appears. "I see word has gotten out that I have come to the Tooth and Nail, and many wish to come see me." He barks a laugh. "Ahh, how it does change the atmosphere." He smirks at Peri, nodding. "I think the shops are closed now. But if you need it, I'm sure I can convince a seamstress to see you now."

Peri eyes Garvin "Cut the ruse, love, or you'll sour your cream." she reaches, tickling Garvin's chin. She leans, whispering to him, perhaps even going so far as to press her lips to the rich man's cheek "If he knew how much I liked that dress, he would know it pained me to send it back and the fear of alienation I had." she admits, her fingertips adjusting Garvin's costume, correcting inconsistencies in it for him with deft fingers. The Targaryen is eyed with much scrutiny. "I am getting a bit nervous." she admits towards Xhabo, leaning into his chest, cheeks hot red.
Peri whispers: A noblewoman threatened to slice open my cheeks and salt them then threatened to tell the city watch riker started the fight so we'd be punished. It is within her right but I suppose she's right. I should get back to the ship.

The charcoal armored sellsword would look over, taking note of the Targaryen. He'd simply stare for a moment, remaining in his slouched posture as he scans his eyes up and down over the Targaryen. Derrioth, needless to say, doesn't look entirely surprised to see a targaryen.. And neither does he seem impressed, as he lets out an audible annoyed grunt and looks away, listening to Xhabo only brings him to let out a louder annoyed grunt, his eyes trained upon the table in front of him as he stares silently.

Daevon's used to staring, it happens everywhere, and so it's acknowledged just with a friendly smile and a nod of his head. Today though, he's a man on a mission, that much is evident by the way his eyes scan over the gathered people, searching for someone or some thing. He pulls out a coin. "I'm looking for a woman," he informs the bartender, only no, that didn't come out right at all. "I mean, a specific one, not just any woman. Her name's Amber, mane of red hair, green eyes, quite young." Wait, no, this isn't going as planned. He's not looking for that sort of woman, well, maybe he is but not for that reason. The Targaryen Knight looks almost flustered. "Not for me."

Garvin blushes again at Peri's attention, and his hand slips inside his cloak, coming out with a small, enamelled flask. When he pulls the cork, those nearby can smell the sweet scents of mead. Maybe he's not as foolish as he looks, bringing his own drink here. "That's terrible," he says to Peri's whisper, frowning as he takes a swig. "What lady was this?" He glances over at Derrioth again, tongue playing over his upper lip to lick away some mead, then brings his attention to Daevon once more. He blinks several times, eyes again widening, then looks to see how Griffyth (the only other noble in the bar) reacts to the Maiden's Knight asking for a particular sort of woman.

"If you are uncomfortable," Xhabo says to Peri, "Then perhaps we should go. Do you want something else to wear? I can arrange it. I can get you anything you need." He smiles confidently, sparing a glance to Garvin, to whom he offers a smirk.
Long distance to Griffyth: Garvin is checking you out, but doesn't seem to realize he's checking you out, if that makes sense.

Peri eyes Garvin "Guess." she eyes Daevon "Try the Bawdy Bard Lordship?" she suggests to the Targaryen, sleepily folding her legs and bouncing one leg. This of course in such a cheap garment causes a seam to rip "well Damn." she mumbles. She eyes Xhabo "Perhaps, but I should go get some rest, and try to find some new clothing. I am also getting bit of a chill." she whispers, reaching to rest her palm along the dark skinned man's hand, the notable tan line on her fingers where her rings normally sit showing, lips persing as she arches to whisper into Xhabo's ear gently.

"My Lord Ser Targaryen," calls Griffyth politely, though his voice is still husky from drink. "Here isn't the proper place to go about asking for ladies. I know a few places in better areas of the city, if you have a… need." That smile is a wicked one, but pleasantly so and lacking for any sense of mockery. He glances sidelong towards Xhabo and Peri with a carefully neutral expression. "Harper boy, come here with that, I have an awful thirst." Knighted or not, Griffyth is shy full armor for the moment, making due with leather practice gear; doublet over tunic, leather breeches, riding boots beat to the hells and back, but no doubt comfortable. He's shy any visible weaponry.

"Stop staring at me like that, Lord Pansy." Derrioth calls out, staring down at his table. Derrioth looks up, over to the left as a barmaid would deliver his drink, setting the tankard down in front of him. Derrioth would simply give a nod and slip a coin from his pocket, offering it to the woman, "Tip." He mutters, before grasping the tankard and bringing it up to his lips, downing it quickly in it's entirety, he'd let out a sigh afterwards, setting down the tankard, "Another." He mutters, yawning before grumbling to himself.

Xhabo flashes Garvin a broad smile, but his attention is soon back on Peri. He nods to her, shifting slightly to indicate his desire to move. "Then let me walk you back to your ship. The streets can be dangerous at night." As he moves to turn her so she can easily stand, he murmurs quietly in her ear.

"Thank you kindly for your help," Daevon flashes a smile of gratitude as it's helped somewhat to dig him out of the hole he'd started burying himself in. "Where would I find the Bawdy Bard?" Griffyth's assistance is answered with equal gratitude. "It is not? Her sister said that she might be found here, although that seems to not be the case."

Garvin had just been stealing a look at Derrioth, but he quickly looks away and reddens. Fortunately, Griffyth is there to offer a distraction, so Garvin looks his way. "Bring what, my Lord?" he asks, sounding a bit sheepish, as he looks to the harpcase in his lap. "My harp, Ser? Would you like a song, perhaps?" He takes another, longer gulp from his flask, then gives Peri another small smile. "Travel safe, my friend. Give my regards to your grumpy captain."

Peri 's cheeks get red at Xhabo's whisper, her hands touching along his "Perhaps we shall go find such a lovely spot in the woods for a meal next time, or a nice place with pillows and a tub." she rubs under Xhabo's chin, "If you play your cards right, I may look as a mermaid. Garvin is regarded. "Sleep well Lord Tyrell." she outs Garvin, without so much as a flinching, curtsying to him just slightly before taking Xhabo's hand "I am gratitude filled that you will walk me." she coos, brushing her hips with the larger - but some how proportionatly correct man's.

Xhabo says nothing more, but simply smiles broadly at Peri's words. He gives Garvin a nods, dropping several coins on the table to pay for the drinks, and then some. Then, leading Peri to the door, he opens it for her to escort her back out into the night.

"Her sister, is it?" Griffyth stifles the thought that immediately comes to mind in light of the fact that on the social pecking order—the Targaryen may not be someone to treat so glibly. Thus, he turns his attention to Garvin with a hint of impatience. "I said I thirsted. I can't drink song." With an empty hand, Griffyth gestures towards Garvin. "What do you have in your flask? It has to be better than what they serve here." Although Peri's figure is followed to the door with eyes only, Griffyth's attention fixes itself upon the overdressed, overly colorful and somewhat long haired nobleman. "So as I was saying, come here."

Well, the cat's out of the bag: he's both Lord Pansy and Lord Tyrell, and now everyone in the place knows it. He gives Peri a pathetic sort of grin, his eyes following as she and her large companion make their way from the bar. Then he squints in Griffyth's direction, looking puzzled, until he realizes what the man is talking about, eyes falling to the flask. "Oh this? Mead, my Lord Wylde." He pushes up from the chair, shouldering his harp once more, and approaches the man's table and offering the flask for a taste. He doesn't sit yet, waiting to be invited. "I have another, if you'd prefer a fresh one." Because freshness is soooo important in a place like this. He glances again toward the bar and Ser Maiden's Knight, still a bit puzzled by what is going on.

"Yes," Daevon replies, simple and to the point. No need to explain himself, right. A smile curves bright upon his lips, shining in those amethyst eyes as he finally looks at Garvin. "Lord Garvin, is that you? What a splendid coincidence. I had not known you came here to play. And speaking of mead I'm still due you some, but perhaps not here? I had not intended to stay, only to see if I could find the girl, and she does not appear to be here."

"Are you diseased, boy? What plagues you isn't catching." Reaching out to grasp the flask from Garvin's clutches, Griffyth accepts it—and promptly drains it. "You'll have to tell me where to get more of that." Garvin's a Tyrell. A /Tyrell/, so of course the mead is liquid gold, higher quality than damned near anything. Griffyth gluts on its remains greedily, hands Garvin back his flask, and rises unsteadily to his feet. "Lord Tyrell, is it?" The knight regards Garvin, glances towards Ser Daevon, and grunts softly. "My pleasure, Lord Tyrell. Seems the Maiden's Knight desires your attentions."

Garvin places his harpcase on the chair, then reaches into his cloak again to produce two more flasks. The guy's a walking distillery, it seems. "Have one of these, Ser Daevon. And yes, it is I, Lord Garvin Tyrell, in the flesh. I fear my skills in disguise are sorely lacking. I did not think to meet anyone here tonight that would know me." He looks to Daevon again, head tilting a bit to one side. "What brings you to this place, Ser Daevon? Some…maiden's sister you seek?"

"It's Daevon," Daevon says. "Dae." Not that he's ever really been able to get anyone to call him by a nickname of his own choosing. No it's always Maiden Knight this, and Great Lord Ser Daveon Targaryen that. He joins them, taking the offered drink, it would be rude not to after all, but he only takes a small mouthful before offering it back. "Oh that's good." He says, appreciatively. "Yes. I met a maiden, Willow, who was terribly distraught, said that her sister was working around here, lovely girl, name's Amber. And Willow was worried for her sister, but didn't feel safe searching here herself, so she asked me to. She said her sister needed rescuing, but I've had little luck so far in finding her."

"Your clothing pegs you for a noble, Lord Tyrell," Griffyth observes drily. "Or at least a priss with too much money." It's unsettling to have a Targaryen seated at his table. A Tyrell isn't too bad, but a Targaryen? Slowly, Griffyth sinks back down into his seat if only due to the fact that he's growing more and more wobbly standing than he is seated. Rather than kiss the floor, he opts to resume his seat. "Could be the girl ran off to wed some man she met and didn't bother to tell her sister. Or it's some lark shared between them to raise the interest of a Targaryen knight." It's mostly intelligible, although a little slurred.

Garvin ahs then, nodding to Daevon, though he doesn't take back the flask, having another one for himself already. Just how many he has hidden in that cloak is anyone's guess. "I hope that you find her, poor maid." He turns again to Griffyn, one brow arching curiously. "And what about you, Ser Wylde? This is hardly the place one expects to find a Stormlands lord. What Targaryen knight would that be?" After a beat, understanding dawns in his eyes, as he glances to Daevon. "Aaaaaah." He then looks down at his tunic, which he thought was so plain and ordinary, though the lambswool is fine and spotless. In fact, everything he wears is pristine and likely new. "I thought I had done such a good job of it, too."

"It could be," Daevon admits. "And if so, I will be most glad, that she is not in need of rescuing, and that her sister's mind can be put at ease. I would not like to think that anyone would play such a trick on me. The girl seemed truly distraught about the thought of such terrible things happening to her sister in the city."

"You'll need to roll around in the muck more an' groom less," Griffyth laughs, his language the first growing casualty of drunkenness. "Was this girl trueborn or jus' some girl off somewhere?" Griffyth staves off drinking further for the moment, but the ale and mead haven't quite caught up to him yet. "Never mind my askin', m'Lord. It's not my business what ya wanna do with your time." The man lifts a naked hand shy a gauntlet, leather or otherwise, and waves off his 'concern' for the Targaryen knight. "Gods blood, it's awfully empty in here all sudden like."

"She was not of noble birth," Daevon replies. "If she had been in dire need most likely I would have found her by now. I will follow up those other leads tomorrow, unless you wished to show me the places you spoke of today?" He looks around. "It must be getting late, that or the regular patrons are avoiding us."

Garvin blinks again, then lifts his wrist to sniff at his sleeve. Lavender and a hint of rosewater. With a shrug, he sits across from Griffyth, then waves a hand to another chair for Daevon. It's not his table, but he's too polite to let another lord remain standing. He takes a small sip from his flask, looking around, then up to the ceiling. "I've noticed quite a few people take the stairs. Perhaps that's where they've all gone, though I've no idea why."

"Pardon me, m'Lord, but I'm in no fit state to show you anything but a hard floor and the bottom of a boot," Griffyth tells the Targaryen with a crooked, drunken-faced grin. "You'll have to wait 'til I'm not up to my eyes in…" He trails and blinks blearily down at the tankard before him. "Whatever this swill is. So some other time, m'Lord. All I want to do now is find something warm and keep my stomach until the morning. I may not be very successful on either count." Rubbing his jawline, Griffyth shakes his head at Garvin musingly. "Nngh. See? You smell like a girl."

Daevon laughs at Griffyth's confession. "Well I have already seen more than my fair share of those, so as kind as that offer is, I'll pass on the tour of boots and floors." He sniffs the air at Griffyth's statement. "A Tyrell certainly, not a girl."

Garvin gives Griffyth a pouty sort of frown, sniffing at his sleeve again. "Perhaps I should drink some of that then," he says nodding toward the man's ale. "From here, it smells like like a girl and more like a horse that's been ridden hard for a day and a night. May I?" He puts down his flask and reaches for the tankard, giving the man his biggest puppy eyes.

Arros pushes the broken door aside with a casual shove. He is swathed in black sandsilk robes commonly worn by Dornish nobles with loose fitting breeches and high sturdy boots under. A sword belt hangs at his waist, the weight of his longsword dragging it down at one side. He heads towards the bar, and puts down a penny for some of the horrible wine the place serves.

"You say that, but down in the Stormlands, the men smell like a stable, and the girls smell like gardens. Hardly a complaint." Griffyth's pale blue eyes settle upon Garvin's puppy eyes and arches a brow. "Have your fill. It cost nothing but don't blame me if you find yourself under the table in a few candlemarks." To help the younger man along, Griffyth slides the tankard along the uneven, battered surface of the table towards the boy. The arrival of a Dornish noble is treated with interest, but it's a fleeting interest dulled dramatically by intoxication.

Daevon's distracted by Arros' entrance. It's his turn to stare as his gaze trails after the Dornish noble. He looks away, towards Garvin, only what were they saying, and he's still on his feet. At a loss, for but a moment he takes another mouthful from that flask of mead.

Garvin seems eager to prove he's not a girl, tipping the tankard back and gulping down the remainder of its contents, then slamming it onto the tabletop with a triumphant grin. Slowly, the grin melts, and the light in his eyes fades. First his face flushes, then pales to a sickly green, and he slaps a hand over his mouth. Leaping to his feet, he makes a dash for the door, and even before it's shut behind him, gagging-coughing sounds can be heard.

Arros takes a swallow of his wine, wrinkles his nose, and spits it out. "By the Seven, what is this swill?" His question is directed at the woman behind the bar, and his Dornish accent is thick, "Bah! I will pay you more to take it away, woman!" And he puts down a whole groat on the counter before standing. His eyes meet Daevon's, and he gives the apparent Targaryen a nod. "Friend, have you something to take this taste from my mouth?"

Garvin's reaction is viewed with a great amusement, and Griffyth is laughing generously before the priss of a Lord reaches the door. Once his laughter dies down and Garvin is outside likely retching up what he's just imbibed, Griffyth turns his attention more sharply towards Arros. "Far from home, Dornishman?" There's a hint of distrust in the young man's voice, and Arros, should he be educated in Westerosi heraldry, might recognize a Stormlander for what he is—a potential ancestral enemy of sorts. But Griffyth appears unarmed and too drunk to have the best hand-eye coordination.

Daevon laughs at Arros' words. "Nothing but the finest mead, as gifted by Lord Tyrell here…" he offers the flask over. Wait Lord Tyrell where? He looks after Garvin as he dashes out. There's a moment of conflict but he decides to remain. "There." He's nothing but friendly, smiling warmly. "Hopefully that will help. So what brings you this far from Dorne?"

Arros is unphased by Griffyth's distrust. Instead, he lets out a bark of a laugh, "In distance no further than you." He says easily. He stands up, and moves next to Daevon. The flask will be received with a grateful look, and he takes a swig and swirls it about his mouth for a moment before swallowing. The flask is handed back. "Ser Arros Sand." He introduces himself, mostly to Daevon.

Daevon shakes his head at the offer of the flask back. "It's the Lord Tyrell's, return it to him when he comes back. The more you drink of it, the less there will be for him to imbibe, so think of it as a favour you are doing for him. Ser Daveon Targaryen," he offers his name in exchange. "It's an extreme pleasure to meet you. Will you be competing in the tournament?" his gaze goes to Griffyth too, including him in the question.

Bullheaded in his drunkenness or not, Griffyth doesn't fling insults and settles for slouching in his unsteady chair, eyeing Arros with neither small nor frown. "Sand, eh?" Tone alone speaks volumes; bastard it says, of course he's a bastard. But at the mention of the tournament, Griffyth attempts to haul himself upright and mostly succeeds by slinging his arms down on the table's surface to steady himself. "Plan to. Not much else to do in Oldtown 'cept get drunk and ride in the lists. How 'bout you, Maiden Knight?" Even though Griffyth doesn't inquire of Arros directly, his gaze is still settled squarely upon the Dornishman awaiting his response to Daevon.

Garvin stumbles back in at last, looking pale and sickly. His hair is badly mussed, and his cloak hangs heavily from one shoulder, but he somehow managed not to get sick on himself. One hand clutched another of his little flasks to his chest, while the other drops a second, empty one on the floor. Just stops just inside the door, panting a bit, then takes another long swallow of his mead, before staggering back to the table. "How," he asks, falling bonelessly into his chair, "can you drink that piss?" Eyes a bit glassy, he tries to focus on Arros, nose slowly wrinkling when he gets a good look at the man. "A Stormland Lord, a Dornishman, and the Maiden's Knight enter a tavern," he begins, but can't seem to come up with a punchline.

"Yes. Sand." Arros' tone becomes sharp. Fierce. "My mother, before she was Lady Uller, was the beloved paramour of my father, Lord Dayne. He put her above all other women, and loved her dearly. Sand I may be, but my blood is likely to be far more noble than yours, Stormlander." He sucks in an annoyed breath before looking back to Daevon, and his tone becomes more pleasant, "I am here for the tournament. It will be good practice." He ignores Garvin's nose wrinkle, and agrees, "It is undrinkable."

Daevon he laughs at Garvin's attempt at a joke. "Perhaps it is time for them to leave the tavern?" He makes no move to go though, still enjoying the company. He smiles at Arros' words and then nods. "Tournaments are marvellous fun," he says to Griffyth. "There's nothing quite like them. I intend to participate in as many events as I can. It's been too long since I had the opportunity to."

Griffyth jerks to his feet, but the effect is partly undone by how he nearly tips backward along with his chair. Standing, he's an imposing enough figure at his full height and the breadth of his shoulders even unarmored. Garvin's words fall on deaf ears for the moment as an angry, ruddy flush rises to Griffyth's features. "What did you say to me, sand rat?" His voice is a belligerent growl even if it was never made for such guttural tones. "Your Lord father, if he /is/ your father, isn't fit to lick my father's boots, much less share the same air. You came awfully far from home to be knocked off your horse." It's remarkable how anger somewhat aids his ability for speech. Poor Daevon is equally ignored for the moment.

Garvin begins by giving Daevon a goofy grin, and it looks as if he might say something, but Griffyth's sudden outburst stills his tongue. He falls back against his chair, blinking owlishly up at the man, as if trying to figure out just what is happening. He looks over to Arros, then Daevon, then back to Griffyth again. "Why would anyone lick someone's father's boots?" he asks, voice nearly as slurred as Wylde's now. "That's -disgusting-."

Arros is tall, and somewhat imposing as well. He does not appear to be cowed by the angry Wylde. "You." He says calmly, "Are rude. And your rudeness and inhospitality will be a blight on this festival, which from what I understand is a celebration of the Mother. I need not trade insults with you because your behavior and conduct is a reflection and a shame not on you, but on me. Are you not an anointed Knight, bound to honor and bring glory to the Seven?" He smiles, his straight white teeth showing, "Mark my name, Stormlander. For the Mother is on my side, and I shall see you eat sand."

It's best not to interfere with this sort of argument and so Daevon just moves closer to where Garvin is, and out of the way of any impending fight. "Best not to think of it," he says to Garvin, his words quiet.

"Your presence is a blight on this festival," Griffyth bites off, rocking back to settle on his heels. Anger is not sufficient to sober him, but adrenaline makes him notably more alert and clears some of the glaze from his blue eyes. "My oaths to the Seven have nothing to do with you and yours, and your words aren't worth the breath you utter them on. Say what you will, but you don't speak for the Mother. Your arrogance shows in your presumption and is an insult to the gods. You'll find punishment before I ever do for—" Pause. "Something." Muttering darkly under his breath, Griffyth peers intently at Arros. "I hope you joust as well as you sharpen your tongue, Dornishman. You'll need it."

Garvin shrinks a bit in his chair, eyes going back and forth between the Stormlander and the Dornishman. He glances up to Daevon with a little wimper, nodding his head, then gulps down even more of his mead. Mead makes everything better.

Arros doesn't say anything more. Instead, he laughs. It's a jovial, booming noise. Then he pops his neck. And then, he raises his hammy fist and swings for Griffyth's chin.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=Brawling Vs Griffyth=brawling
< Arros: Failure Griffyth: Failure
< Net Result: Both Fail.

"Lord Pansy," Daevon says, quietly to Garvin. "Would you like to stay and watch the fight, or perhaps leave before drinks go aflying? If you wish to stay, might I suggest a better vantage point would be over there." He tilts his head just slightly that way. Oh and then there are fists flying.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Brawling Vs Daevon=Brawling
< Griffyth: Failure Daevon: Success
< Net Result: Daevon wins - Marginal Victory

It's clear from his expression that Griffyth isn't expecting to be swung on by a Dornishman. The man's fist misses not because of Griffyth's phenomenal reflexes so much as accidental staggering backwards to put some space between he and Arros as the man lashes out with a fist. "You sand-sucking, ham-fisted bastard," Griffyth snarls in agitation, taking an unsteady lurch forward as if in counter attack. The trouble is that Griffyth wobbles, and his swing flies wide of his /intended/ target, coming dangerously close to potentially blackening a pretty purple eye.

A raucous chorale of singing - or perhaps, rather, broad excuses for that term - shakes up the flimsy boards of the Tooth's portal once more. Among many a vulgar ditty of Oldtown come the discordant notes of a tune Griffyth may recognise, one of the intrminable Marcher ballads.

And then they are through - a dissolute, randy bunch of novices, clerks, serjeants-at-arms and prentices, far gone in a so far almost too-successful quest for a good time. It would seem the band, about a dozen all told, is however led by an undisputed captain.

For at their vanguard reels a youth whose rough brown travelling cloak does poor work of concealing finer garb, he of the Marcher song, dark haired and azure eyed. Amadys Baratheeon, lordling first, acolyte second (by some distance), is on hand and looking for adventure, of the most squalid variety. "Where the girls…?" he breaks off from the epic seventy-eighth verse to demand.

Garvin's head bobs wobbily, as he gathers his harpcase and clutches it to his chest. "That might be betterer…er," he murmurs, struggling to his feet. The heavy case makes him clumsy though, and he stumbles against Daevon's side in his attempt to get clear of the table. Fortunately, his lightweight frame isn't enough to unsteady the Targaryen knight, and he rebounds back a few steps, colliding with another table behind him.

Daevon's got the reflexes of a cat, fast on his feet, as a fist comes flying towards him he doesn't think, just reacts, stepping back, straight into Garvin. While Garvin alone might be lightweight, already unbalanced he goes toppling down, bringing the swill on the table with him. The first casualty of this barroom battle.

Arros misses Griffyth's face in the swing, and punches the wall instead. "Damn it!" He snarls out, and brings his hand up to his mouth to suck on a bloody knuckle before his head turns and he surveys the chaos that has been unleashed as Griffyth almost hits Daevon, and Daevon goes crashing into Garvin.

Before things can grow any worse, Griffyth appears to dimly realize he nearly struck a Targaryen. "My Lord!" Nothing sobers a man upat least a littlequite like terror. He keeps it from his face, but he immediately moves to help steady both Garvin and Daevon in light of his error. Even though he himself isn't doing terribly well in keeping upright himself. "My Lords, I apologize, I…" He trails off at the raucous noise that suddenly fills the dive bar, led by a strikingly familiar figure.

Garvin certainly doesn't smell like a girl now, sprawled on the floor and covered in swill. He blinks up at the ceiling in utter confusion, looking for all the world like a child who doesn't understand how his favorite toy could have gotten broken. The harpcase is still clutched to his chest, and he seems reluctant to let go of it even long enough to get to his feet, so he just remains where he is, blinking vile ale from his eyes. "Am I unhorsed?" he mumbles. "I don't even remember entering the lists."

"Well you did warn me," Daevon jests, grabbing hold of the steadying arm. "A tour of the floor and your boot? Clearly I couldn't resist." The spilled tankard splashed on his armour he looks down. "I think it's eating through the metal." As soon as he's balanced he's offering Garvin a hand, trying to help him up to his feet. "Yes, unhorsed, best to get back up on it." He looks between Garvin and Arros. "Is the excitement over yet or are we going for round two?"

"He is too drunk to fight." Arros says, the disappointment obvious in his voice. He steps around to help Daevon hoist Garvin off of the floor by offering the inebriated rose a hand as well, so he has two as opposed to one.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Brawling Vs Arros=Brawling
< Griffyth: Success Arros: Failure
< Net Result: Griffyth wins - Marginal Victory

The handsome, self-satisfied youth with the long black Stormlands mane tosses his unconvincingly cheap looking cloak to one of his reeling disciples among the prentices, and looks about with mounting dissatisfaction. "Where is the master of this establishment? And where its manners? When a stag and his friends require tender does, it is unwise to baulk him with disordliness," he complains in a carrying voice that is nonetheless just cresting the cusp of mellow and very, very hoarse.

"That isn't entirely what I meant, my Lord…" And then Griffyth is trailing off and blinks drunkenly as the attractive and annoying Dornishman treads over to offer his aid to Daevon. Bullish and belligerent when so deeply intoxicated, Griffyth sways on his feet menacingly. Menacingly? He tries. "I could lick you half-way up the stairs and back down again if I were dead," the man remarks as the Dornishman wanders in to close enough range. Fingers curl into a fist, and Griffyth pulls his arm back, snaps his wrist forward and jabs a blow directly at the man's jaw. Never mind that Griffyth's other hand is still clasping Daevon's forearm.

And so Lord Pansy is helped to his feet, though he still clings to his harpcase, as though it were the greatest treasure. His cloak rattles a bit, the hidden pockets undoubtedly holding even more of those little flasks of mead. "Doesh this mean I've lost the tourney?" he asks, giving his head a shake, so his long curls spray swill on his two rescuers. "My lord father will be so dishappointed. But not surprished."

And then, with more amusement than surprise, Amadys recognises one of the belligerents. "Why, it's a Wylde! Caspar!…? No, I think, …yes, Griffyth, Ser Griffyth it must be, since we met last. Perhaps you might delay whatever point you are attempting to…demonstrate…and tell your liege's brother what in the hells is going on here, where the women have gone, and who," he gives Garvin's shaky figure a vague gesture, "appears to have smashed a Tyrell's brainpan…?"

Arros raises a dark brow at Garvin's words. "What is he-" He doesn't get a chance to finish his words. He gets popped in the jaw by the drunk Griffyth, who he had just deemed too drunk to fight. The Dornishman goes backwards, smacking his back against the wall with a thud. He spits out a mouthful of blood, and glares daggers at his assailant. "You!" He pushes off the wall, launching himself at Griffyth, and dropping low to throw a hook at his side.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=Brawling Vs Griffyth=Brawling
< Arros: Good Success Griffyth: Failure
< Net Result: Arros wins - Solid Victory

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Brawling Vs Arros=Brawling
< Griffyth: Failure Arros: Good Success
< Net Result: Arros wins - Solid Victory

"Licking, upstairs," Daevon echoes. "Might want to choose some different words, especially when speaking of a…" As yet another punch is thrown his smile vanishes, the sentence trails off, although he still tries to keep Garvin steady and out of the way of the fighting.

Garvin's brain is trying to catch up, and for some reason, he fixates on a word he heard ages ago. "I want to see the pretty does! Where are they? And the pretty stags as well." Leaning heavily against Daevon, though lightly half a step behind the protective knight, he squints to look around the room. But all he sees are flying fists and snarling men, and he pouts out his lower lip. "But I wanna see the pretty stags. Piffle!"

The fist connects solidly, and painfully, with Griffyth's abdomen—just off center enough that it throws him off balance. It's a meaty thud of a sound as Arros strikes the Stormlander man; Griffyth is not a soft man. "Just a moment, my Lord," comes Griffyth's voice, albeit gruff and winded from the force of Arros's fist thrusting the air free of his lungs. Reflexively, he jabs outwardly at his attacker, but through quicker reflexes on Arros's part and Griffyth's drunken lack of balance, his blow finds nothing but air as he staggers forward, unsteady and looking a little pale. The ale and the bruising blow does little for his stomach.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Amadys mutters in what would be a dry tone, were it not in fact very, very drink-sodden. "Unless my eyes or my ears deceive me…" His attention has shifted from the Tyrell, amusing as he finds the latest antler-based dlirium, to the slight man with definite Valyrian features holding up. "Lads, behold the Maiden's Knight. You were murdering a song about him only yestreen, Wat," he reminds one of his comrades. "To what does Oldtown owe this honour, ser? Has Ser Ormund taken to stationing famous paladins in every winesink to prevent brawling? It would appear that it is a less than wholly successful plan…"

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Arros=Brawling Vs Griffyth=brawling
< Arros: Failure Griffyth: Success
< Net Result: Griffyth wins - Marginal Victory

Arros leans backwards to avoid the jap Griffyth throws his way, and throws a lazy jab back. It misses Griffyth's chin. Perhaps it is because of Griffyth's drunken imbalance, or perhaps it is because Arros just isn't very good at throwing punches. It's hard to tell at this point. "Do you give up yet?!" He snarls to Griffyth.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Griffyth=Brawling Vs Arros=Brawling
< Griffyth: Success Arros: Success
< Net Result: DRAW

"Oh goodness, no. It would be a more foolish knight than I to try and break those two up," Daevon replies to Amadys. "They seem intent on fighting, regardless, and I'm sure they'll stop, eventually, of their own accord. I was here on a different mission. As long as it's just brawling, and they pay for any damages, where's the harm?"

There's a slightly grayish-green cast to Griffyth's skin, but it speaks of his fortitude that he doesn't empty his stomach despite every inclination to do so. He's wobbly, but guards himself well, and it's really some combination of sluggish reflex and swaying that finds Arros missing his blow. Not to be outdone for violence—or at least aggression, Griffyth lunges at the man bodily, putting all of his weight behind it. Given how drunk he is? It's quite a bit of dead weight even, and it's more of a scrabbling gesture than a proper bludgeoning blow.
You paged Amadys with 'Is Amadys now near enough to Daevon and Garvin that Garvin could get a close look at his ring?'

"'A different mission'," the gallant young Baratheon acolyte repeats just a little sceptically. "Would that be the same mission as mine and my friends', …'Maiden's Knight'? Mayhaps you might let slip a clue to our chivalric errand for undercity cunny…"
Amadys pages: go for it!

Garvin's one arm continues to clutch the harpcase to his chest, while the other hand clings to Daevon's shoulder for support. Nevertheless, he sways slowly back and forth, his half-lidded eyes doing there best to focus on Amadys. "I know that ring," he mumbles, brows drawing together in concentration. "Crowned stag…Baratheon!" His golden-brown eyes suddenly light, opening wider. "You're a Baratheon! I bet you know where I can find a pretty stag to pet." Surely he didn't mean that the way it sounded.

Daevon blinks at Amadys, innocently, trying to work out what it is that he means. "Are you looking for Amber also? I've been unable to find her. Her sister really is worried about her. Do you know her?"

Arros is struck by Griffyth, and bounces backwards to the wall again. He spits up more blood before announcing, "To the seven hells with this! I yield, you horses' ass!" That said, the cornish bastard turns abruptly on his heel, and stalks out of the broken door.

Amadys first smirks down to what is, indeed, the nearest sight to the fair damsel he seeks, and runs a friendly hand through his Tyrell contemporary's flowing locks. "I do indeed, young rosebud. So it's true what they say about the squires in Highgarden, eh? Sounds diverting, they should try out such games in Storm's End and bloody Stonehelm."

At the Targaryen knight's interpolation the acolyte's last shread of dignity collapses into irresistible mirth; so it's one of his companions, a serjeant, who yells out, "Sure we know 'er, we know all the Ambers in Ol'town, every way a man knows a woman…."

Amadys first smirks down to what is, indeed, the nearest sight to the fair damsel he seeks, and runs a friendly hand through his Tyrell contemporary's flowing locks. "I do indeed, young rosebud. So it's true what they say about the squires in Highgarden, eh? Sounds diverting, they should try out such games in Storm's End and bloody Stonehelm."

"Where would I find her?" Daevon asks Amadys. "Is she in need of rescue? Can you let her know her sister, Willow, is worried about her and wishes to speak with her?" He does laugh at Amadys' last comment.

"You don't have vomit on your shoes, do you?" A flat woman's voice can be heard just outside the broken door to the Tooth and Nail before Maera emerges, followed by a big fellow with an axe on his back and a glorious mustache that would put most mustache's to shame. The big man grunts, and shakes his head. "Ah. Good. I was afraid he'd spew all over all of us." The Lady Mormont heads first for the bar, catches sight of what is being served, and steps away from the bar as quickly as she came. Then she spots Amadys. The acolyte will be offered the beginnings of a smile, and a little wave of the hand.

Any attempts at a smile are smothered by the tone of Amadys's voice. "He threw the first blow, my Lord." Even to Griffyth's ears, the excuse is a little hollow. The still-drunk Knight straightens and tries to put himself to some semblance of order once Lady Mormont arrives. The laces of his doublet are relaxed a little, his sleeves brushed off and fingers raked hurriedly through his dark blond-brown hair. "I suppose I ought to go sleep it off. We'll speak in the morning, Lord Baratheon?" There's a glance slid away from Amadys to weigh heavily upon Garvin with a certain skepticism. "Is it not late, Lord Tyrell?"

Garvin just blinks owlishly at Amadys, blushing as his hair is stroked. "What is it they say?" he asks, voice growing thick as his throat becomes too dry. He seems to have forgotten about his little flasks of mead. "About Highgarden squires, I mean." He frowns suddenly, brows drawing together. Then his lower lip juts out in a pout. "I'm no squire! I do like games though. There's this game the guards play with knuckles, Liar's Dice, I think it's called. That is great fun." He takes a deep breath, eyes half-lidded again, as he looks toward Griffyth. "Late, yes. Very late. Are you done fighting barbarians?"

"I should think you won't be the first to, ah, rescue her, Ser Daevon, if you do find her," Amadys replies with sudden and surprising gentleness. "But it…does the heart good to encounter a true knight worthy of the songs, once in a while. Good luck in your quest. I hope both these great ladies are properly thankful for your services, and reward you most enjoyably…"

Then Willows and Ambers, and even Daevons and Garvins are driven from the young buck's thoughts by the materialisation of Lady Mormont in this sink of debauchery…and her apparent summons. Acknowledging Griffyth's proposed departure with a properly lordly nod, Amadys floats straight over to the northern ruling lady. Anyone who looks at the vacant stare in his gleaming blue eyes would suspect he is wondering whether he is dreaming. "My lady. The hour has grown late indeed…but never too late, I hope, for me to serve you, howsoe'er you may desire…"

Some lewd chuckles from Amadys's disorderly friends are detrminedly ignored.

Daevon doesn't react in the slightest to any of the innuendo that Amadys offers. "There is never any need for reward nor gratitude." He says, the words likely unheard. "Lord Garvin, would you be so kind as to show me the way out of here? I have still yet to learn my way through the city, and I would not like to become lost."

Looking a little haggard, Griffyth will no doubt look much worse once he's slept off the alcohol still coursing through his system. "If only, my Lord Tyrell. But there are many barbarians in this world, some with even grosser inclinations than Ser Sand. I do think… I ought to be going now while I can still feel my feet and find my mount." Pressing the heel of his hand to his brow, Griffyth ducks a glance at Amadys and Daevon, more sly in his glances towards the Lady Mormont—and those glances are not chaste in thought. But even so, he quickly averts his gaze and starts for what serves as a 'door' in the establishment.

"Only if you can assist me by leading us out of here." Maera says good-naturedly to Amadys. "I got turned around somewhere on Hightower near the docks, and somehow ended up in this wretched place. I keep reaching for my dagger in fear that I'll have to stab some cutpurse's hand in order to keep him away." She glances back to the Targaryen, and offers him a polite nod of her head before surveying Garvin. "I do not think Lord Pansy is leading anyone anywhere."

Garvin hears a familiar voice nearby, and with exaggerated slowness, he turns his head to see Daevon at his side with a familiar hand on his shoulder. Where has he seen that hand before? Long fingers, perfect nails…Oh, it's his own hand! Garvin grins sloppily, giving his head a bob. "I should be most honored to guide you, Ser Maiden's Knight," he slurs. "If only you will keep me from falling off my horse again." His head wobbles back in Griffyth's direction again. "You must call on me at Hightower soon, Lord Wylde. I will be sure to have an Arbor red ready for you, far better than what they serve here. Come, walk with us until we find our way back to more familiar surroundings."

"That I could do, most easily, my lady," Amadys avouches slily, "but on the other hand, this…secluded…spot…has its own charms. Are you certain you would not care to sample them with me a little longer? To taste, as it were, the genuine savour of oldest Oldtown? You lot," he yells to his miscellanous band of lowborn hangers-on, "settle your affairs on my account here and get out. I have business in confidence with Lady Mormont, and no desire to defile my eyes any further on your vile faces."

Garvin staggers along beside the far more sober Daevon, still clutching that harpcase for dear life. "I didn't bring my horse," he murmurs. "It will be a long walk to Hightower. I hope I remember the way…." And then the two of them are gone, leaving behind only a few of Garvin's empty mead flasks and the faintest scent of lavender.

"Or else you'll become lost," mutters the House Wylde knight as he trudges swayingly after Garvin and Daevon, having awaited them at the door until they're stepping through the entryway into the darkness beyond. Before he leaves, the knight affords his liege lord's brother with a sweeping, somewhat graceful bow even while inebriated and turns sharply to catch up with the pair outside. "I've my mount, Lord Tyrell." That's all that's heard before they're vanishing out of sight and out of range of hearing.

The odd pair are joined on their way out by Amadys's grumbling, scattering retinue of drunken, hot-blooded young scum. It ought to be an amusing journey.

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