(121-05-29) Dornish Hospitality
Dornish Hospitality
Summary: Ser Quillian Oakheart is treated to a little Dornish hospitality at the Acacia and Leopard Hall.
Date: 29 May 2014
Related: Florent-Redwyne After-Party

Acacia and Leopard Hall
While the price is modest, membership at this hall is restricted to the Dornish, and entry is restricted to members and their guests. Unaccompanied non-Dornish visitors are quick to be shown the door. One can get a meal here at any time — Dornish cuisine rich with spices and dragon-peppers. Likewise, there's wine, a bedchamber for the night, and… other services. All of these things cost extra beyond the membership dues, and are no cheaper than other Oldtown inns. Members are presented with a monthly bill.

While the furnishings are not expensive, the place still manages to be quite luxurious, and considerably nicer than it appears from the outside.

This largest room serves as a tavern of sorts. Long low slung couches are set in little groups around small low acacia-wood tables. There are also big floor pillows about, and a few chairs. Everything is done in silks of yellow, orange, cream and the searing white-blue of a desert sky. The floors are covered in plush carpets, sheep skins, and leopard skins. On the walls are painted large murals of the Rhoyne, and its ancient river people.

There's a staircase in the back, and two doors, one leading to the kitchen and the second to a more private lounge.

This den of fine cultural delights and delicious smells understandably a in a bit of sparse attendance at this hour. But, Dornish are as Dornish are, and a couple of drunken patrons who are deep in their Strongwine are hooting and cheering at the spectacle before them.

Despite this establishment's reputation, the spectacle now does not involve scantily clad whores or songs about killing Reachmen in endless border skirmishes. What is drawing their attention is a makeshift 'circle', more in the mind than physically laid out. There are two men in it, stalking around like two large cats, circling and eyeing each other with large staves fashioned to serve as more-or-less safe practice spears. In fact, these two forms would be recognizable to some. The first is a hawk-featured Dornishman in a comfortable, lightweight green robed tunic with silver embroidery whose cloak has been laid on a nearby chair.

The other is a hulking mass of man-meat from a far off place who insists on wearing an exotic scale maile shirt, his features so heavily shaded and scarred by intricate Volantine tattoos that his visage may come across as more beast, than man. The two are smiling at one another, and the practice spears are brought up. It looks like a friendly game. Even as the two strike at each other with sudden movements. Strike. Parry. Strike. Parry. The dark, polished wood clacks with every hit. The Dornishman takes a breath as he shifts on his feet in a swift counterspin at the big bald man who still blocks it, a smug smile on his face.

Alaeyna is seated to observe this demonstration of manliness, and while most of her countrymen are on their feet around the perimeter of the ring the two champions keep their circling bound to, she's perched like a queen upon a throne, no one daring to tread into her line of sight and obstruct her view. She drinks strongwine from a goblet emblazoned with the arms of House Fowler, its base banded with silver to mark her as the lady of that Dornish house, and as it's the only one of its like on the floor, she is identified easily as the ranking among their members.

Word of this fight has spread, and even now Dornishmen trickle in, some with guests, to watch and bet on the outcome.

It is likely a cruel joke being here, but with some small commotion at the door a man clad in blacks and greens is shown in. Some curses filter about, by those who look and catch sight, though thankfully the majority of the patrons are certainly focused in on the exhibition that thankfully doesn't involve whores at this houre. There's a time and place for such things-and not past noon is a horrid time to be waking the girls for any such act. the Reachman, who sticks out like a sore thumb in the seat of swarthy faces, stalks further in with his hands clasped behind his back. Clearly drawn to the fighting like a cat to curiosity-or a moth to a flame, Quillian Oakheart, the Blackrood edges closer and lightly nudges a Dayne sworn out of his way.

There is a clear size advantage the big foreigner has over the prancing Dornishman, this is true. This fight was billed as something of a 'demonstration' by the participants, or at least the one who likes to talk. That didn't stop these spectators from making bets, though.

"I see you remembered, Serdar." The obviously-Dornish combatant calls out in a lilting accent. His voice is deeply Rhoynish but as time goes on it is clear his accent is touched by other places. Many other places, in fact. "Do you remember that prancer they sent out from Astapor to treat with us?" He doesn't wait for an answer as he barrels forward and thumps the end of his false spear against the big guy's chest, tilting it upwards and slipping through his guard. The motion he is making is clear, as he braces his back boot and puts his shoulder into it. Were this a real spear, he would be working its point under the scale of the man's armor and trying to drive it deep within.

The big tattooed goon does not seem to be as much of a talker, though. He only laughs at his opponent-comrade and grabs Parizad's 'spear' with one arm, and for a moment the two grapple. The big man then drops his own and puts both hands around it and the sheer mass of him knocks Parizad off-balance, whose eyes widen, and then narrow as he begins to tumble to the ground. With a last gasp of effort, he swings his spear around into the big man's unarmored knees. Or rather, behind them, causing him to stagger and buckle. He brings the shaft around again to swing upwards and stops, pointing it at the goon's thigh with a very clear implication of what he'd try to do next. Were this a real fight, both of these men would have a very bad day.

There is a sudden pause in their fight. And suddenly they both pant. And laugh. In unison.

The fistfight that nearly breaks out when Quillian shoulders his way past one of the Dornishmen watching the sparring draws Alaeyna's attention away from Parizad and his man, though most of the others watching the pair are too busy cheering for the hulking, tattooed giant called Serdar to have made note of the Blackrood's presence. A clear voice rings out, cutting through the laughter and boisterous cheering. "Stop." Alaeyna rises from her seat on a low chaise, her singular, disdainful stare pointed at the Oakheart knight so that most everyone else follows it there, prompting some hissing to rise up from the crowd, though others merely cast each other hushed whispers.

"Who among you saw fit to invite the legendary Blackrood to defile these halls?" asks the Fury of Skyreach, still staring daggers at Quillian even as she addresses her countrymen, as if not trusting him to look elsewhere. She needn't bother looking, because no one dares come forward immediately.

With a fight about to break out, Quillian almost seems at peace. Likely due to the fact that he is or was enjoying the show, both Parizad and Serdar were putting on. Even going so far as to politely clap when both men pause and laugh. It's a polite clapping, like anyone would give a pair of fine horses, or perhaps an exceptionally good mummer. Not the trash playing at the Whimsy these days. Though as he notes the Dayne sworn with his hand cocked and another reaching for something-his own hand slides behind his back to where his dagger lies-though nothing is drawn. At least the Oakheart wasn't foolish enough to bring a sword in-though this could be considered foolishness for it's own sake. Still he doesn't flinch further as he looks over towards where Alaeyna has spoken up, and then he looks, as the crowd parts a little around him, and his hand moves from where his dagger was setting.

"Some Vaith fellow sent me a letter inviting me for trade talks." he adds before motioning back to the doorman. "It was sealed-and the wax is still on it, if you wish to inspect." Likely this was some cruel joke to see said Blackrood murdered-though it was gone fine-really.

This is the moment where the fight between the two exceedingly strange men has no longer become a main event. Parizad holds up a hand from the ground and lets his practice spear fall and the scale-shirted, tattooed man stands at attention. It's clear who's the boss, here. He slams his fist to his chest and shouts something in Myrish which sounds to be an affirmation. With Quillian's presence, the few onlookers who still might have cared are now anticipating another sort of bout, it would seem. The Dornishman in the brightly-colored tunic scrambles to his feet, leaning on the staff-spear now and whipping his head about to Alaeyna as she bellows. And then rounding to spy the infamous Quillian Oakheart.

Parizad speaks now, directly, an all-too-serene, if slightly smug expression focusing straight on the presence of the Blackrood, with his distinctive accent clinging to the words. "Ah. So this is Ser Quillian Oakheart. The man whose name is mentioned so often. I would look upon the man able to best Maelys Targaryen so handily." There is a very slight, pointed pause. "I can note a certain…family resemblance, hmmmmmm?"

"You have been played false. Princess Ellia is not presently host to any sons of the Lord of the Red Dunes. A pity, because they are handsome boys, and I should not mind to have their company just now in place of yours." There are some laughs for this remark, or perhaps for the idea that one among them has fooled the Blackrood and made him the subject of the Lady Fowler's legendary fury for having dared cross the threshold of their hallowed halls.

When Parizad speaks, Alaeyna looks his way, as if having forgotten about the sparring altogether, but she's not through with Quillian and addresses him first. There's a certain sort of anticipation for her next move among those gathered, and more than one of her countrymen are reaching for their own weapons, be they concealed or otherwise. She stays them with her words. "Still, let it not be said the lords and ladies of Dorne are strangers to the art of hospitality. If none of my kith will claim you, Blackrood, I suppose that means I must. Come and sit with me a time, and let us see if I can't foster your appreciation for the customs and culture of my people."

Quillian turns his head as he looks over to where the slightly smug looking motherfucker Gentleman is standing, and there an eyebrow is raised, before an asmused look dances on Quillian's face. "You'd be surprised, how I've been described. I've heard many different versions of myself are said to roam the sands of that Hell you call a country." A wry grin is given, before he is tilting his head. "But, yes, I did best Maelys Targaryen-with a hammer of all things. I always thought Dornishmen were the only thing to best Dragons." He would ask about the family resemblence, and indeed it's on his tongue, that is until Alaeyna speaks up.

"I would hope not. Those Vaith men, do not know how to keep their bowls from spilling out onto their boots. I imagine them to be as messy in life as they are in their dying." A shrug, and like that he is moving over with a jaunt to come and take the offered seat, close to the Fury of Skyreach. "Thank you for being a gracious host." he adds, before looking towards Parizad for a moment. "Let that one join us?" Since he doesn't have a name, and all Dornishmen look alike.

When Quillian suggests that Parizad join them, Alaeyna pivots her stare over to him, where he still stands alongside Serdar, and tells the Oakheart knight, "Oh, yes. I shall insist upon it." With that she retakes her seat, motioning forth an attendant with a request that refreshments be served for she and her guest of "honor."

The practice spear is whipped sideways through the air and tapped firmly against the floor by the Dornishman. While having worked up a tiny sheen of sweat, he still carries a smell of some exotic Essosi spiced oil that he wears. An affectation of the East that clearly one might find ridiculous here, but Parizad wears it without a second thought. His companion retrieves his own 'spear' and collects Parizad's before hauling them off with a lumbering gait. Stowing them, he turns to his next favorite activity. Standing 'guard' in a room where it is likely unneeded, with a customary stare-scowl that drifts around the room.

The Dornishman himself bounds forth as he retrieves his purple cloak, the embroidered silver bells attached to it jingle musically as he looks upon Quillian long and curious. "Well, he said you were an impressive fighter. He is not a man to hold a grudge in such things." He offers pensively with a measured shrug of exactly one shoulder.

Now his dark eyes focus on Alaeyna. "I would have asked anyway, Lady Fowler." He gives her a look that is just soaked with gentle amusement as he bounds forth to approach her.

A servant materializes with a platter of foods from their homelands, all perfect for eating by hand over a cup or two of wine. Yes, a tall decanter of strong Dornish red wine is presented to the Lady Fowler, and at her indication cups are poured for either of Quillian and Parizad, her own not yet wanting for refilling. It's all placed on a table before her chaise, and Alaeyna tells Quillian, "Take what you want. Perhaps it will tie up your tongue and keep you from further insulting my homeland."

At Parizad's approach, she indicates that he ought join them, wine already waiting to meet him there, but she herself remains on edge, unable to help regarding Quillian with a stare that remains hostile despite her pledge of hospitality. "I had hoped never to lay eyes on you again," she tells him conversationally.

"Oh nonsense, what is the point of asking? You should have just come." Quillian states , as he relaxes in his seat. There's a brief glance as the attendant flounces off to see to refreshments, before Quillian looks around at the place. Letting eyes travel over the decor and of course the lovely amount of people in here-he does give a bit of an amused snort. "I had wondered what went on in here." he admits to his curosity m before crossing a leg. "I'd say it's a bit more…exotic than the Quill and Tankard, but lovely-So there is that." it's only big hang up is that it's full of Dornishmen. When the Uller man does sit down Quillian offers his own grin and bow of head to Parizad.

"I've been meaning to call on him since he was rested up. I wanted to commend him on a fine fight." Because, it really was a grand fight. "You know the Prince of Ashes well?" this asked to the Dornishman, before he turns his head back towards Alaeyna and indeed the wine taken up and saluted in silent toast to the woman. For right now, the cup is swirled about as he brings it forward to smell, before taking a deep pull. Both brows raise and lower quickly, before Quillian is smirking into his cup.

"Well, Oldtown is a small place." he says with a faint grin. "Hard to say where I will end up."

It's a cautious, measured look that Parizad makes as his gaze swings between towards the Lady of House Fowler and the man who some have taken to calling The Blackrood. Or 'The Hammer of the Dornish' in more fanciful circles. The look towards the former is warm, in his way, indicating a certain familiarity and ease with her presence, at least in his manner. The look directed towards Quillian however is not hostile per se. There is a sense of one predator eyeing another, seeing if trees will be urinated on or teeth and claws exchanged. So it's also a form of friendly. In his manner.

"The Lady Alaeyna's hospitality is a great thing, no? Even a man such as the Blackrood may dine here in safety." And there's that tight-lipped, smug smile as he himself reaches for a wine and a handful of olives, lazily melting into a seat. "And I imagine whatever may be a said of a man such as he, he has proven himself to be capable enough not to barge in here to just cause trouble. Hmmmm?" It's anyone's guess what he hopes the answer would be.

One note though — Quillian's inquiry does draw forth a reply from the other man. "We fought together for some years, across the sea, so yes. Some might call us 'friends.'" Men like this have no friends, though.

Alaeyna is content for the pair of them to speak, any civil words she might conjure up for the Oakheart knight proving hard won, indeed, and in short supply besides. She rakes Quillian with her wary stare over the rim of her goblet, drinking when he does if not going so far as to offer him a toast. "It is small, indeed, and it would seem you are the sort who goes where he pleases," she says to him of Oldtown, her dark gaze measuring as she goes on to ask, "But are you the sort who makes new friends?"

Quillian looks back towards Alaeyna. "I do go where I please, and sometimes where others do not please." And then his hand briefly comes up and rubs at his throat, before he coughs once. And takes another sip of his drink. "Can I make new friends?" he asks a bit of a croak, before he coughs and shakes his head for another bit of wine. "Yes, I do make new friends. Perhaps you know of some of them? They're westerosi-so you might not. But, I am good friends, recently with Ser Viggo Cockshaw."

And he glances back towards Parizad, now his own careful eyeing of the man is given as he swirls his cup around once more. "This one seems like a nice fellow-though I don't know his name."

"I have had occasion to treat with your Cockshaw friend," Alaeyna assures the Reachman, her tone chilly, though she chooses not to give a name to the circumstance that saw her grace the halls of that house. Rather than linger on it, she indulges the request for an introduction, turning to indicate Parizad with a sweep of her hand. "Allow me to present you Parizad, a son of House Uller. He is recently returned to us from adventures abroad. He is fantastic when it comes to making friends." And at that, she offers the exile a wink, favoring him with the first smile she's worn since laying eyes on the Blackrood.

At Quillian's offhand description of 'nice' Parizad's dark eyes flash as he rocks forward, the bells in the cloak slung over his shoulder jingling in time with the sudden, snicker the man lets out. Before he reacts though, there's an odd deference to Lady Alaeyna as he checks on the status of her wine cup, a glance to the flagon indicating that refills are offered.

Back to Quillian, the man's subtle smile parts as he speaks. "It is what happens when one's name travels farther and faster than the man itself. I am called Parizad Uller. Once of the Hellholt. Once Captain of the Second Sons. Once captain of The Company of the Black Hand." All mention of Cocks and Shaws is provided without accompaniment, it would seem he wouldn't know the man if he tripped over him.

Which is highly probable-what with drunk people laying on the ground. He's seen it. Still he rubs his throat again before setting his cup down. Hands move to the table as if to steady himself, and Quillian offers up a slight smile. "Those things I have heard of. The Second Sons, the Black Hand." he adds with a nod to the other man. "I didn't know you though..I apologize, for those lauds speak loudly of your character on the field." And then he is looking back over towards Lady Alaeyna "Did you enjoy it?" And then like that he's gripping his throat and lurching forward, as he coughs-and sputters, trying to stand Quill quickly falters to his knees.

With the Blackrood suddenly on his knees, clutching at his throat (something the Lady Fowler no doubt has had occasion to imagine in a dream-like state many a time since the slaying of her cousin at his hand), Alaeyna is quick to find her own feet, but rather than distance herself from him as he falls, she moves in to steady him with a hand at his shoulder, swiftly comprehending what unfolds before her. She seems poised to call for the assistance of one of the league of servants that hover, but something stops her, and she inexplicably looks over her shoulder at Parizad, fixing him with a look that is vaguely accusatory.

As all this unfolds, it looks as though Parizad is about to respond about his bloody and storied history — as cheerfully as one can discuss burned holdings and wanton slaughter. His lips part as he takes a breath, dark brows rising in a sharp manner. His dark eyes widen as they focus on the Blackrood. And then his head immediately whips to Alaeyna, with a look that appears purely questioning. "Lady Alaeyna. Tchh — This is not the sort of thing I actually thought you would do. It's rather artless, no?" And hilariously there's no immediate move to check on Quillian. He might have already been written off. He's already taken a drink of his wine and now looks at it questioningly. He barks a shout.

"Serdar! Come here and lift this man." The tattooed Volantine brute turns on his heel and comes marching forth as if given a battlefield command.

The coughing and sputtering continues, before it breaks into peals of laughter, and up rises the Blackrood with a grin back towards Alaeyna. And surely, with those watching. They would have hopped for some form of poisoning or stabbing to occur right now. INstead, the Reachman is quite hearty and hale, and grinning like a fool at poor Lady Fowler.

"I am sorry, I couldn't resist." Quillian quips before looking towards Parizad "Your man is fine. I don't need anyone to pump me for fluids." A wave and he's reaching for his wine, while keeping an eye on Lady Fowler. "Afraid someone beat you to it?"

Little undoes the Lady Fowler, but the surprise on her face is genuine when the Blackrood shakes off her hand and rises to his feet. She might be relieved that her guest hasn't truly been poisoned, but she doesn't suffer his gambit well, and his barking laughter enflames her legendary temper and prompts her to throw her cup of wine in his face before the eyes of the other patrons in the hall who have turned to look upon them. "You're a villain," she tells him, though the sight of wine dripping off his face does a little to improve her spirits. And Parizad gets some of her heat, too, for she whips around to give his chest a shove. "You both are. I should leave and let you enjoy each other's company."

Well, that was a thing. His eyes go from widened shock, to a brief, indignant puff of anger — and then again? Amusement. He lifts his own wine cup now and takes another sip as if tempting fate.

"If you still wish, I can have Serdar lift him." Parizad purrs out the offer to Alaeyna as he holds a hand up to keep his sworn man halted, relaxing in the seat. "Please tell me that in some small villainous part that lives within all our hearts that many in this room are now a little disappointed."

Turning between the two, he simply shakes his head towards Quillian. "You do my Lady a disservice, though. There are better and far more clever ways to poison a man. Venom in a cup and hunting accidents? That is a childish game, for men like my u —" He almost lets it slip as he sets his cup down and again checks on Alaeyna as she, well, shoves him. The wine splashes. "I have been called many worse things than that, My Lady Fury. But we are all poorer without your company. Especially this lonely errant Lord once of the Hellholt." There's still that damnable smug smirk on his lips as he recalls something.

"We were camped outside of a fortress that was held by the armies of Meereen, when I was with the Second Sons. One of our captains was this puffed-up Westerosi who must have done a very bad thing. I believe he was from, the…Vale, no?" As he narrates, he continues to juggle his cup. "He commanded our forces. As a token of, say, negotiations, the Meereenese sent us this beautiful, wide-hipped slave girl. Of course, the arrogant Vale Captain claimed her as his own. But did not realize that the ceremonial dagger she brought as a gift was treated with a poison from the East. One that turns a man's blood to fire." He looks between them, clearly telegraphing that there is more to this story.

The wine to his face, garners a bit more laughter from the Blackrood before he is bringing his hands up to wipe the wine from his eyes, however, doing so, causes him to fumble in placing his own cup down and wipe -so there may be more wine spilled before this is over. Snorting, Quillian is shaking his head, before he is reaching over to catch the poor woman's arm gently. "My dear Lady, it was a cruel joke to play-and truly there was a dark part of me that wanted to see it done. I am sorry." he is at least sincere in the midst of his snickering. "It is what everyone expected." him being killed in here.

And so he snorts a bit further before he is rubbing at an eye. "Bloody that burns, and now I'll smell like a Lannister on his name day." murmured out before he is looking back to said legnedary Fury. "I miss used your kindness."

There's a brief raise of a brow and then it lowers. "Well, I did not have time to procure mummers to play at stabbing me in a crowded marketplace, nor a fake asp in the bed." he adds with a faint smirk before he is listening to the other as he seeks to take his seat again. "Go on." consider him quite intrigued.

"Everyone but I," she snaps at him in reply, even as Quillian makes to grab for her arm. "But I suppose I no more considered you capable of humor than you did me of honor. I shouldn't say that makes us even, but at least I shan't be charged with your death without having had the joy of causing it." A flick of Alaeyna's wrist has a servant running over with a cloth for the knight to dab at his face and to see to the spilled wine. She lingers, though, rather than make good on her threat to leave, though whether it's for the Blackrood's sake or Parizad's is unclear; the latter gets another baleful look, but when she seats herself, it's close by his side. "Let it not be said the Lady Fowler is too proud to admit when she's been outdone. I think I like you better than I did a quarter hour ago."

"Mmm. It is what she said. There are ways of killing an enemy that make the killer look less for it." Parizad observes, and in his strange, horrible, black-hearted way he delivers her a pure compliment. "I have never known you to be the sort, all those years ago or now, to be dull or simple. Which would work in your defense should he," he points to Quillian lazily, "drink the wrong thing in a very real way."

Serdar merely walks back to his makeshift post as the Exiled Uller turns back their Oakheart guest and shakes his head a little. "My apologies. Oh, yes. A poisoned dagger. So 'Ser Nothing' from the Vale claimed this beautiful girl as his own as he was 'in command' that day." He pauses a bit, clicking his tongue as he works on his wine and eats another olive. "That night, we heard howling and screaming in his tent within an inch of a normal man's life. So much wordless howling and screaming from him that his guards, and some of the officers rushed to it. But then. — She starts screaming too." His smirk broadens. "More men rushed for his tent then hoping that she might be — available afterwards. The clever girl. Finally it stopped, and someone decided to burst inside because, well," he makes another 'tcch' sound. "Men in camps. You know how they are. And there the Captain was. Sprawled out on the ground, with his breeches still on and his eyes blood-black, a gaping, angry wound on his palm and dead enough for the vultures. Some of the men were angry and suggested taking the girl apart and launching her back at the fortress with a siege basket."

Parizad's nostrils flare now, his hawklike nose rising as he narrates the last part. "Men are also often fools to waste good talent like that. We just brought the girl with us and used the same ploy with her four months later. There is a lesson here about skill and talent. Uses can be found for it wherever it is from, no?"

There's a brief nod there and he leans forward. "I had heard of a similar tale, though this involved a Lord's daughter and a dress. Luckily she had a bastard born sister who liked to put her things on." Quillian quips, before he grins. His hand up to stroke his beard, briefly, as he leans back into his chair. "I like it-you're clever. Though he should have seen the dagger being used.." At least Quillian would have suspected it. Still, he shakes his head and settles back with the Fowler woman. "Remind me not to accept gifts, from you, Ser." This directed to Parizad as he leans forward for his wine, which is then passed over to Alaeyna.

"Alas, the only tales I could tell you, Parizad Uller, would enrage your countrymen and likely yourself. I'll not speak of things in my past now, or in this particular place. Should you want it, I am sure we can run into each other again." Though with the tone of the words. It is likely that is the plan anyway.

"Indeed, I suspect running into each other again is very much what my friend had in mind," Alaeyna says to Quillian, accepting a fresh pour of wine once the hardworking servant has tidied up the mess she's made for having thrown the contents of her cup in the Oakheart knight's face. "He has a habit of telling very long stories to make simple points, and I dare say he suggests there are grounds for friendship to be had even where one sees only grounds for enemity. Which is not to say that I do not enjoy when my enemies make it so easy for me to loathe them."

"Mmm. Well, the Lady does me a credit this observation but I believe there is one thing she says that I must clarify." This last word is presented with gentle emphasis as he remains, again, alert in his chair but strangely bemused parting of his mouth. Clarify indeed. "The stories are often for their own sake, and are often far more agreeable than just stating the mere points. But that is not what I must clarify."

There's a very measured swirl of his wine cup as the Dornishman's dark eyes flit between Alaeyna and Quillian for emphasis. "'Friendship. Friends' is such a limiting word, and one that is thrown around here, so carelessly. I prefer something more descriptive. 'Brothers and Sisters in understanding? No." His hawklike nose flares a little. "Too cumbersome.

"Family understands more than friends." Quillian, is apt to agree, before he is looking back over to the rather close Alaeyna, and then eyes dip down her neckine briefly-before he is looking back towards Parizad with a brief grin. "However, friends, I believe covers all acquaintances, big and small." A sip of his wine now, since you know he still has some of it left.

"And do we?" Quillian asks. "Or rather, I make it easier?"

The knight's roaming gaze is rewarded, and amply so — the Lady Fowler garbs herself shamelessly in the Dornish mode, even at Oldtown, and the leather bodice she wears over her loose silks is so low cut as to put her cleavage on display, that supple flesh as sun-kissed as the rest of her is. She is regarding Parizad at the moment, his clarification one that makes her smile. "Brothers and sisters? That's not altogether right, either, is it? It precludes a good many activities I tend to enjoy with my dearest friends." And now she looks back to Quillian, her fierce stare not exactly hostile, anymore, but wary. "Very easy. But I'll confess I was left wondering how you learned to dance so well. Was it your Dornish wife who taught you? What else has she seen fit to teach you? I gather not much, for popular rumor is you contemplate setting her aside."

Oho. Well, It is a measured, sharp arc of one thick dark eyebrow that Parizad raised as he shifts his head at an angle to eye Alaeyna as she makes her first comment. It's a surprisingly subtle and reasonably detached gesture. The brightly-clothed Dornishman returns to his seated repose and threads his fingertips around the cup which is propped in his lap.

Talk of Quillian's marital happenings earns another eyebrow. "Hmm. Even in the strange ways of Westeros, this seems to be a, how would I say it. Non-traditional marriage, no?" Those dark eyes regard Quillian now, not even bothering to hide his amusement.

The look lingers so, before he is looking back up towards Alaeyna's eyes, and there a smirk shows. "She taught me a many good thing, I would dare say. Nothing my father would approve of a reachman knowing." He adds with a brief chuckle. "As for teaching me to dance-yes. She and some ladies in the Red Mountains helped with my style." And there is a brief pause. "I've not always hated, the Dornish. No more so than a man hates another he must kill." he tacts on before seeking sanctuary in his glass. "Though, those rumors ring true. She has denied me heirs for eight years." Quillian states before looking back towards Parizad with a brief smirk. "It was a giant problem in my family-to be sure."

Alaeyna's eyes flash with amusement, and she replies, "But those are the very best things, are they not?" of reference to his father's disapproval. The Blackrood wins her further study, and she watches him over her cup of wine, from which she drinks liberally. Throwing a glance in Parizad's direction when he interjects, she asks, "Is there anything so tiresome as doing things traditionally?" The smile she wears lingers, but she is prompted to tap her lower lip with a ringed fingertip. "What is a man without his heirs?" And then, provocatively, she purrs, "Dorne may be a sprawling desert, but its women are as fertile and lush as any oasis. How unusual, that your wife should prove arid."

"Such marriages are often political plays, here." Parizad observes with a wry, bemused sort of detachment as he now peers down at his nails, buffing them on the cup's edge and blowing on them afterwards. One after the other, in a neat, methodical motion. And his face unfolds again into a knowing, catlike smile. "I have found that, in my years away from Westeros, bloodshed is an absurd thing on both sides of the sea. To the east, though, it is almost workmanlike. A business." He pauses a beat. "Here, everything is a little more — personal. I missed that." The smile turns a bit unpleasant now but it's anyone's guess if it's directed at Quillian or not.

"Lady Alaeyna, as you just said, Dorne itself is a great, great place and there are all manner of men and women there. I have found that some traditions are often in — error. If you are seeking a Dornish wife, Ser, may I cordially suggest Lady Malia Uller? Although that sword comes with a very unpleasant sheathe." And then the smile turns,

"Such marriages are often political plays, here." Parizad observes with a wry, bemused sort of detachment as he now peers down at his nails, buffing them on the cup's edge and blowing on them afterwards. One after the other, in a neat, methodical motion. And his face unfolds again into a knowing, catlike smile. "I have found that, in my years away from Westeros, bloodshed is an absurd thing on both sides of the sea. To the east, though, it is almost workmanlike. A business." He pauses a beat. "Here, everything is a little more — personal. I missed that." The smile turns a bit unpleasant now but it's anyone's guess if it's directed at Quillian or not.

"Lady Alaeyna, as you just said, Dorne itself is a great, great place and there are all manner of men and women there. I have found that some traditions are often in — error. If you are seeking a Dornish wife, Ser, may I cordially suggest Lady Malia Uller? Although that sword comes with a very unpleasant sheathe." And then the smile turns bemused. But quite cold.

Quillian smirks back. "Perhaps, I will find someone able enough to show what I learned too-and hope they can keep up." A tease there, which in this place feels almost as sleazy as just oggling, if not more. There's a look back towards Alaeyna for a moment as she taps at her lip. "She proved to be a fan of tea" as if it needs to be spelled out. "I do not think it was a naturally made desert." A sniff. " I think it's time I find someone who can sprout-" and like that he leaves it alone. Instead he looks over towards Parizad. "Wild ones." he notes, with a wry smile. "It was thought to end bloodshed and have my brother's bones returned to my father. Alas, it did not." he adds before looking back towards Parizad. "Here, my friend it is a bit of both. Personal and business. And that's why it remains profitable."

There's a brief glance to Parizad. "Why? She got warts?"

It doesn't need to be spelled out, and Alaeyna looks to be amused by his failed marriage rather than sympathetic towards it, unapologetic for the smirk she wears or the way it deepens the more he has to say of his wife's habit of thwarting her singular duty (by Westerosi standards) to him. Parizad's philosophizing on bloodshed has her remarking, "Why, it sounds as though you describe marriage. So which is it you seek, ser?" The question, specifically, is for Quillian. "Business or pleasure?" She tempers the words with her own fair share of sleaze, raking him with her gaze as if she were sizing up a prize stallion and attempting to gauge his worth. "My advice to you? Choose a wife with a proven womb. You're no green boy to want an untested girl. Find yourself a proper woman."

At first, the Dornishman says nothing as he listens to Quillian recount his tale, although during several instances his eyes dart towards Alaeyna questioningly, a move he makes no great effort to hide. "She has one wart. A very nasty one that I have found is very difficult to cut out, no matter how large a blade one would use." Parizad's lilting speech drawls this out to Quillian, again affecting the very definition of polite amusement.

"Mmm. I believe the Lady Alaeyna knows me all too well, at this point. Is not every marriage an act of war, or the result of one? For I very much believe that this is true." He offers no further advice for Quillian either. You're on your own, bro.

"And who would you suggest, Lady?" this said back towards the Fowler. "Yourself? I don't see you having little ones running about." And there his smile turns a tad bit unpleasant. "As for what my marriage should be, I would like equal parts. After all, it's why I enjoy being a knight that is under employ as an Outrider. I don't shy from either part of my life." And with that he looks back over towards Parizad, curiously enough his poker face slides up as he awaits to hear Alaeyna's suggestions.

"Ah." And there's a bit of a smile again before he is drinking again. "I think I know how to handle such things. A maester showed me a trick."

Alaeyna cannot help but pivot her gaze to meet Parizad's glance, sharing a look with him that Quillian will have no luck of reading for being a mere witness to it. But the Uller will have the benefit of seeing that look change to one of cold, chilly fury for the Oakheart knight's suggestion that she proposes herself as a candidate, and it's with a slow, measured cast of her head that she turns that look on the Blackrood himself. Her words are preceded with a low, throaty laugh that indicates nothing of being amused, her tone glittering with disdain, giving voice to a threat she'd love to make good on. "Me? Ser, you could not hope to take a woman such as me to wife. I would cut your throat to spare myself the sight of your face on my pillow."

Well, talk of warts and Ullers and fire and knife and Weird old Tips that Maesters HATE is tossed aside for now as Parizad is made witness to this part of the exchange. His broad show of teeth flashes even as his eyes narrow. And he goes back to his wine. Oh, nothing to see here. Except for the slight upturn of his nose and broadening countenance that says one thing.

That the Exiled Uller finds this exchange fabulously entertaining.

There's a smirk there, given the sudden change in the temprature. "It would be exciting, at least." the Blackrood opines, before he is leaning back in his chair. Shfiting ever so slightly, he glances once towards Parizad. And like that finishes his wine. "You have t' cut at the edges to get such a wart to budge..drain it of it's awarness, before you make the definate cut, Ser. Then you burn it." He adds with a brief flash of his teeth. "Burn it closed. But, I find such cuts should be done by a practiced and outside hand." if the meaning is caught the knight does not dwell on it. And with that he looks back over to the Chilly Fowler, before he props a hand on his chin. "If you've no suggestions, lady-I think I may see the end of the jape, and head out. Smells too much like old spice in here."

Alaeyna sits unmoving, like some formidible sculpture, as Quillian and Parizad speak of whatever it is they speak of, her stare unwavering as she keeps the knight fixed in her sights. By the time he hazards to look back to her, the Fury of Skyreach is compelled to tell him, as a matter of pride, "My boy is six. As old as a son of your own might be, if you knew how to be a husband to a Dornishwoman. But let us suppose that you are not beyond hope, and might yet prove yourself worthy of such a wife." She pauses now, slaking her thirst with a long, generous drink of the strongwine in her cup, marked with the arms of House Fowler. "I can think of one whose husband was lost at your hand."

There is a noticable sparkle in Parizad's eyes as Quillian's instructional wisdom is dispensed. And there is a smile again at one word. Burning. But for now, there is no further comment. On this or anything else. Were he a lad, he might be rounding on the exchange between Fowler and Oakheart with an openmouthed 'ooooooooooooooooooooooooh.' But he's a little old for that. Right? He does arc his head at talk of her own children, though. And finishes his cup.

"Lucky, for you. Too young to hold a spear, and thus has some time before he'll be pulled into disagreements on the border. I wish you much luck of him." Quillian quips, before he is starting to rise, though he pauses at this second mention, and then he slowly lowers himself down. Fingers drum along the armrest of his chair, before he is looking back with a raised brow. "You are suggesting me a widow of either Blackmont of Dayne descent?" he just wants to make sure, as he sits back down in his chair.

The flash of hot, white hatred the Blackrood summons up with his threat on her son courses through Alaeyna's very veins, and is plain in the stare she drills into him when he rises. She's poised to rise, too, the better to insist upon his departure, but when he retakes his seat she forces herself to down more of that fiery wine and put aside her disdain, long enough, at least, for the Lady Fowler to lean across her seat to Quillian's and whisper something at his ear, her words too low to carry beyond them. She doesn't linger, and when she parts from his side she turns her attention on Parizad, as if to look upon him might be to gain some of his strength.

"Endless war with no resolution, and no profit. Tchhhhhhhh —." Parizad does step in here though, although whether or not this was or was not what Alaeyna was hoping for is up for speculation. "Ah. Westeros." He raises his almost-empty cup here in a sort of mock-toast. He shakes his head. "How disappointing you can be." He does look at the Lady in askance, though. "Your son is old enough to start carrying a spear, though. I wonder what fierceness he will inheirit." He asks. His tone is almost gentle here, and almost warm. For him.

But he doesn't linger on this for long as he rounds on Quillian. "I cannot help but notice, Ser. For a man who claims to have such disdain for the Dornish as you do, you have clearly made every effort to entangle them within your life. Is this what they say about enemies?" And suddenly he purrs out a little, composed laugh, and cannot resist to add, "I believe the irony, if not the humor of this was lost upon your sister, no?" His smirk is just a thing here.

"Who says there is no profit Ser? I take trophies when I fight, as do most men. And should I raid a town or a hold it's coffers are coming with me. War's not cheap, and I do not expect to get paid by my liegelord because I do my honorbound duty." he adds, before shfting in his seat so as to better hear Alaeyna's whisper. At that thought he strokes his beard, before he leans in and whispers harshly. Though coming from Quill, anything could be harsh, regardless.

"It's because misery loves company." Quillian adds, before he looks back towards Parizad. Something flashes in the Blackrood's eyes, and there the smile turns down a bit. "Was it?"

Though Alaeyna tilts her head to receive Quillian's whisper and offers him the slightest of inclinations of her head, she seems to have had her fill of the knight for the moment, and partakes no further of his conversation, favoring Parizad once more with her attentions. He wins a smile from her, a difficult feat for reasons of present company and hot tempers, but rather than interject she looks, at length, between he and the Oakheart knight, most especially when the latter's sister is mentioned. Say what?

"And yet this war, it has great, endless costs which weigh upon an established Household, Ser." As Quillian calls him 'Ser' again his eyes flash and his mouth's corners curl up into a smile but he makes no move to counter or correct the man. Parizad's tongue clicks here, leaning over to refill his cup in an idle manner as he speaks rather plainly here.

As he does so, he shoots Alaeyna a curious look complete with a single blink of his eyes but does not elaborate. Back to the Blackrood. "But ah yes, your sister. She has a certain honest — disdain, maybe? That little bit of disgust and anger is refreshing in this land of flowery manners and perfumes to cover the unwashed stink of things. It is charming in its own right. It charmed Serdar." He dismissively waves a point at the hulking brute who does not react or comment and Parizad nurses his drink.

"But yes, your sister. I have can imagine how much she clearly enjoys sharing a household with a Dornish Lady. Mmmmmm?"

Quillian flares his nostrils and then he looks from the Dornish lady, back towards the Uller as he leans forward. "She comes by it honestly." he adds before pushing his cup towards the man, perhaps a bit too hard, which causes the thing to roll and loudly clatter. But there is nothing in it, so nothing is sloshed out. A pity. Still the knight is back up now as he watches the other man, before he is scratching at his neck. "I wouldn't know." he says with a faint smirk. " I don't ask her." And with that he looks back to Parizad. "I do hope, you both will pardon my needing to leave. I'm supposed to meet with some hermit in his shack about a problem." he adds. "Lancing a boil or whatever it was told. Seems he shares my knowledge of healing." A bit of a bow, though it is lacking, before the Blackrood goes to carefully show himself out.

When the Blackrood declares his intent to take his leave, Alaeyna rises to her feet, making good on her commitment to play host to him until the last. "I shan't say it was a pleasure, ser, but it was a lively afternoon. My only regret is that no blood was spilt." Her only regret? Well, in any event, it's all in the delivery, and her delivery isn't actually hostile. Rather, she says, "If you can convince me, I may just pay host to you another night, and teach you one of my favorite games. No one here has died playing it in at least half a year, I'm told. That bodes well for you, doesn't it?" And she walks him to the door, as much to make sure he leaves as to be polite.

To all of this, Parizad merely leans back in his chair, stretching one leg out and lounging here. It may be that Lady Fowler is holding court, but the Uller man is clearly enjoying his run of the place. And his carefully composed smirk widens, even as his eyes drift to Quillian Oakheart's discarded cup. "She seems to have a certain wisdom, tempered by a particularly predicatble blood-thirst, Ser Quillian. Although I would hardly hold that against a woman." Eyes carefully drift again towards Alaeyna. "Or a man either, I would suppose?" There is one last comment that he offers. "Until next time, Ser. And rememeber, as you said? Use fire. Always use fire."

This stated, he looks towards Alaeyna once again and merely laughs in response to her statement. It's loud, and resounding, and echoes through the room. It is also altogether unsettling.

Oh, and lest we believe that Serdar was falling asleep on the job? The ugly Volantine man with the hideously tattooed face slams his fist against his chest in a loud 'thunk' against scale at Quillian as he departs. That man. He just…does that.

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