#swordoftyrosh

Jaaros, 

Your service was greatly appreciated last night. Please return tonight, I think I will have you guarding me again for the foreseeable future.

There is bread, honey and peaches in the tent, I left them for you.

ooc:

The master of the house held audience with many noteable Tyroshi tonight, Daario one among them. His sellsword's grit had brought him here alongside Sallor and Prendahl. Drinks flowed plentily, served by the master's many slaves. Their presence made Daario uneasy -- a strange thing for him to feel, this self-assured get of the former Valyrian colony. Prendahl noticed his stiff posture, all while he pinned a slender girl to his lap. She was pouring wine for him, and hiding her panic well with her coy smiles.

"Your cock is limp in your breeches tonight," the captain of the Stormcrows noted, leering at the flicker of irritation that passed over Daario's face. "A miracle. It's hard as a fucking tree any other day."

"I don't like the food," Daario spoke carelessly. "I don't like the wine. It is Ghiscari, and flavoured like piss."

"I'd rather a Ghiscari wine than any foul drink of the Westerosi," Prendahl growled, and spat to one side as the words cleared his mouth. The girl in his lap shuddered, but he only tugged her closer. "Do none of these girls beckon your fancy, Naharis? Not even the boys?"

The heat threatened to creep up Daario's neck, but he had learnt long ago that it was never wise to meet Prendahl's bait. He was all talk, this drunkard fool, and never much else. "They are slaves, all," the Tyroshi said coolly. He nodded his head at the girl in Prendahl's lap. "Her, too. She smiles for you to please her master, not you."

Prendahl grinned, his soft lips peeling back from the yellowed, rotten teeth that filled up his mouth. "She should please me, too. I'm the one with the fucking sword." The tug he gave her this time was more violent. Her eyes widened, and Daario's fingers twitched. Prendahl saw, and he bellowed forth a gust of laughter.

"You know better than to fight me, whore," he taunted Daario. "I'll land you on your arse in the Red Wastes one night, and you'll be eating sand to keep your prick up. Or might I find your master in Yunkai, eh? He can fuck you up your little bum, save me all the trouble."

Daario would take those taunts no longer. He rose to his feet, separating himself from the swarming feast at hand. The smells of spiced meats and fragrant oils choked the chambers as he left them, but the doors that parted at the touch of his palm offered him a gust of fresh air. There were slaves out here, too, running back and forth from the kitchens. He spared them no glance.

The master had a garden behind the great house, and here Daario made his seat. Prendahl never ceased to remind him of his past history. Would that he could feed the sellsword's head to the flames as he had done his father's. One day, perhaps. His fingers flexed and opened as he worked out the strain from them, drinking in the dusty air of Tyrosh.

His ears picked up the sounds of soft feet almost instantly.