[P2, Whitewalls] Fuck you, that's my name [Balon & Trystane]

Trystane strides into the alehouse with the buoyant confidence of a man who has had good fortune in the lists. His tilts against Wyl Waynwood and Benjen Erenford had gone very well, with bold actions having paid off.

As he finds himself a seat and obtains a drink (giving the barmaid his most charming smile while he's at it), he is already pondering how to spend his winnings. His winnings from Ashford Meadows had bought him his fine new courser, who was paying for himself many times over already. Probably the next step would be better plate armour...

His meandering thoughts come to a stop when he notices a familiar face sneering at him from the next table over. It takes him a few moments to remember where he knows the face from, but he finally realises it is Ser Balon Blackbriar. He'd been part of the little drinking contest that went on a couple of nights prior, along with his brother, Titus, and Ser Roland Cordwayner. While Ser Roland had been perfectly pleasant company, Ser Balon had clearly had a problem with the Dornish, and so Trystane had tried to keep direct interaction to a minimum. There had mercifully been enough distractions to keep things from turning ugly, but the alehouse was a lot quieter at this early point in the evening, and Balon's look seemed more... intent.

Trystane raises an eyebrow in query at Balon, unsure of the exact meaning of his rather sinister look, but tips his flagon a little toward him in a small salute.

"Ser Balon," he says in greeting, before taking a long, much-needed drink.

Don't take the bait. Don't take the bait. Don't take the bait.

Trystane meets Balon's taunts with a little smirk, trying to appear unfazed. It was more annoying than intimidating, especially being called 'boy' by someone younger than him, but nonetheless, he can see what is being aimed for and cautions himself over and over in his mind before he responds.

"I saw that too. I'm sure he'll acquit himself better than he did in our little drinking contest," he says, amusedly, though not with any real derision.

"And you were close. It's Ser Trystane Sand. You were very drunk last time we met, so it's understandable that it would slip your mind."

The barb at Symon definitely grates, but it was true that the lad was short-tempered and rash. Trystane believed Symon was innocent of the rape accusation, but gracing a baseless accusation with a response was a sure way to give it weight. Besides, Symon was more than capable of sticking up for himself. If he decided Ser Balon needed a lance through the visor, he'd likely get it eventually.

"As if I would waste good money on a tourney master's favour when I could be drinking with it," Trystane quips, taking a big swig of ale as if to prove his point. "All I can guess is that perhaps Lord Butterwell merely underestimated my jousting ability. But clearly no longer. With me facing your brother and you against Ser Preston Oakheart, things are getting more interesting. Who knows, perhaps we will have to joust eachother next."

He chuckles at that thought, making a mental note that this man seems like he might try to kill him if that match actually happened. Laena had warned him of such things, after all.

"As for injuries, well, as long as there aren't any being planned specifically for me in advance, then I'm sure all will be well. And if Titus does best me, I've still made plenty of coin, so I won't be too despondent. Men who place too much importance on jousting wins are usually trying to compensate for lacking in other areas," he smirks suggestively, taking on a tone of mock coquettishness. "And speaking of 'other areas', I had no idea you had such an interest in my hips and shoulders, Ser. I'm quite flattered, but not interested."

What happened to not taking the bait?!

The knight protests too much, methinks.

Trystane smirks to himself. Every time a man crowed about how much he loved women, all he heard was insecurity. Not necessarily about their sexuality, but, in his experience, men who swung their figurative cocks around were unconsciously trying to distract from something they felt lacking. He had done it himself enough to feel confident in recognising it.

"Now who is the 'boy'? Slinging crude insults to try and get attention. Grow up," Trystane swipes back with a derisory snort.

He puts his hand over his heart and adopts a look of mocking sympathy. "I am so sorry one of my countrymen hurt your feelings and gave you this terrible grudge that clearly takes up so much of your life that you feel it appropriate to be rude to men who have done you no ill. You have my deepest sympathies, but you really need to find something better to do with your time and energy, because your petty barbs neither impress nor frighten me, Ser."

He makes the last word sound almost exactly as mocking as Balon had made the word "knight" in taunting him.

"I've better things to do in the melee than go looking for a insignificant blowhard like you," Trystane snapped, needled just enough to let his composure slip. "Your hatred poisons everything around you and it is as tedious as it is futile. Now piss off, you grotty little wanker. Watching the real filth take itself out will be quite satisfying."

Also fuming now, Trystane stands up to his full height and glares at Balon, his hands bunched into tight fists, his whole body ready to spring into action if the Reachman made a wrong move. The violet sliver in his left eye seems all the brighter as the surrounding bronze-coloured irises burn with anger.

"I think you heard me perfectly well the first time, boy" he growls back, throwing Balon's word back at him, doing all he can not to just launch himself into a fistfight. "Take your petty insults and your gormless friends, and fuck off."

---

(I'm ok with this either turning into a consequence free fistfight that gets broken up before it gets too serious, or for Balon to fire off some more shots on his way out, or anything else really. He's mad Trystane angry, but hasn't pushed Trystane's big red 'provoke an actual fight' buttons, so it can escalate or de-escalate as you see fit.)

Bar fight v Balon - Initiative: Agility (Quickness): 6d6k4 16

Since it's a tie, and we seem to have the same number of bonus dice, here's the Agility only tiebreaker roll:

Bar fight v Balon - Initiative tiebreaker: 4d6k4 10
(let me know when you've got yours so I can tweak narration)

Health: 12/12
F/I/W: 0/0/0
CD: 10

---

Trystane knows there's a hit coming. The look on Balon's face says it all before he even finishes speaking. Perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, he did actually want the fight.

In the fraction of a second as Balon's fist launches towards his face, Trystane attempts to sidestep the punch and deliver a blow of his own.