Westeros and Essos {Game of Thrones Roleplay} discussion

The heat in the tavern was stifling, Alana shifted uncomfortably on her seat, sweat running down her back making her clothes damp and clammy.
Why were so many fires needed she thought irritated, wiping away sweat from her eyes. Besides a large roasting fire another three hearths were lit around the cramped inn, hammering out heat and smoke, giving the tavern a murky air adding to the oppressive atmosphere.
Alana felt eyes weighing down on her from the people around the inn. Shielding herself in a plain hood and cloak and avoiding their gazes, she knew that they saw a highborn, not matter the state of her hood, or the three Tyrell guards escorting her wore seated behind her. Alana took quick glances at those seated around the inn, watching her it seemed with a mixture of inquisitive and hostile stares.
Her escorts maybe disguised, but their swords were clear to see, an open warning to anyone with less friendly intentions that rude stares. Alana sipped at her wine, foul and watered down she forced herself to keep it down. Perhaps the patrons of the bar were adding to her discomfort Alana wondered, keeping her head down, watching like vultures waiting for a chance to rob her, to rape her?
Alana remembered before she was wed, back in Dorne when she and her friends used to sneak out of Ghost Hill to the taverns and inns to try at meet sellswords and hedge knights. It was never as romantic as the tales her grandmother told her, not young handsome knights searching for a quest to woo pretty ladies, just hard, scarred men looking for work in the business of killing as her father had warned her when she was caught. Here was no different, she saw thugs carrying bludgeons stooped over ale, weathered sailors, skin tanned and cracked and bar maids with broken teeth and bruised faces.
Alana took another small sip of while keeping an eye on the door, even in the heat she shivered. What she was doing here, she knew was the real reason for her unease. The task that Lady Olenna had given her before she left had shaken her, when Alana asked why all she got was “many cogs in motion my dear, all moving to one goal.” She questioned if the Prince of Dorne was aware of this plan, it seemed too dark for him but Alana knew the Martells were masters in hidden plots.
The timing of the meeting in Flea Bottom on her journey to Dorne had been very specific, yet already her contact was late. One her guards, trusted Tyrell men all, armor and tunic hidden under a rough sewn clock shifted impatiently. They also knew the person she was here to meet was late. Like them, she was beginning to suspect a foul agenda; from their reputation they were never late. Alana watched the stool in front of her remain empty already thinking of how long she should remain waiting, and the danger in doing so. Nervously taking another drink, her hand trembling slightly, the bitter taste sticking in her throat, eyes wide open fretfully scanning the room, she continued to wait.

Iss'atho Rothesti finished the last drop of arbor gold from his goblet. The wine was his own, as was the goblet, which shone in the light of too many hearths. No such luxury would have been afforded in the taverns of Flea Bottom. Perhaps ale, or simple water mixed in with positive thinking.

He saw a lady sitting. She seemed most uncomfortable, so he rose and decided he would make himself known at last. His steps were long, and he forced himself not to think of what he was stepping in. The clothes he wore did little to make him stand out; darkened leather and simple cloth. His hair was long, and his face was currently pleasant, and pale of complexion. He sat opposite the lady.

"A many-faced god tells a man a lady needs his services," he spoke in the thick accent of Braavos. "Valar dohaeris."

The words struck Alana like a hammer blow. He spoke in a quiet tone, yet to Alana the words were piercing like bell rings. She knew what to say, yet fear and anxiety clamped down on her voice like a lead weight. Her body tensed, her gut twisting, heart pounding. She felt sweat drip down her back and weigh on her brow. Like most children she grew up hearing tales and rumors of Faceless men from storytellers in hushed whispers, seated here with one she wondered if their stories were even half true.
Alana took a moment, she was no stupid naive maiden; she was Alana Tyrell of Dorne and Highgarden sent by Lady Olenna herself for this task.
Trying to maintain a steely poise, Alana calmly took a slow sip of wine. She did this to try and seem composed, but also her mouth was dry like desert sand. Placing the cup back down assertively, she hid her fears, she looked straight at the unassuming man seated ahead of her and replied “Valar morghulis”
Trying to uphold a confident air, she took another deliberate drink of the poor wine “You are late”.

Iss'atho knew many of the stories told of his kind, and did not deny or affirm them whenever questioned. He looked at the woman so impertinent as to suggest he was late. His voice rang out again, his annoyance hidden well enough by his accent, "Perhaps a lady and her guards are early." He took a wine cask from his belt, and refilled his jewelled goblet with fine Dornish red.

The brash, arrogant attitude of the man surprised Alana. She expected Faceless men to be solemn and unassuming given their reputation.
She watched as he drank from his own flask rather than one from the inn. “Do you think someone will try and poison you” she asked pointing to his flask “or is it condemnation of the swill they serve here?”

Iss'atho sipped again from his goblet and then shrugged, "All men die, and this one would die from Dornish red than brown-water ale." He smirked, wondering how long this idleness would continue before a name was given. He drummed his fingers on the wooden table in a staccato 3/4.