Estinien furrows his brows, but there is a smile upon his lips when he replies, "Have we not waited long enough, already?"

He is neither the sort to be daunted by his own exhaustion nor deterred by a bit of sweat and mud. On the contrary, he can too easily imagine what the pretty, perfect Ser Aymeric de Borel must taste like when seasoned by salt and earth, what he must look like, peeled out of his armor, soft skin glowing with sweat, composure fissured. Gods, he is so close to finally having him. The realization hits Estinien again, and he can hardly believe how insistent a want it is. What had been, weeks ago, a mere craving, feels now almost possessive. Almost as urgent as his revenge.

Estinien shifts his weight from one leg to the other, hip pointing toward Aymeric. The middle of a training field, watched by the same gaggle of knights and clergy that have come to nearly every one of their duels, is entirely the wrong place to be letting his thoughts get away from him like this.

"I would have you now," he says carefully, trying his best to keep his voice even, unconcerned, to hide how hotly he burns. "But, if you feel you must freshen up first..." Estinien wets his lips with his tongue, "I could wait a bit longer, provided you allow me to watch."