Estinien likes those odds. Likes that, one way or another, he'll get what he wants. Physical or not, it's a curiosity satisfied.

"I look forward to our match, Ser Aymeric," he says with unhidden arrogance. He sees no reason to hide his cofindence. He will win, easily, he's sure of it. And perhaps the Estinien of a bell ago would've been satisfied with that much -- settling a bet neatly -- but Estinien now, well, he's intrigued by the bet.

He fishes a few gil out of his pocket and sets them on the table, to cover the drinks, as promised, and downs the contents of his flagon. "I will see you tomorrow, then. Noon. On the training field?"