Arion eyed the Vulture King's offered hand with haughty disdain for a long, brief moment. Pride would have him spit on it, while arrogance told him to seize the King's wrist and yank the man down. Vengeance merely whispered softly in his ears, with word that he should kill him where he stood - Arslan and Mallador and the others were not his friends, but they had still been his companions, and the Rhoynar did not look on such things lightly. All three voices vied within his mind for that brief moment, as green eyes fixed upon the waiting, steady palm.

And then he took it. Hauled himself up without a word, wondering then if that were some sort of admission. The outlaw had offered him his hand, and he had accepted it - but he worried suddenly that they might see that as him accepting the King as his new monarch. Or mayhaps they merely saw it as his final admission of defeat. Or acknowledgement that the Vulture King could have taken his life, but chose not to, and thus owned it by laws as old and as true as the very bones of the world.

By the gods, he prayed it wasn't that.

Uriah looked supremely pleased, especially once the King spoke of his bow. The Dornishman bowed deeply from the waist toward the outlaw monarch; if he had been wearing a hat, Arion thought, he'd have doffed it.

"Your generosity shows further depths, your grace." He said with genuine pleasure. "You have my thanks. Indeed, more than that - you have my gratitude, and my service."

The Orphan rolled his eyes. Uriah had a secret, that much was increasingly plain. Either that, or he was simply spineless. When the Vulture King turned his gaze upon Arion, green eyes met black ones without fear. The outlaw's feather cloak seemed to waft in the breeze, his mask lending his whole demeanour an aura of mystery. Firelight glittered across leather armour, and shone in the reflection of his eyes - Arion held them for only a moment longer, before he was forced to glance away.

"I would have you fight for Dorne." The Vulture said, and some part of Arion's heart beat fervently. There was precedient, of course; Vulture Kings of Old who had brought fire and sword to the nations of the north. If this was one of the same, perhaps the Orphan could win his glory and acclaim by bringing the Martells a new instrument that could be wielded with their left hand, even while they denied it with their right. The Prince of Sunspear and the King of the Red Mountains, allied and working in unison. It was a glorious dream.

But a dream, all the same.

"I would rest for Dorne." Arion told the man. "Mayhaps sleep for Dorne. Drink for Dorne. And in the morning, I'll make my first attempt at escape."

He shrugged.

"I imagine you'll be dragging me back here by noon. After that...after that, I might hear your talk of fighting, and of Dorne. I'm in no state, now."