Brienne of Tarth is not a proper lady. She is more at ease with a sword in her hand than with a flower. Chainmail and breeches wrap her better than any dress ever will. And her face, Brienne grimaces. She will not contemplate that. Brienne is no proper lady and her father insisting that she go to the Capitol is not something she likes. They would laugh at her. They would laugh at her muscular frame, her abnormally large hands, her ungainly arms and legs. Brienne steels herself against the stares and the whispers; there is no stopping them though.
So far, she has managed to avoid most people. For someone her height, Brienne finds that it is so very easy to slip away from crows and hide in dark corners. This also affords her the chance to watch the lords and ladies of the realm at their play. She has heard about this game, Brienne has. They call if the game of thrones, aptly names for the desire of every individual to sit themselves on the King's chair. Maidens from every house are pushed to make an impression upon one of the Princes – upon the eldest, if can be; if not, one of the younger ones will do just as well. The noble sons of these houses most endeavour to win the favour of the Princess who is yet a child for all her charming grace.
Whenever she glances at the Princess, Brienne feels a pang of something in her chest. Alysanna Targaryen is the hero of her day; she is the maid of great courage who has found a dragon egg. This is all anyone talks about at the moment. They all crowd around the find, speaking of prophecies and fanciful wishes. Brienne has also heard that the girl has been allowed, and even encouraged, to pick up a sword. If there is a lady more fortunate in all the Seven Kingdoms, Brienne does not know of her.
It is with such thoughts that the maid of Tarth sneaks out at night to practice with her own steel. This is a habit she indulges in as often as she can. At home she may practice whenever she wishes, but here she is required to hide from sight – her own heart being most insistent on this point. Being used to snide remarks does not make them less hurtful, Brienne has found, not does her height and skin protect her any better. There is, after all, pride in her that cannot be quelled for the sole reason that she does not fit the ideal of beauty held in such high regard at court.
She knows what she is, and while she is no lady, she is – or will be, as soon as she can manage it – a knight. Her resolve grows with every breath she takes, steeling itself and dispelling any doubts that occasionally steal upon her. Brienne holds the sword up high and brings it down and to her left in one fluid motion. Her graces always shine in the training yard. Someone once told her that sword fighting is to her what dancing ought to be to a maiden.
"Upon my word," a slightly sarcastic voice breaks through the layers of Brienne's concentration, forcing her exercise to a halt. A soft curse spills past her lips as she stumbles on a rock and nearly falls. She manages to catch a flash of green and the glint of gold, and knows beyond any doubt who spoke.
"Lord Lannister," she says, not quite a greeting. And then she waits for cruel laughter, or perhaps the Lannisters prefer subtlety.
"That's my father, wench. Lord Lannister, indeed, I am Jaime Lannister." The flat of his sword slaps against her back. "Straighten yourself. No amount of hunching will make you look any less like a giantess." Curiously enough, the words do not hold the bite she has come to expect.
"My name is not wench," she murmurs; not too loudly though, he may feel the need to reply. And she doesn't want that. She just wants him to stop circling her like a vulture and leave her to her sword. Her mumbling made him stop. He gave her a sharp look.
"What was that wench? You'll have to speak louder." Green eyes glinted with mischief. He has heard her. She glares at him, eyes narrowing. "Come now, I know your graces are somewhat lacking, but even you must have had a septa to teach you proper manners."
Her colour rises, and Brienne curses the blush in her mind. "My name is Brienne, not wench," she insists, this time in a tone of voice that brooks no arguments. Her father would have been impressed. Jaime Lannister is decidedly harder to make an impression upon unfortunately.
"Raise your arm," he orders with a smirk so impertinent that Brienne has half a mind to slap it off his face. But she catches herself just in time. "Show me your grip on that sword, wench." She wonders if he is pulling her leg, but his mien suggests that he means business. Most mans would have been laughing by now. He doesn't laugh. There is a vague curiosity in his eyes as she gives in and follows his instruction. Might be that will send him on his way.
But Jaime, far from being satisfied, strides forward to adjust her hold to a different angle. "Try this one, wench." And he motions for her to make a cut with the blunted steel. Brienne hopes she catches him in the shoulder when she does make the cut.
:My name is Brienne, Ser," she grunts, swinging the sword again in warning. He might be on to something though, for she can feel a difference in her fluidity already.
"Ah, the wench has some spark. Good to know." He crosses his arms and offers her another affronting smirk. "On the morrow after you break your fast, come down here."
The starts of a protest bubbles on her lips. "Ser Jaime, I cannot possibly-"
"No excuses." He follows the declaration with a compelling look that must have the squires falling all over themselves to do his bidding. Brienne simply looks back in confusion.
This is all quite much for her to take in. Not only is she not mocked, but Ser Jaime Lannister – formerly of the Kingsguard – wants to see her on the morrow, here, again. "Why would I listen to you, good Ser?" It might be one of those tricks sometimes men try to play on her. Better to be safe than sorry.
"Just bring your sword and be here." And with that Jaime turns his back on her and walks away, whistling a merry tune that just might be "Six Maids in a Pool". She watches him go with awe.
Brienne does, rather heroically, resist the urge to pinch her arm.