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storm of swords!au - king's landing (for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
serkingslayer)
In spite of her release from prison, Brienne cannot ignore the suspicion there are those who still think her responsible for Renly's death. If only she could plead with them, find a means of making them believe her sincere and true devotion - but to speak up now, inside King's Landing, would mean an accusal of treason against her for certain. For Joffrey is the king here, not Renly, and the Tyrells have secured their futures by serving him instead.
Brienne's loyalty is not so easily won, though she knows she must not speak her true feelings out loud, lest she wind up back in the dungeons from which she has only just been freed. She is well aware that Jaime had placed her there for her own safety, until the truth could be verified. Now, all she can do is what she has been trained to do: to serve, and to fight as a member of the Kingsguard - if not for her king, than for another.
She does not wish to be thought of as any less of a knight here, and it is for that reason she continues to practice, in the early morning hours down by the stables, where there is a clear space and a tree trunk marred by the strikes of her blade as she moves through the forms of her attack. She does not wear her armor now, a thin shirt and a pair of breeches clinging to her ungainly form. The opponent she fights is harmless enough.
Brienne's loyalty is not so easily won, though she knows she must not speak her true feelings out loud, lest she wind up back in the dungeons from which she has only just been freed. She is well aware that Jaime had placed her there for her own safety, until the truth could be verified. Now, all she can do is what she has been trained to do: to serve, and to fight as a member of the Kingsguard - if not for her king, than for another.
She does not wish to be thought of as any less of a knight here, and it is for that reason she continues to practice, in the early morning hours down by the stables, where there is a clear space and a tree trunk marred by the strikes of her blade as she moves through the forms of her attack. She does not wear her armor now, a thin shirt and a pair of breeches clinging to her ungainly form. The opponent she fights is harmless enough.
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Jaime makes a bit of a face, watching her face carefully, wondering if that is a smile or not before arching an eyebrow.
"You have a better idea?"
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"Time to relearn, Kingslayer."
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Jaime has gotten used to not having his hand well enough that he does, at least, lift his left hand to catch the blade, and manages, though his hold is clumsy and he fumbles, almost dropping it.
The clumsiness embarrasses him, his cheeks burning, but his eyes snap angrily--at himself for the clumsiness, though there's little outlet in that. Still, he raises the blade awkwardly, willing to meet her challenge.
His body doesn't want to fall into the proper position, really. His left foot feels strange in the lead, his blaance even is off, but that's as much an internal feeling as anything else.
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"Are you ready?" she asks, not impatient or bored. Merely asking the question.
She doesn't want to take him by surprise yet, move without first gauging his readiness - at least considering how he had almost dropped the blade moments before.
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Jaime doesn't feel ready, with everything off. He feels like a green child, unsure where to put everything. It's highly disconcerting, given his usual prowess, but he finally nods a little, settling into a more proper stance, however uncomfortable.
He almost feels like he should go back to the basics, learn his footwork on the left, balance exercises and the like, but that is too remedial for anywhere someone might see. He'll work on that in his chambers, later.
"Ready."
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"It is only me you're fighting," she says, reverting to a matter-of-fact tone again. "Do not presume that I will go easy on you."
She will, but neither of them will acknowledge that, and certainly not before she swings her blade in an arc towards the handsomeness of his face.
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"I wouldn't expect you to." No matter what they've been through, Jaime doesn't delude himself thinking she likes him.
He shifts to the side--the correct one, at least--and brings up the sword to parry. It's an awkward move, but he does manage to make contact. The clumsiness of it makes him grimace, but he steps into it, attempting to circle her blade further away.
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Despite his shortcomings, he doesn't step away from her but rather towards, engaging her head-on and taking advantage of his weakness to play the defensive. It is a smart strategy. What the Kingslayer lacks in skill at the moment, he makes up for in cunning, and she tests his range with another strike.
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It's the sense of everything being in reverse that's the most disorienting. Add to it the fact that his left hand simply isn't as strong, not conditioned to the balance and weight of the blade, and everything feels out of place.
It just makes him more determined, now, at least. He's dropped that feeling like he'll just give up. Someway, he'll find his way back to at least some approximation of what he was.
That thought in mind, he parries her again, before attempting an offensive strike he's not quite balanced for.
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"Good news," she says, sheathing her weapon. "You're not completely without hope."
An expression of realizing dawns before she turns away to hide it - those words had almost been, verbatim, the thing her father's master-of-arms had often told her, when he'd caught her practicing alone with a sword. She has journeyed a long way since then, and silenced many doubters besides. She takes a swig of water and then, thinking better, passes the skin to him.
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Every muscle in Jaime's body aches by the time she eases off. Part of it is a good ache, muscles moving, exercising, stretching. Part of it is a screaming sort of ache demanding to know why in the seven hells he's just put them through this.
He's breathing hard, as well, but he puts the blade back, trying not to look too pathetic.
"I'm pleased by that rousing assessment," he says dryly, though, really, he is. Taking the water from her, he gives her a curious look, but doesn't press to know what she's thinking.
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Her thoughts often dwell on days spent tied up in the saddle, skin chafing from a long ride without relief, traveling with little more than a bucket of water, and thirst often took the place of cleanliness in most cases. Here, she has the luxury of both, though for how long? She cannot presume to know.
"It was not completely a compliment," she replies, and snatches the water back from him. "You have much more to work on, Kingslayer."
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He should be used to her shifting moods, he thinks--a piece that does point to her being a woman, as much as her figure in the bath. Tall, muscular, a warrior's body, but still a woman. Impossible that he hadn't noticed, even if he was quite careful not to show that.
"You think I do not know that?" he asks, relinquishing the water without a fight. "It's like being a babe learning to fight again, and I recognize how very far I've fallen, my lady."
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"I am not a - " she starts, stalking over to him with a hiss of breath, but cuts herself off before she can utter the final word. Whether he in turn means insult or not is difficult to discern, but she will not allow her emotions to betray her.
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It really is almost too easy to get a rise out of her, and while he meant no insult, it is fun to watch her get all riled up and he has very little fun in his life these days. He'll take what he can get. And perhaps was a tiny bit insulted that after everything, after he came back for her, after all he's done to help her, she still thinks him weak--in character, if not body.
Admittedly, he possibly deserves some of that, but she is the only person in the world who knows why he slew his king. He never even told Cersei. He certainly never told his father. They assume he is just like Tyrion--that he saw a chance to pick the winning side, refused to betray his family after his father switched sides, and think him better for that--the same thing that destroyed him in Ned Stark's view.
"Might I have some more water?" he asks, mildly, with just an arch of an eyebrow.
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Guilt washes over her features for another beat, and then she disguises it with another deep frown that sets in, creating that small line along her brow as she hands the water back to him more gently.
"You may," she replies, struggling to keep her voice flat.
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Scolding him kept him going, kept him fighting, where little else would have--not that he is likely to admit that anytime soon. Looking back, his own weakness shames him in ways his father's words or Cersei's coldness cannot even do, now.
He takes the water from her, and allows himself a half smile of thanks. "Why the long face? You got to beat me, again, and are like to be able to do so for a very long time. Shouldn't you be pleased?"
Everyone else was.
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"I take no pleasure in beating you," she answers, forcing more gentility into her voice.
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"You're a member of a very small association then. Possibly just of one." He takes a healthy drink of water.
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The sheer injustice of it all is enough to create a tightness in her chest.
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A shadow flickers across his face, her term biting even though he knows she didn't mean it so, that there is loyalty in the words he probably doesn't deserve. "I'll just have to find other ways to prove my....adequacy."
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"I was not aware your adequacy had been questioned in other areas," she replies, feigning indifference.
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Jaime fights the impulse to scowl at her. Why is he even having this conversation? Just because they had shared...whatever on their journey is no reason to continue. Yet, he lingers.
He meets her gaze, his still bland save for the flash of annoyance that covered the hurt. "My point, my lady, was that it hasn't been. And it won't be."
Dangerously close to open admission of breaking his vows, but it wasn't as if anyone thought any of the Kingsguard celibate, truly. Even if his lack of it had only ever been in one direction. The comment hangs awkwardly in his head because of it. He isn't his brother in so many more ways than stature.
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"Far be it from me to question your - prowess," she adds, choosing the final word carefully as she begins to back away, every intention on taking her leave to request that a bath be drawn.
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He watches her move, the careful way, and there's an impulse to stalk after her that takes him quite by surprise, makes him frown slightly at himself, questioning, wondering if her word choice, and his before...
He has to wonder if this is flirting.
"Are you done with me, then?"
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