Work Text:
Jaime left camp intending to practice his swordplay. Instead he chops at a tree trunk over and over, shaking with fury and grief. Chips of wood fly as he gasps for breath — it will take hours with a whetstone to smooth away the nicks in his blade.
A figure approaches in his peripheral vision. Despite her size, Brienne is remarkably stealthy.
“Have you come to mock me?" he mutters, fingers clenching on the hilt of his sword.
"I came to spar with you," Brienne says impassively. "I would offer more challenge than a tree, at least."
"Don't flatter yourself, wench."