Face set in an unhappy frown, Jamie ignores her, pushing into the blows and trying to keep them clear of Eleanor. His shirt and skin suffer for it.

He ignores her right up until spindly twigs grab his collar and send him spinning into the grasp of another tree, then slap his face like a giant hand, leaving the taste of blood in his mouth.

Grimly, Jamie lifts his sword, takes a deep breath and goes on the offensive. It's not pretty. He lacks his mother's talent. But it's knowledgeable -- as if he knows well in advance just what angle will do the most damage, so style doesn't matter much to him. Chopping, hacking and driving forward, quiet as the grave, he begins to make headway.

Not much, however.