Jaime pauses what he's doing, noticing her voice before he sees her approach. A flick of a glance up and down, judgemental and assessing because she is something of an oddity, here, before he continues removing his breastplate, the steel and leather lifted off his shoulders and set aside. Setting aside the dent in the armour and the ugly bruising that will inevitably be blossoming under his shirt as a result, he is not entirely unscathed, a few scrapes and scratches adding character. There is blood, too, on his sleeve, where that scrape to his breastplate was deflected away and nicked beneath his upper arm, but it appears to bleed worse than it is.

Anything worse, truly, would have probably meant a hit he wouldn't have been able to recover from so easily, and thus--

He scans the crowd when she asserts this, a smile beginning to tease at the corners of his mouth, taking off his gloves. His sword is in its place at his belt, still dripping crimson. The smell of blood, dust, and sweat embodies the Arena, and he carries it himself. "I find that knowledge oddly satisfying," he says easily. His accent sounds cultured, in an older world sort of way. "By now they really ought to know better."