By the standards of his home in King's Landing, it is a cold winter. Baedal's light snow fall and brisk winds have nothing on the northlands of Westoros, but that is nowhere Jaime liked to remain for any length of time. Still, he tolerates it, and wears the collar of a leather coat high against the chill.

"Mostly just horse leather and bravery," Jaime's saying, leaning against the wooden railings and watching the combatant field. There is a light rain coming down, cold enough to be sleety, but that wouldn't stop the Arena, and it's massive walls block some from the elements in their shadow. He is speaking to Seoraj on topics that concern or otherwise brush against them both. "The Dothraki consider any sort of armor to be cowardly, and steel plate to be slow. It is, of course, but it's a matter of favouring speed over strength and durability. And as for here, I'd favour a middle-ground."

He tips his head a little towards the current brawl. The large field has been sectioned off for smaller tournaments, fist fights, knife fights, sword play, although to call these litte battlefields 'small' would be a disservice to space given and the people that have come to watch.