Highborn, Jaime Tarth

jaime tarth

There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

Jaime’s father died when Jaime was only a boy of five years. Drowning. Though, to this day, Jaime suspects that the truth is far murkier. By all accounts, his father was a decent enough swimmer. And his mother shed few tears as she took up her late husband’s seat, assuming leadership of Tarth until Jaime came of an age to succeed his father. Shunting the upbringing of Jaime onto the shoulders of her younger brother.

Jaime was not an overly bright child, or gifted with obedience. It was apparent that a lack of intelligence wasn’t the boy’s flaw, only a lack of interest in what he didn’t enjoy, joined with a stubbornness that fear of punishment could not breech. That did not stop adults from being sharp in their frustration towards him, or their children cruel. But, from such unfairness, Jaime discovered something priceless about himself: that he loved hitting things. And that he was good at it.

Rather than to try and curb his nephew’s aggression, Jaime’s uncle chose to take advantage of it. Years were spent teaching Jaime how to track and how to hunt, how to string and fire a bow, how to hold and wield a sword, and how to effectively use his fists. With his lessons on numbers, letters and history carefully interwoven within. But it inevitably reached a point where there was no lad in Tarth whom Jaimed had not bested, no adult that held any martial knowledge that Jaime did not already know, and he began to slip back into his bad habits. Once again that stubbornly disinterested boy. So his uncle fostered him to another Stormlands family, to act as a squire to their lordly knight. Like all Westerosi boys, Jaime knew all the knightly stories about the Age of Heroes, dreamed of gaining his own fame and legendary warrior’s prowess. So, just as his mother so often was known to do, Jaime shed no tears when he left Tarth.

But, it took him very little time to realize that knighthood was not as the stories so often depicted. That knights were not the heroes that they were in stories, or, really, all that special. They were dogs, better trained than others, but still dogs, raising their hackles at curs and each other, eagerly showing their bellies to any lord or lady with a bone to spare. Bitterness, perhaps? Jaime and his knightly teacher were often at odds with one another. The ser knight expected an obedient and doting squire, a lad that would hold eagerly onto his every word. Whilst Jaime demanded to know why he had to bend-over backwards over a three lettered word. Such animosity grew all the worst when his teacher continuously prevented Jaime from fighting for valour or competing in tournaments, where perhaps he could have earned his own knighthood. A means to punish Jaime. Lads far younger than Jaime earned their knighthoods whilst he was forced to watch from afar and fetch wine for his lord.

But fortune is a strange mistress, and as Jaime and the ser knight travelled the roads they were accosted by a brigade of bandits, calling themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners. After a rough first-impression, Jaime came to like the colourful group, exchanging words and stories with them over wine and bread. They had an interesting outlook on life, and an intriguing vision for the realm. But it was their promise of freedom that caused him to join their ranks.

Any man within the brotherhood could take up arms and fight. And Jaime loved fighting.

The knight did not fare as well. The last Jaime saw of him was the sorry sight that the knight painted, bound to a stump, naked and broken and bleeding. Jaime had busted the sod’s jaw himself. And a left kneecap.

[b]KARNEVAL, yogi[/b] as [i]jaime tarth[/i]