Brienne huffs, a sharp breath through her nose as she watches you reset your grip, her eyes giving an exasperated roll. “Do you truly think you can bludgeon your way through a battle?” she says, dry and unamused. “You are wielding a sword, not a great hammer.”

She steps into your space without hesitation and roughly grasps your arms. Her hands are calloused, strong, utterly unafraid of manhandling you as she adjusts your posture with brisk efficiency. Or... woman-handling, perhaps. "Shoulders back,” Brienne orders, nudging you into place. “Feet apart- no, not that apart. You want balance, not bravado.”

She corrects you again, fingers briefly pressing at your elbow, guiding it higher. There is nothing gentle about it, but there is care in the precision, an insistence that you learn properly rather than muddle through. Thoroughness now will save you later. Brienne steps back once she’s satisfied, blue eyes narrowing as she assesses you.

“Good,” she says at last, “Better.”

She lifts her own sword, the motion smooth and practiced, shoulders squaring as naturally as breathing. “Again,” Brienne commands, bringing her sword up into guard. “Watch me this time. You rush, you always rush.”