Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.
Warning: Mentions of suicide.
Even Fall
"So, are you going to tell me?" Jaime asked as Brienne lay out her bedroll by the fire.
It was the first time he'd spoken all day and his voice cracked but he could feel a smile tugging at his lips.
The days since their departure from Harrenhall had followed the same routine. They would wake with the sun and Qyburn would see to their wounds as they ate. Brienne would pack up and saddle her horse quickly before helping Jaime do the same. They would ride all day before making camp and cooking whatever Brienne had managed to catch the previous night. They kept to themselves and the Bolton men did the same.
"Tell you what?" she asked.
Unsure how to answer, he left the question hanging.
Once she'd neatly arranged her bedding, she helped Jaime untie his bedroll. He'd been plucking ineffectually at the knot for about five minutes, becoming steadily more frustrated as he did so. He dreaded the look of pity that might stain her face, but it never came. It never did. Every time he needed help, she was there for him. She didn't tut. She didn't fuss. She just did whatever needed to be done with the same cool efficiency she had shown in Harrenhall as she held his meat in place for him with her own fork.
He unfurled his bedroll next to hers and sat down heavily, stretching out his legs.
"What are you doing?" she asked, lip curled with indignation.
He enjoyed making her lip do that.
"I'm sitting," he replied with an innocent shrug.
"You know what I mean."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
Her cheeks and neck were flushed with annoyance. He loved making that happen as well.
"You normally sleep on the other side of the fire," she ground out and gestured to where she thought he should be sleeping.
"I'm trying something new."
He laid down and covered himself with his blankets, watching her all the while. Her brow furrowed and her hands twitched. She had so many tells. He was convinced for a moment that she was going to pick up her bedroll and march over to the other side of the small fire. But she didn't. Huffing loudly, she lay down beside him and stared resolutely at the canopy obscuring the stars above their heads.
"Tell you what?" she asked again.
"Well," he started, trying to keep his voice light, "I told you about the worst day of my life."
"And?" Without looking at her, he could picture the way her eyebrows would raise and her oh-so-large forehead would crease. He tried not to think about kissing the furrows away.
"Are you going to tell me about yours?"
"Why do you care?"
She twisted towards him and he turned to meet her stare. Her eyes—astonishing blue in a way that reminded Jaime of the sky on a clear night—were filled with suspicion, as though she was waiting for some secret joke to be revealed. At that look, Jaime felt anger curl tightly in his gut. Anger at everyone who had hurt her in the past. Anger at himself for treating her the same way as she'd dragged him across fields and bridges. She didn't deserve the scorn of strangers and she didn't deserve his.
"Think of it as part of our truce. A mutual give and take." He flashed her a smile. "Or don't you trust me."
"I think it would be very ungenerous of me not to trust the man who jumped unarmed and one-handed into a bear pit for me." Her cheeks coloured again, the blush staining her neck. He wondered how far down it would spread.
"Exactly!" Jaime crowed quietly. "So, tell me about the worst day of your life. The thing that haunts you every day."
Her hand went up to her scalp as he said that, smoothing down her blonde hair. She opened her mouth as if to speak but snapped it closed again. He didn't say anything. He knew that, if he did, she would clam up.
He waited, listening.
The fire snapped and crackled. The leaves rustled in the gentle breeze. People were talking softly as they sat around a different fire.
He heard her take a deep breath.
"When I was six, I had hair that fell to my waist."
She paused and he let her, waiting patiently for her carry on. She looked nervous, vulnerable, and so he closed his eyes, hoping she would feel more at ease if she were unobserved.
After all, difficult truths are easier to utter in the dark.
"I used to ditch my sewing lessons to copy my brother's lessons in sword and bow at a distance. I couldn't stay cooped up all day; I need to run, climb, and swim. Days spent inside sent me crazy. My mother knew all this, of course, and, although she sent me to my lessons with the septa, she braided my hair each morning and secured it firmly to my head in a twisted bun. It was unlike the styles the other girls wore and somehow I knew that it was her way of giving me permission to run and climb and swim."
He heard her calloused fingers running through her short locks once more.
"Anyway, one evening I came inside with a scraped arm and what seemed like half a tree in my hair. My bun had managed to unpin itself and my braid got caught on a branch in the tree I was climbing. I walked into her chamber, terrified if being scolded. She merely said 'Oh, Brienne' and patted the stool in front of her vanity. She cleaned my graze and slowly unravelled my hair. She spent hours picking bark and leaves out of it before carefully smoothing away all the tangles with her silver-backed brush. I remember it felt like my hair was shining brighter than the moon when she'd finished. She sent me off to bed feeling like a princess."
"That's the worst day of your life?" he asked, forgetting that he'd planned to stay silent.
He opened his eyes to see her glaring at him.
"I haven't finished the story yet."
He held up his hand in apology. "Please, continue."
She turned to stare straight up at the sky and he thought he'd blown it until she sighed and started speaking once more.
"One morning, she finished braiding my hair and kissed me on the head. I distinctly remember noticing that my eyes were exactly like hers as she stared at me through the looking glass. She said, 'Brushing your hair every day has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life.' I didn't really pay attention to the wording at the time, I was just eager to rush outside. I was at the very top of a tree about an hour later when I saw her jump from the highest balcony of Evenfall Hall."
Jaime couldn't help the gasp that escaped him. He found one of her hands with his own. Clasping it tightly.
"I didn't really understand at first. How could I? But I eventually realised that she was gone and that she couldn't come back. I'd had two younger sisters, twins, but they had died in their crib half a year earlier from a fever that swept through the island. My mother wasn't the same after that. A maid was assigned to do my hair the next day but I couldn't stand to have someone who wasn't her touch it. I stole my father's razor and hacked it all off."
"Is that why you keep it short now?" Jaime asked, voice soft.
"Yes," she said, the word half a sob.
He watched as a tear slid along her cheekbone before disappearing into her hair.
"I'm so sorry, Brienne." It was the only thing he could think to say.
"Why?" she snapped. "Why are you sorry? It wasn't your fault."
"Being sorry isn't always an admission of guilt. It can just mean that you hate that someone else is suffering."
"But why do you care? You barely know me, Jaime."
It was the first time she'd called him "Jaime."
The first time with no "Kingslayer" and no "Ser."
Just Jaime.
"I know you plenty. I know that you are fierce and loyal. I know that you can best almost the entirety of Westeros in single combat. I know that you have the guts to face down a bear with a wooden sword. I know that whistle when you take a piss, that your neck flushes when you're embarrassed, and that prefer fowl to rabbit. I know you, Brienne."
She didn't say anything, just stared at him unblinkingly.
Eventually, she settled on her back again and closed her eyes.
"Good night, Jaime."
She didn't let go of his hand.
A/N: This was something that just popped into my head. Let me know in the reviews if you'd like me to continue it. Thanks for reading.