[Bran's smile is only a little wan--and that is only because he is distracted, because Summer is distracted. The great direwolf is sitting at his feet, but Summer has grown large enough that he is still visible in the video feed. Something is ailing the direwolf, making him skittish. He huffs a whine as the video begins, and Bran looks down at him, and lays a hand atop Summer's head.]

Be still.

[Summer's ears flick, nervously; he blinks, and whines again. Bran looks to his device, his hand still resting atop his direwolf's head.]

I am looking for paper--perhaps twenty or thirty sheets of paper, that is not being used. Most things on this ship are written by typing, but there must be some paper somewhere. I can make a trade for it, if it is necessary. And I will need tape-- [That is a new word, but he says it smoothly.] --and scissors, with which to cut. They must be able to do fine work, I think.

[Restlessly, Summer raises his head. The video jars a little, and Bran quickly reaches to steady it, as he gives his direwolf a slightly anxious look.]

In Westeros, great tourneys are often held, where knights prove their merit in the lists. That means a joust, though there is sometimes melee fighting as well. I have never seen a tourney, only heard tales of them--and we have very few knights here. So we are going to let our direwolves race instead, and have a feast, just as if it were a true tourney. [Summer whines again, more plantively. He shrugs out from beneath Bran's hand, turning in a tight circle.] Summer, quiet. It is only a shadow.

There must be a prize, at the end, and I have been trying to think of something good. I have ideas, but they aren't very good, so I thought--

[But what he thought is never realized, because Summer moves quite sharply then, twisting away from Bran and the video with a sharp growl. Bran's face pinches in worry, and he grabs hastily for his device, to steady it again, before he shuts it off. It is an ungainly end to the message, but his concern trumps his good manners.]

[ like so many of robb's network addresses, he appears with grey wind at his side. he's in the gardens, sweat sticking his curls to his skin as grey wind huffs beside him, for once not pacing impatiently as robb speaks. ]

It seems the ship has seen fit to save the strange temperatures for those who slumbered through them last month. I suppose there are few left who remember the ship growing cold once? Perhaps it feels the heat suits us better.

[ robb's tone suggests that is most certainly doesn't suit him, but is that really a surprise? starks have ever been more suited to the cold. ]

If you would all permit me, I would ask to speak with any who slumbered, this month or prior, for last month was not the first that has seen people remaining trapped within their pods. I dreamed, and I would know if they were shared, or if any recognize that which I saw. Time has passed, and yet I've still not made sense of all that happened within those dreams.

[ grey wind makes a soft noise, almost a whine. robb doesn't reach a hand to soothe him, as if it's important neither of them seem unsettled. ]

Lastly, I would speak with Erik Lensherr, who I hear has returned once more, and Cesare Borgia, if he will indulge me with an audience. And my family, those of my House and those who carry my banner, I've news to share with you.

[ robb takes a breath, and grey wind gets to his feet, shakes out his coat, and paces off camera. robb chuckles, and cuts the feed on a murmur too quiet to be heard. ]

[Behold, all and sundry shipmates, a young woman, most likely unfamiliar to you all. She has dark hair, she's wearing expensive-looking sunglasses, she has a cigarette between her manicured fingers, and she's not smiling. As a matter of fact, she looks more bored than anything, which wouldn't be inaccurate. It's Penelope, and she's annoyed. Get accustomed to this.]

Okay, so. Quick question.

Are you seriously telling me that this spaceship is not only haunted as fuck, because it is obviously haunted as fuck, you guys, what the fuck is up with that, but nobody has tried to set up any wards or barriers or anti-evil magic protection of any kind? I mean come on, this should be like kindergarten baby shit. Surely somebody's tried something, but since there's no like, history books of this hideous floating evil space basement we all appear to be trapped in, I have to ask.

Nobody's tried magic? Seriously?

[There's a brief pause as she attends to her cigarette, and then it goes back to balancing between the fingers of her hand. She tends to gesture with it, vaguely, as she speaks, presumably for emphasis since her voice is a practiced monotone of affected disinterest. It's all extraordinarily irritating, and it's very much intended to be so.]

Apropos of nothing, since there's so many honest-to-god wolves on board, are there any werewolves around? I need a donation.

That's all. Back to your regularly scheduled cowering-in-fear-awaiting-all-our-inevitable-hideous-deaths, or whatever it is you do for fun around here.

[...That bit about the werewolves goes totally unexplained, because Penelope promptly ends the feed.]