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[ The camera flickers on to reveal the ceiling to one of the passenger quarters. There is the rustling of movement and then, after, the image jostles and then wrongs itself to show a wisp of darkly colored hair and the pale sliver of a young woman's profile. She doesn't seem to realize the device is recording because soon, the camera is covered up by her hand, as well as the microphone, so her voice comes muffled and at a distance. When she speaks, it's apparent she's speaking to someone else there with her and not the device itself. ]

Do you think it best we show our faces? Perhaps they would be more willing to help us, were they to see our entreatments. [ The image jostles again, from side to side. A hand here, an eye there. Bits and pieces of a person, blurred by movement and dimness.

A second of hesitation is the only reply, first. There are too many tales of enchanted objects lying in wait, to steal souls and work other mischief. And they are none of them true (probably), but even so— ]

Yes. But we should carefully show ourselves. Do you know how to work the device to show pictures?

[ There is a bit of primness to her voice when the young woman speaks again; something like pride, albeit tempered by an attempt at humility. ] I've not been idle during my time here, [ she says. ] All the things I know, you'll know as well. In time, I promise. But first—

[ More fumbling and, finally, the picture sets itself to rights to reveal a young woman with burnt brown hair and a young boy seated beside. Were someone to look at them both long enough, they would perhaps notice something of a familial resemblance (though each will deny it, if asked). Setting the camera to rights, the woman leans over and whispers something into the boy's ear, the murmur too low to be picked up by microphone. Then, she nods, smiling faintly at him.

He looks to her first, hesitating—but then finds his strength and turns back, his chin lifted higher. ]

I'm—I am Bran Stark of Winterfell, newly come to this ship. I have been told a great many things of this place, some of them strange—but I am pleased to have come, and pleased to make meeting with the people here. [It is a route and studied response, a lord's response, somewhat stiff, and he looks back to her to confirm that it was well said.] My—companion, Lady Stone, has said that I might ask things of this device, and be give responses in reply. I am seeking my wolf--my direwolf, Summer. He is large, but he will not harm anyone. You have my word of that.

And a lord's word is goodly. [ The lady 'Stone' interjects. It was a lie, she knew as much, but this lord was honest and good. ] I have heard talk of animals aboard the ship. Of cats and dogs, alike. If Summer is here, it is of great import that we find him. A wolf does poorly without its pack. [ A pause and the girl dips her chin, pressing a modest hand to her chest in an expression of earnestness. ] We have little to give in exchange for answers, though we do promise our thanks and a favor in kind. The ship is vast and we're loath to explore without proper company, though— [ Again, she turns to look at Bran, her gaze flickering imperceptibly to his legs. Should they ask for Hodor? ] —though any offer of help will not be turned away.

[ Again, he hesitates—he can read the question in her eyes, and it is one that they have talked of, but even so, now that it comes time to ask— ]

There is also my servingman, called Hodor, who is also quite large and harmless. I should find him as quickly as I might. He is simple-minded, but kind, and— [ He looks down at his legs a moment— another quick glance at his companion— ] I am crippled, and require his aid.

[ There. It's been said. His ears go a little pink, his shoulders slump—it's a weakness he'd sooner not have revealed, though it would have soon been learned—and still, he keeps his chin high, as much a lord as he can manage. At the very edge of the picture it is visible to anyone who would take notice— the girl touches the boy along the edge of his arm, a small encouraging gesture as her hand encloses the round of his elbow, patting. And, perhaps she is proud. It is not small thing to admit. He continues: ]

Any help that can be given would be met with my earnest thanks. With our earnest thanks.

[ ooc; Alayne and Bran. ]

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More talk of magic, [ Alayne murmurs absently, her voice distant and unfocused though her eyes continue to look at Bran, searching his expression for some attestation of jest. Magic was a word they quite often used to explain away things that refused explanation otherwise; but Alayne knows that magic is not real. Nor monsters, nor knights, nor any of the things from stories of old.

Monsters were simply men and knights were lies. But what of magic — was it simply ignorance, some sort of blind and willful hope for something other than themselves? Something greater and powerful and transcendant? Alayne does not pretend to know, though she knows the answers exist somewhere. According to so many on the ship, magic was simply 'science' — whatever that was.

When she finds no jest nor lie in his face, she blinks again, her voice finding a present center once again. ] But magic is not a real thing, Bran. It's a story, same as everything else. [ Same as honor, same as justice. ] —isn't it?

[ She does not want to believe it. If it revealed itself to be a lie once again, it would break her heart and Alayne is not sure she has much heart left. With a hand she brushes his cheek. Maybe she believes him; maybe she pities him. ]

But you have the wolf's blood in you, [ she then says and there is something in her expression that grows sullen and sad. Not like me. ] You would know what I do not.

[His heart falters, but he does his best not to show that in his face. He must be a lord now--he must not show her any of his softness, any hint of the pinch in his belly at what she says. Magic is not a real thing, Bran.

She does not believe me. There is falseness in her words when she tries to give him some comfort, and he leans away from her a little, raising his chin.]

It is real. It isn't like the stories--it isn't even magic, not exactly. I know it's real. [He makes his words as strong as he is able. I must not sound a child, though he feels more a child than ever, telling tales.

And--separate from his insistence, separate from everything--there is a sadness that starts somewhere deep in his chest, a Sansa-sadness, and he remembers her letter, and the hardness of Robb's face. She lost her wolf.]

All Starks have wolf blood. [He says it more quietly than he means to, but he looks at her steadily.] Even secret Starks have wolf blood, Alayne.

[ Her brow pinches — both at his insistence and the words with which he puts that insistence forth. There are memories in Alayne's mind: of Old Nan's stories, of Bran's eyes and how they would grow large and attentive upon listening, of how Sansa would chide him and then insist on different story instead (one of knights instead of dragons, one of kings and court instead of wonders). But the Bran of memory is not like the Bran who sits before her now, his chin lifted, his words resolute (or trying to be, Alayne can see the dark earth of uncertainty from which they grow). She cannot tell if she pities him or if she trusts him. Sansa had been such a foolish child, but Alayne— she knew things. Not everything, but more than Sansa had ever shut her eyes against. But nowhere in her lessons of planning and plots was there room for magic — it was too large and too wild and untamable. It did not follow the rules, even the hidden ones, and that frightened her.

Bran's chin lifts and Alayne's chin lowers. It makes her eyes seem larger than they already are. Two bright blue pools of watery sadness. ]

Sansa was no wolf, [ she says, but her tone does not match his. Instead of defiance, it is defeat. ] The South made her soft instead of strong. Perhaps if she had not left home—

[ Lady. It's Sansa who thinks the word and not Alayne. She shakes her head. ] —but she'd insisted. Like a stupid girl.

[Their pack should never have been divided. Bran has always known this, but as he looks at Alayne who is Sansa, he thinks it more sadly still. They were strongest together, all of them, but Sansa and Arya went south with Father--Robb rode to war, and Mother went after--and Rickon and I left Winterfell as dead princes, and all was ruined.

They were strongest when together, but that did not them weak when they were apart. Looking at Alayne who is Sansa, he knows that, too, to be true. She is harder, and older, and still more beautiful, even with her hair colored brown and wearing her bastard's name.]

Sansa wasn't stupid. [And even this is true, so he says it with very real certainty.] There are no stupid wolves. And she lost her wolf, but she didn't lose her blood. She knows what I know. She would believe me.

[ There is part of Alayne that wishes to grasp Bran by the shoulders tightly, wishes to dare look him straight in the eye and tell him all the ways in which Sansa had been unwise and all the mistakes both large and small she made upon her way. But it was not his burden to bare, was it, and he had been made to shoulder so much already, hadn't he? The rending of the North, the razing of Winterfell; the bannermen, the turncoat, the Freys.

No, Alayne would not speak of it. She had sworn to protect Bran, not see him suffer beneath his sister's woes. And he would suffer, there was no question in that. He was too kind and too dear to hear such plight and not bleed at the thought. (I will protect you from your sister's ignorance. Even now, Bran.)

Her hands reach for his, looking to gather them. (Forgive me, forgive Sansa. She lost her wolf and she lost her name; that is as terrible as losing one's blood.) ]

You are not a liar, Bran. [ It is not a no, but it is not a yes either. ] I would never think you be.

[He lets her take his hands--perhaps because he wants to believe that she believes him. And perhaps she does believe him, but when he looks into her face, he sees that it might not be so.

The pressure of her hands on his is a good comfort, but he cannot take false comfort, not from Sansa, nor from Alayne--not now, not on this. So he asks, looking her in the eyes--she's not managed to change the color of them; they are the most Sansa part of her.]

Then you believe me.

[ He is looking at me, Alayne thinks and it is a simple enough thought, though she knows the dangers that lie in looking too carefully. There were things that could not be unseen once you caught a glimpse of them, truths that would cut far too deep for the wound to be ignored. He looks for the lie. Alayne's lashes flicker but there is no other tell; she holds his gaze like his hands, gentle but certain. It is not part of me, not part of my heart; he will find it if he searches too long. ]

I believe in all that you are and all that you know. [ It is not a lie; no, it is the greatest truth that Alayne can give him. ] You say you know this. That it is a part of you. [ She covers his hands with her own and only looks away long enough to dip her head and place a kiss on the ridge of his knuckles. You are precious to me, Bran. ]

So I would not wish it away.

Edited 2012-04-03 05:41 (UTC)

[There are things that he does not know of Alayne, and things he does not know of Sansa's fate--there are things she has not told him and perhaps will not tell him, even if he asked, even if he knew what it was he was asking--but this is not one of those lies, or even a half-truth. It can't be.

Her eyes do not meet his--it would be better if they did, for then he would be able to see her, Sansa, blurred behind the shield and mask that is Alayne. But her small kiss is good enough--and her words are even better.]

I don't know what it is. But I know it to be true--and I was better at it, before I came here. If Summer were here, I could find him. I could--become him, if only for a little while. [He takes pause for a breath; his head feels uncertain. Only Jojen and Meera know this much--and Hodor, though he could never tell.] It is a secret thing, Alayne, isn't it? People would not understand--

[But she understands. That is what matters. His fingers clutch at hers, a slight movement that he can hardly help.]

And I dreamed of you, once. But only once.

It is a secret thing, [ she says quickly and feels a sting blossom deep within her chest. Alayne understands better than most the weight of a secret and how easily it can force a set of shoulders to droop. It can pull lesser men down into the drink if they're not careful, with nothing but the whisper of undertow and a laugh of the surf. She had sworn to protect Bran from all things; was it failure now that she could not keep him from this burden? Could she take it up now, for him? Would he let her? That discomfort inside her twists without warning, but Alayne does not heed it, will not allow it to strike her dumb. ]

But I will help you bare it. A secret is a lonely place and I will not have you be alone.

[ There is no question and no hesitation in her words, and although there is part of Alayne that aches (you make for a terrible sister), in this she will not fail nor falter. Her father had taught her that no oaths were sacred, but she is the mockingbird's daughter, not the mockingbird itself. There are some people she will still make exception for.

Just like Petyr and Littlefinger, there is now Bran and this other. The Stark in Winterfell and the wolf dreamer. But unlike Littlefinger, this is no mask, this is a part of Bran (blood and bone) and so is a part of Sansa, in turn. And Sansa is a part of—

Alayne stops the thought before it can finish itself. Her eyes are glossed with remorse when she looks at him again. ] You dreamed of Sansa, [ she tells him, but has not the heart to correct him fully. ]

[A wolf is stronger when he has a pack, no matter how small his pack is. Even a lord needs bannermen to make him strong--so there is no shame in accepting Alayne's pledge, nor shame in taking strength from her words.

And if she will still pledge to help him--if she believes what he says, no matter any strangeness or even danger (for what good comes of wargs?)--then she is his sister. She is a wolf, no matter the sadness behind her eyes--for only a wolf can be part of a pack. For a moment, Bran feels more hope than he has yet. Sansa can still be saved, and he will be the one to do it. A crippled child makes for a poor champion, but a wolf can save another wolf.]

Sometimes I dream of Sansa, but those are dreams like everyone has. This dream was different. I dreamed of you-- [Whoever you say you are, whatever name or face or disguise you wear--] --in a great castle, and you were alone, without your wolf.

But that was different than the wolf dreams--it was just as if I saw you. [And now perhaps he does sound mad, so Bran adds quickly:] I wanted you to know I was thinking about you--that we didn't forget Sansa. Or you. [But that is a clear afterthought. The emphasis is with Sansa-- she will remember. She must remember.]

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