♖ 001.

[summerschild]

Who: Bran Stark and YOU
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: The HS Marsiva Hospitality Deck
When: 6/13

[On the Hospitality Deck, there's a little lump of dirt and fur on the floor next to one of the cots, twisted up in the white sheets. Bran had woken up in a fit of panic, scrabbling for the damp floor of the Queenscrown holdfast, and then-]

Is anyone there? Hello?

[A bump on his head aches from the tumble. He doesn't understand what he's seeing in front of him, through the clear glass of the bowing windows. It makes him dizzy, and he rubs at his nose with one grubby hand. His fur cape is still muddy from the thunderstorm, making him look a bit like an abandoned puppy.]

I need some help!

[He tries to use the cot to pull himself back up, but with a click the wheel unlocks, and sends the bed teetering towards anyone coming across the floor. Oops...]

Comments

[youwillgotohell]

[Definitely a boy, then.]

It's all right. [She hesitates for a moment then moves closer, gathering the skirts of her green dress as she crouches near by.]

Are you hurt?

[summerschild]

I don't think so.

[He touches a tender spot on the side of his head, and takes in this lady's appearance. There's nothing to suggest her allegiance or intentions, no way to tell if he can trust her.]

Have you been captured as well?

[youwillgotohell]

[Fear flares in her belly. Captured - could Uther have discovered her secret? She lifts her head to stare around the hospitality deck. No - if he was going to throw her anywhere, it would be in the deepest, darkest dungeon Camelot had. Not....whatever this was.]

It seems so.

[Tamping down that fear - for the boy's sake and her own - Morgana looks back at him.]

If we have, we're bound to know who's responsible soon. [And if no one shows themselves, she's damn sure going to go looking.]

My name is Morgana. What's yours?

[summerschild]

[He sees the fear behind her eyes, and it's almost a relief. No matter what her allegiances are, she's in the same boat as him.]

Bran.

[No last name, just in case.]

Are you from Westeros?

[youwillgotohell]

[Her brow wrinkles at the question.] No, I've...I've never heard of Westeros. [It's not entirely baffling, after all, she doesn't know much about lands beyond Albion....but it's passing strange that they share a language, she thinks.]

I came from Camelot.

[summerschild]

I'm sorry, I don't know of Camelot.

[This woman speaks the Common Tongue, and has the night-black hair of the North, but to not know of Westeros... She must be from somewhere very strange, indeed.]

It's not in Essos, or Sothoyros?

[youwillgotohell]

It's in Albion. [More places she's never heard of, and she must assume--] I don't suppose you know of that? Or - Essetir, Mercia? Any of the Five Kingdoms?

[summerschild]

[He shakes his head at all of them, growing increasingly perturbed with each unfamiliar name.]

I've never heard of other worlds before, outside of stories.

[youwillgotohell]

Other worlds?

[Morgana bites the corner of her lip. Mayhap he meant to say lands - but she glances toward the windows again and thinks maybe he has the right of it after all.]

Maybe we'll find something familiar on this...[She wants to say ship, but that seems so wrong at the same time.] Well, wherever we are. [She offers him her hand.] Will you come look with me?

[summerschild]

[The distinction between the two words is inconsequential to Bran. Essos is another land, far across the sea and filled with strange stories. But this "Albion"...

At Morgana's offered hand, Bran's curious face falls a little. He shakes his head.]

I can't. I'll stay here.

[youwillgotohell]

Why not?

[She doesn't want to leave him on his own, and, if she's being honest about her won selfishness, she's not keen to go exploring alone. She forces a brave smile.]

I may not look it, but I can keep you safe. [She hopes it isn't a lie.]

[summerschild]

[He sets his jaw and looks down at his feet, folded in front of him. Frustration flickers up in his chest.]

My legs don't work.

[youwillgotohell]

Oh, I see. [She doesn't, exactly: Morgana's grown up in castles and luxury all her life, she's never met a cripple - and one so young, she can't help the pity that rises in her breast.

But who ever wants pity? Morgana lifts her gaze from his legs, and she spies the cot he sent flying her way. Her face brightens immediately.]

I don't think I could carry you very far, but I bet I could push that bed around.

[summerschild]

[Bran looks up at her appraisingly, as if he's trying to read something beneath her skin.]

... That would be alright, I suppose.