right in two

bran stark for blood and glory 15. currently in scotland when they shake, say the wings won’t break.

[bransstarked]

hahaha whoops im here

[bloodandglory-rp]

character: bran stark (bio) affiliations: stark group of companies, tully inc colin ford

[cersei-lnnstr]

the things i do for love // winterfell, march 9th, 2012 // closed; cersei, jaime {Crashed by Bran Stark}

[j-lannisters]

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[cersei-lnnstr]

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[bransstarked]

  The air was bracing as he stepped outside, a little cooler than normal for early March, but Scotland's weather was unpredictable in terms of temperature. The child of the North closed the back door behind him, and watched as his ever-growing pup trekked through the soppy expanse of the lawn. Bran felt bad for not being able to name his dog yet, everyone else had, even Rickon; but his dog's name was undoubtedly stupid. 

  Donning only a light jacket to block the wind from tearing him apart, he began to chase his pup around the large back yard. The mill stood off away, ever looming in the pictures of the house they took. It was one of Bran's favourite places, sometimes he would climb up on the wooden spokes that lined the building like stairs only to climb back down using the cobbled stone. He would often go up there to think, or to read a new book, sometimes he'd feed crows that flew up there to roost. 

  The puppy followed behind him, ever loyal. Bran didn't even have to leash him, which was promising. He swore Rickon's Shaggydog would have to be kept in chains sooner or later. A harsh wind blew in from the north as it always did as he played chicken with his dog. It would give soft barely audible yaps every so often. At first, Bran had thought the dog was mute, he never growled, or barked at anything, but he loved to play, and thus showed his voice when doing so. 

  Coming to the bottom of the building he looked up at the height of it. He was never daunted by the height of something, and he always managed to get as high as he possibly could. Looking over a the door that led inside, he could've sworn it was open, or...the wind blew it open. With a shrug he turned to his nameless pup and pointed at the ground, "Stay here, boy. I'm goin' up." He said firmly before setting his foot on the hold that would be the key to getting up in the first place.

  It was a climb he'd made well over 100 times. Ever since he had been able to reach the handholds he never halted, or second guessed it, and he never fell. He took to the side of the mill like a vice, only releasing when he was absolutely sure he would have the next grip just as tight. 

  As he gained altitude, he looked down at his pup, pacing back and forth from where Bran had ascended. If he was yipping, Bran couldn't hear it. Perhaps he was lucky he got the quiet dog, his mom never liked him climbing and the pup would foil his plans before they even began. A firm handle he had on the next step up when another breeze came, colder than before, but that was expected and didn't phase the teen at all. 

  He furrowed his brow in calculation as he reached a considerable height. Then, a distraction; voices. He looked back down to the ground and didn't see anyone walking around the area. Maybe that was why the door looked open, because someone was inside. Curiosity overtook his need to get to the top of the building so he started scaling sideways, the hand and foot holds were easier to find going this way. Grabbing hold onto one of the wooden spokes sticking out of the building, he lightly swung himself underneath it, grasping a handful of a vine before moving closer to the window. The voices got...stranger then, quieter but less controlled. 

  Bran bit his lip, and made to look around him, at the surrounding vines, any useful foot and hand holds before he brought himself in view of the inside of the room. He wasn't a peeper, and whoever was in there probably didn't want to be spotted, but he was adamant about finding out who it was. As his eyes gained access to the room inside, he was immediately regretful. 

  Oh God. He couldn't do anything more than stare at the pair of blonde adults inside the room. Both of their pants were gone, hands were...places. Bran wasn't stupid, he knew what they were doing, but...weren't they related? His foot scraped against the stone of the outside wall, hopefully they didn't hear that.

[bransstarked]

petition to bring back joffrey

[skinnysoull]

[bransstarked]

im alive guys omg im bac k??????????????????

[filmgifz]

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[actuallycannibal]

Rickon turns to his side, his back facing Bran now. He can’t look at his brother. Whatever anger was churning up inside him earlier — whatever anger was left restrained — had managed to find itself back, and he’s afraid that if he looks at Bran, it’ll manage to crawl its way to the surface. 

The bed moves, loose screw creaking as he feels the familiar weight of Shaggydog jump into the mattress, circling around before he settles himself next to him. 

It isn’t right that Sansa and Jon should suffer and mourn alone so far away from them; that his sister Arya is nowhere to be found, that she could be dead but everyone refuses to say it, except him. It isn’t right. And, it isn’t fair.

Dad’s — dead — gone. 

His question to what happens next remains unanswered. Bran doesn’t know; or maybe he does, and just like his mother and Robb, they won’t tell him. But maybe, he’s already got an inkling. 

Dad’s gone. Dead.

So what? The whole world continues; whatever his father left behind will go on. Scotland. Independency. Us.

"You don’t know that,"  he mumbles. "Ma and Robb had left us before — they’ll do it again." And it’ll just be you and me.

[bransstarked]

His heart weighs so heavily in his chest, it's a wonder how he can even bear it. His brother, just doesn't understand...Though what is there to understand? Their father is dead, and their family is broken.

A broken family, for a broken boy, Bran's mind supplies and he wants to just punch himself because he hates that voice, that stupid mental voice that just makes everything cynical and more hurtful. 

"Neither do you." He retorts, reaching down to fix the pillow between his legs as he too turns away. "None of us do, and...everyone's always tried to do what they thought was best." He furrows his brow, not believing a single word he was saying. Best? What was best was having everyone move to London, that Jon joined the Night's Watch. Everyone had tried to do what was best, and it had blown up in their faces.

He listens to Rickon speak, and frowns, "They came back though," He closes his eyes, They'll always come back.

He settles into his bed, both comforted and burdened with his little brother next to him, but that's alright, Bran thinks. It's better than weathering the night alone.

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[actuallycannibal]

Accident. It feels like it should be explanation enough — that some sort of sense would come to him, settle, and maybe he could understand it a little bit better now that he had lost his father so easily. (That in fact, he could lose his father as easily and as simple as an accident) 

"Yeah…" he mumbles quietly, now looking away from Bran. Furrowing his brows, he grits his teeth together. Maybe, it would be better that he accept that his brother is right, instead of trying to make meaning out of something he can’t. He nods slowly and repeats. "Right. An accident. I just —" Why him, he wants to say. Why us.

He falls silent, unsure and uncertain of what to say next. And it doesn’t bode well that even Bran (who had known exactly what to say and do when they had been younger) knew just as much as he did. Nothing. 

"Sansa’s never coming home," he finally says; his voice sharp and hard and harsh. "I mean, we don’t even know where Arya is. She could be dead for all we know —"

It’s odd to hear it out loud. He’s thought about it before; the possible whereabouts of his sister, of what’s happened to her, and no matter how much he tries to convince himself that she’s still alive, something stirs inside him that says otherwise . “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he adds, picking at the corner of his nails. “And Jon… he’ll end up like Uncle Benjen.” Dead, too.

[bransstarked]

He doesn't know why Rickon is still...Why is he doing this? He turns his head to look directly at him, brows furrowed together so tight there's a a crinkle in his forehead. It is different when Rickon says the things that Bran thinks in the solitude of his own mind.

It isn't right, he thinks. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes widen incredulously as his brother continues. Arya could be dead for all we know.

Shut up, it echoes in his mind, but he can't say it.

Arya isn't dead, he wants to say, she can't be, but they just don't know, and it seems as if they can't know. Something has happened to her though, but it didn't feel right, hearing his brother so plainly say that their sister isn't coming home, and that their other one is dead. 

He hears Summer whine on the other side of the bed as Rickon is turned away from him. He's only saying these things because...He doesn't know how to deal with this. That's what Bran tells himself, but it doesn't make it any easier for him to hear.

When Rickon continues on to speak of Jon...ending up like Uncle Benjen, Bran can't halt his words, "Stop it, Rickon. Just stop it." He faces up to the ceiling to avoid seeing his brother look back at him. "No one else is going to die, alright?" He scrunches up his face and hopes that his words ring true. 

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[actuallycannibal]

Rickon shakes his head. No — he hadn’t noticed the way Robb’s eyes had looked (maybe red, swollen) when he walked into this very same room earlier. He only remembers a hint of excitement; much too preoccupied with the sight of his older brother entering the room, had even hoped that Robb would join them just for one round in the card game he and Bran had to kill time.  And no, he hadn’t cried. ”Couldn’t cry,” he explains, shrugging and gaze still fixed up at the ceiling trying all that he could to avoid any direct eye contact. Couldn’t because he wanted to; because tears meant mourning, and mourning meant missing.  Yet, his brother’s admittance had eased just some of whatever nerves had remained restless. It’s assurance — lack of feeling at that moment must not mean inability to feel sadness, and by extension, had not lessen the love he had for his father.  "Or maybe we should have expected it," he mutters under his breath. An accident is what they called it. A twist of fate, or some shit like that that he can’t wrap his head around — "If we did, we could… we could have done something. Maybe, stopped it or, I don’t know." He bites at the bottom of his lip, knows how ridiculous he sounds. He turns to look back again at his brother, smiling sadly. “What’s going to happen now, Bran?” 

[bransstarked]

Bran looks at his brother, couldn't cry, that was different. Did it mean that Rickon had wanted to? Bran just scans his brother's face, for a hint or anything. He's looking up at the ceiling, so he can't really see his brother's face. He turns his head, just a bit upwards so that he can see both the ceiling and Rickon at the same time.

"What?" He scrunches up his face in confusion as Rickon continues on. "Expected?" He whispers, how could anyone have expected it? He wants to ask his brother about it, but the voice inside his head sounds angry, and misunderstanding. That's the last thing he wants his brother to hear right now. 

Shaking his head, he swallows heavily, "It was an accident, Rickon. No one could have done anything about it....Or stopped it." He thinks about his dream he had last night, was that a sign, or some creepy coincidence? He wouldn't speak of it aloud though; everyone would count it as a symptom of grief, or some ridiculous notion. 

"I don't know," Bran whispers, his voice thick with uncertainty and fear. They both had no control over what's going to happen next, Bran can't snap his fingers and demand things any more than Rickon can. "I don't know what's going to happen." He doesn't smile back.

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[actuallycannibal]

The suit his mother had bought him had been meant for a different occasion. A photo-op, he thought then, when the time comes of the family of Scotland’s Prime Minister at much more promising occasion, like Scotland winning its Independence or his sisters coming home. Not this — not as he and whatever family he has left stood by the sidelines watching as they place a casket six feet under with his father’s body inside. 

This wasn’t supposed to be the way things happened, but they were and it’s unfair.

He lets the silence drag on as long as he could with only the sound of Shaggydog whimpering on the floor as the dog tried to find which spot on the hardwood was the comfiest filling the quiet gaps. Bran says out loud what he couldn’t find the right words to ask.  He feels alright, he thinks, which is perhaps what’s bothering him for the most part.  Shouldn’t he feel a bit more sad, a bit more pain than this?  

Rickon settles with, “I’m fine, I think,” instead. He wants to ask Bran if he thinks that now Da’s dead, they’d let Sansa come home. She has to. Her family needs her as much as she needs them. But there’s a sinking feeling a the pit of his stomach and he knows better than to think that way. Too ideal, too hopeful  and even as he remembers his mother saying that England still holds people who they love and love them in return, he knows the South had been nothing but cruel. 

"I wonder if Sansa knows," he mutters. "Or Jon…" Arya too, but who even knows where Arya was, if she was even alive. Probably not too. If it the riots hasn’t gotten to her just yet, surely something else will. He thinks about the cold winds, the longer nights — no, not that. Arya is a Stark still; she was made of thicker skin. 

"I wonder if Robb cried, when he found out," he adds. "Did you cry?"

[bransstarked]

It's that unsureness that Rickon presents him with that leads Bran to believe that his brother isn't okay. He just hasn't processed it, that's what Bran tells himself. Though he had been expecting an answer such as that. Rickon had always tried to be bigger than he was, emotionally and physically. For once, Bran wishes he would just be the youngest and deal with it.

Bran begins to open his mouth at the mention of his sister and brother. What should he say here? That she knows? Well that would mean she's more alone than the two boys in the north. She was in truth, all alone, no one but lions and dragons around her. "If she doesn't, she will. Cersei Lannister won't let her home though." He doesn't know how that thought came to pass, only that his sister didn't have much choice of where she went. 

He had noticed his brother's absence of Arya, and thinks against bringing her up. They don't know where she is, and it's now more than ever that he wishes she'd call. If she was still alive.

"I think so, didn't you see his eyes?" He spoke quietly, hands resting atop his stomach. He can recall this afternoon quite clearly, the way their simple game had been changed forever. The way Robb stood in the doorway, his face as grave as Bran has ever seen it.

Bran turns his head so that he can face his brother better. Did he cry? Yes, but it wasn't...normal. He cried, but felt nothing aside from confusion and anger that he was crying in the first place. Should he lie to Rickon though? It didn't seem right, and he knew Rickon wouldn't chide him over it this time. It wasn't as if it was over something stupid.

"Once Robb left, yeah." He says, even quieter than before. "I wasn't even sad, I just started crying." He admits, turning his head back to face the ceiling. There wasn't embarrassment coating the young Stark's face, only a need to get this weight off of his chest. "Nobody expected this." 

He let the silence fill the room again before asking his brother in turn, "Did you? At all?"

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[actuallycannibal]

He’s nibbling on his nails, restless and quiet. I’m sure she’ll be home in the morning, or later tonight. If that was his brother’s attempt at comforting words, it fails and it leaves Rickon with only a sinking feeling that that won’t be the case. For all the people who have walked out of Winterfell, few have come back if not at all. Robb is still there, but he knows in time he’ll have to leave like the rest of them. 

Did his brother really believe what he said or was it for Rickon’s own sake?

"No, she won’t be back," he muttered under his breath with just a hint of bitterness, and hoping that Bran had heard it clearly enough. The earlier they accept now that this was how things were going to be, the better it would be for both of them. (The more important it was for both of them to keep close with one another. The pack, his father had always said. The pack survives.)

He shifts a little on the floor, considering for a moment that maybe he could sleep on the floor that night, head buried in Shaggydog’s fur and salvage the pain in his lower back come the next morning. Or not. He pushes himself from the floor and scrambles towards Bran’s bed, loose screws ringing as jumps on top.

Rickon lies down on his back, looking up at the ceiling. There’s something in the room — an elephant, a gray cloud of sorts. A part of him wants to ask how Bran feels, what he thinks, but how does he go about it exactly. “What’d you reckon,” he starts, turning to look at Bran sidelong an eyebrow raised. “You think we’ll have to wear proper suits for —” The funeral. He shrugs. “You know?”

[bransstarked]

From the very beginning, Rickon seemed to understand something that had always alluded Bran. Those who left, eventually never came back. Whether it was Bran's sense of a brighter world, or just that glimmer of instinctual hope, he didn't understand why he even bothered. His outlook on life had considerably darkened since March when the first tragedy had struck this family. 

So why still hope when the universe only has grief in store for the Starks? Bran exhales slowly, knowing that if he too gives into despair and abandonment, there would be nothing stopping from swallowing his family whole. "She will, you'll see." She has to. He couldn't let his little brother have a companion to the abandonment he had always felt. He had to at least voice another view, even though Bran's initial belief was dwindling.

And why should he not let it fade away? Arya might as well be dead, and Sansa couldn't come home. She too might be caught in a riot and then it would be Jon next. There were never ending possibilities of horror to become of his family. So why did he still hang on to hope?

The scamper of Rickon's feet and eventual tax on the springs of his bed was welcome. He lays down on his bed with ease, and Bran couldn't help but think rather bemusedly, that his brother didn't have to worry about him kicking his legs in sleep.

Bran himself was in half a laying down and sitting up position, pillows under his back raised him a bit higher, along with the pillow in between his legs to negate hypertension. He looks over at his brother as he spoke again and raises his brow once more. 

That, had been the furthest thing from the second youngest Stark's mind. There has to be a funeral, of course. "Mum would want us to." He adds, with a silent so would dad, echoing in his head. Though would he? Would Ned Stark truly force his children into stiff clothes for an even stiffer occasion? Naturally, Bran thought yes. "Didn't you get a suit when you two went shopping?" This is easier, he realized. Talking about arbitrary things such as suits and the like. "I...I don't think she'll make you, but it'd be nice, I think." He nodded once, licking his lips as a distraction to himself. 

The silence surrounds them, and Bran doesn't like this amounting pressure, knowing it is going to either be him or Rickon who pops the silence with that question. Bran can assume that since Rickon had wanted to stay in here, that he wasn't alright, not at all. Though it would be good for them to talk about it, right? Without anyone else present. 

"Are you alrigh-" He stops, how stupid was that, he just admitted to himself that he knew Rickon wasn't okay, and the first thing he thinks to ask him is if he was okay? Rolling his eyes, he tries again, "I mean, do you want to talk...about it." About da dying, was a thought, but he couldn't bring those words to life, not in front of a brother who he didn't know how he was taking it.

[casaol-deactivated20170726]

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[actuallycannibal]

"No," he mutters a reply, shaking his head. Shaggydog’s fur brushes past his legs as the dog enters the room and rushes towards Summer before jumping up at the bed next to Bran. Rickon instead remains stood by the doorway, hands still gripping at the doorknob. 

What does he say now? It was so much easier before to admit that he needed Bran’s company and now, he’s left mustering some lame excuse in his head. I wanted to check how you were, he thinks but that’s not exactly it. It’s much more true to think that what he really wanted some sort of comfort that neither being alone in the dark or letting that familiar rage swell in his chest could ever provide. 

"I don’t know where she is," he adds as the door shuts behind him, gaze fixed down on his feet.

Rickon is careful as he crosses the room, sitting nearer towards the wall rather than making his way closer to the bed. The room is lit only by a dim bedside lamp, it’s far too cloudy outside to be able to make out the moon or any faint scattered glint from stars. He finally looks up when Shaggy nuzzles his cheek, and tries to make out Bran’s expression. Had his brother been crying? Maybe it’s just the lighting. For Rickon, he would hate it if anyone ever mentioned seeing him cry. For Rickon, had it been his brother who had showed up at the doorway, he would probably have refused Bran.

He’s thankful now that his brother had let him.

"I couldn’t sleep," he says, scratching Shaggy behind his ear. "Can I — uh, stay here for the night?"

[bransstarked]

The door shuts again, and Bran closes his eyes, inhaling for a moment. Mum hasn't been home yet today, and Bran doesn't even want to admit it to himself, but he's worried. What if something's happened to her? What if she's dead, what then? Squeezing his eyes tighter, as a method to forget about that dreadful thought, he looks at his brother, "I'm sure she'll be home in the morning, or later tonight." He nodded positively, but it did nothing to lessen the worry in his heart.

He notices harshly, that Rickon takes to sitting on the floor. If it were any other day, Bran would've insisted on sitting either on his bed, or in a chair. He finds that it doesn't matter where Rickon sits, it doesn't make anything better, so why bother him with a suggestion. 

At his brother's words, he can't help but gape at him. Long since were the days of Rickon's little patter of his feet as he ran into Bran's room to escape the darkness of his own. Neither of them were children anymore, Bran least of all, but they were still kids. Rickon's question reminded him of that. 

"Of course," He says, the tone in his voice suggesting that there never really was another alternative. If the brothers of the Stark families had to be paired off, and Jon was Robb's, then Rickon was Bran's. It had always been like that. Bran was the one that Rickon came to in the middle of the night. Age hadn't stopped that, it had just made it more meaningful. 

Besides, who was he to send him away when Bran was craving anything other than solitude? It was unlike him, especially in recent months, and he knows that's his fault, He let everyone drift apart in his struggles when he should've held onto them tighter. Maybe somethings would've been different if he had.

"Are you going to sleep on the floor?" He cocks an eyebrow at his brother across the room, feeling as though they were four and seven, but Bran's spirit still weighted heavily making him feel a lot older than his fifteen years.

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

There’s no telling how long he’s kept to himself, with only Shaggydog close by his side. He’s measured time by the way the afternoon sun had dipped into the horizon, and blue skies bleeding a deep orange and a deeper purple until there was nothing but black. In the dark of his own bedroom, he waited for sadness to come. Even just a hint, a small inkling, a sharp pang in his chest, tears scratching at the back of his throat — but none has, only void. 

He had stormed off shortly after the conversation with Robb, slamming the door behind him, and when Old Nan, Hodor, and one of the Stark drivers tried to get him out of his room, Shaggydog stood by the doorway, nails digging into the hardwood, growling under his breath. Any step closer, the dog would not hesitate to attack, tearing skin between his teeth, and Rickon would not have the heart or mind to stop and control him. 

Death was not unfamiliar; it had come and gone earlier in the summer with the news of Uncle Benjen caught in the riots. But even for that, Rickon had felt near to nothing which he had mistaken for sadness then, not just emptiness. No, this is should be different, he knows. Da’s — dead? He couldn’t say the word just yet — gone, he managed to repeat once and a couple of more times in his head, thinking maybe if he says it enough, it would sink in that he would never see his father again, that he hadn’t even had the chance to say a proper goodbye.

Shaggydog is laying at the foot of his bed, one paw over the mangled old wolf stuff toy that used to be his until his dog had claimed it as it own. It had been a present from his dad, he remembers now; a toy he clung on to on nights when Old Nan would tell him and Bran stories about long winter nights that lasted days, about the Others. He’d stay with Bran then; because Bran would understand.

Rickon pushed himself out of bed, barefeet against the cold wood, before gesturing Shaggydog to follow him out his bedroom and down the hallway. They passed by Bran’s old bedroom before his brother was moved down to the first floor, before the accident and everything turned to shit. He looked over his shoulders, taking a quick glance at his parent’s bedroom. Probably empty. He doesn’t know where his mother is.

"Bran?" he whispers, carefully pushing the door ajar. "Are you —" He stopped, nibbling at the bottom of his lips. "Are you awake?"

[bransstarked]

When Robb had left soon after Rickon's abrupt departure, Bran stayed in place, sitting up on his bed. Numb wasn't the correct word for how he was feeling, but it was the closest thing he could feel at that moment. As soon as the door clicked shut, he was left alone with himself, and his thoughts. Bran had understood what his brother had told him, but he couldn't help the confusion and the denial that followed. 

It couldn't be real, it shouldn't be real and yet, when he put his legs to the task, they couldn't move. In dreams, they always moved. And then, his sight was blurred by tears, but there wasn't any emotion behind them. It was as if his body was sadder than his mind, and he furiously wiped them away. Glad for his brother's closing of the door, he slammed the palms of his hands up into his eye sockets. 

The bed jostled underneath him and Summer's presence was felt by his side. Warmth radiated off from the animal, and Bran looked at his dog, Summer's golden eyes mirroring an emotion that Bran couldn't describe. Though Summer was here, always here. Bran grabbed a fist full of the dog's fur, and wondered why things were still being taken from him. 

This whole year had been one after another after another. It hurt Bran to realize this. As he had been finally cleared for treatment, and was going to get better. None of it mattered now. What was the point in working to get better if his father would never see him stand again? It was selfish, but Bran couldn't help it as he buried his face in his dog's fur, the tears coming unbidden from his eyes. He couldn't help but think that this was all against him. Benjen died because of him, and now his father was dead, and it didn't make any sense for him to blame any of it on himself, but it would've made things easier. It would've had him and Rickon both go down with the rest of the family like they ought to have. They would've had more time together. Bran felt as though he hadn't seen his father in months, and for the most part that was true, but if he hadn't fallen, there would've been more time.

Night fell eventually, as it was prone to do, and although Bran had stopped himself from crying, he couldn't stop the heaviness of his chest. He had fallen asleep sometime between the two points and was woken when Summer jumped suddenly from the bed. He wondered if it was his mother, coming in to check on him, doing the rounds, but at his brother's voice, Bran felt at the least bit relieved. He had had enough of being alone this afternoon. "Yeah, Rickon. I'm up." He said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and dried tears off his cheeks. Had his brother cried at all? For some reason, Bran hoped so. 

As his brother came into his room, Bran didn't know exactly what to say. 'What's up', didn't quite cut it, and 'how are you doing', was not a question he himself wanted to answer so he settled for, "Have you seen mum yet?" 

[bransstarked]

remember when you were young, you shone like the sun | myrcella and bran [june 18]

[myrcella-lnnstr]

"Naan —" Myrcella replied before adding with a small shrug, "Like an old woman, but with an extra ‘a’ in the middle." 

Her gaze moves briefly down to Bran before she looked away again, to the last piece of bread in her hand as soon as she felt a hint of pity she knew was the last thing Bran wanted or needed. (Certainly, at least for herself, she wouldn’t want it) How much better was better? Or perhaps, just like herself, Bran was just telling her things he thinks she wanted to hear, replies that explaining nothing but says enough and barely digging deeper into anything but the surface.

Not exactly lies, she supposed. But they weren’t wholly truthful either. 

She smiled towards him. “So you’ll be staying in London, then? For a bit?” she asked, enthused. “A bit weird,” she supposed. “But you’ll get used to it. London isn’t half bad if you get used to the traffic.” Perhaps, it wouldn’t be so different this time instead, now she’ll be able to show him the city she calls his home just the way he had when climbed up the tree branches and rooftop, overlooking Edinburgh. 

"Do you want to get out of here?" she suddenly asked, her tongue moving faster than her mind. But too late now to take it back, even when it seems as though for Bran mobility isn’t exactly the easiest thing to do and the suggestion edges on reckless, inconsiderate, and mindless of that fact. 

[bransstarked]

Bran shrugged, her words echoing in his head. So far almost everyone had harped on about the bloody traffic. "I dunno why everyone thinks Edinburgh is some sort of ghost town." Setting a smile on his lips despite his confusion, he tilted his head at her question.

Leaving? He couldn't, not because of his chair, but because...It was Tommen's birthday, he was invited because of him, they were friends. He didn't want to be rude. Although he was rather pleased at her asking. He looked up at her, and wondered if he'd be taller if he could stand. Not at all, came an answer - she was much too tall already.

"I wouldn't mind that, Myrcella. It's just...Your brother's invited me to his party, I'm his guest and all. I wouldn't want to offend him." He frowned apologetically, hands slipping to the metal rings around his wheels. "Thank you, though. Maybe some other time?" He asked haphazardly, raising a eyebrow at her.

[jesse-willians-deactivated20140]