[He corrects her, quickly--but she is inviting him over, and if she is some dream of the ship, then he will take it, and gladly, even if that dream should sour.
So he goes to her side, and tries to sit--awkwardly, with his legs out before him, too stiff in the braces to bend. He is nearly on the floor when he overbalances a little, and falls--but Arya is there, and he grabs onto her shoulder without thinking. And she is warm, she is real--no dream could ever be so warm, and then it doesn't matter if Bran is sitting down or falling or standing, he puts his arms around her shoulders and pulls himself close to her, his breath suddenly tight in his chest and that stupid hot feeling behind his eyes, like he's some baby and not Lord of Winterfell and prince of the north.
But he isn't. He's only Bran, and this is his sister, and he tightens his grip on her a little more.]
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[He corrects her, quickly--but she is inviting him over, and if she is some dream of the ship, then he will take it, and gladly, even if that dream should sour.
So he goes to her side, and tries to sit--awkwardly, with his legs out before him, too stiff in the braces to bend. He is nearly on the floor when he overbalances a little, and falls--but Arya is there, and he grabs onto her shoulder without thinking. And she is warm, she is real--no dream could ever be so warm, and then it doesn't matter if Bran is sitting down or falling or standing, he puts his arms around her shoulders and pulls himself close to her, his breath suddenly tight in his chest and that stupid hot feeling behind his eyes, like he's some baby and not Lord of Winterfell and prince of the north.
But he isn't. He's only Bran, and this is his sister, and he tightens his grip on her a little more.]