(A/N: Sorry for the short chapter. The next will be longer.)
They supped alone in their chambers. Bran didn't know why, but he and Shireen were taken like babies into the room they shared, with a little table filled with food like shallow meat and cold soup. He, like his brother Rickon, had always been picky about his food, but he didn't complain because Shireen never complained and he didn't want to seem ungrateful.
He had not touched his book since given it, having stuffed the tome of pages under the bed, inside an old weather-beaten trunk so Shireen would not find it. The book made him somewhat uneasy. Everything made him uneasy now.
Shireen had a small drinking horn that was ringed with iron and flashed pearlishly under the gentle embrace of the moon. Bran did not adore the thing as she did, but he could not deny its beauty as she raised the horn to her lips. "Are you enjoying your meal, my lord?" she asked him, going a faint pink as she did so.
"I am, thank you, my lady," he replied. Now he had known his wife a little longer, the greyscale in her face looked not near so grotesque. In fact, he could even grow to like her. "Are you enjoying yours?" Shireen smiled and did not reply. Bran laughed. "The soup's not that bad."
She pulled a face. They had erected candles around them, dribbling wax as they supped together. He could dimly make out her features; the dark hair, the pale face, her guileless blue eyes made darker in this light. "It is that bad," she insisted. Bran was quietly astonished at her remark. He thought he'd be the first to break and express his resentment over their fare. She giggled. "You're more interesting than Patches, my lord," she said, rose from her meal and bade him good night.