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*Guinevere comes downstairs and takes a seat at a table. Though it's been a week since she arrived, she looks a little lost.*

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You are Morgan's son. Bran is mine.

"And we are both Arthur's. One happy family, in the proud Cornwall-Pendragon heritage."

*Her eyes narrow slightly, but she cannot deny it.*

You know Bran well, then?

"Fairly well, considering I've known him for most of the time I've been here, and all of the time he's been." Unspoken, but not unthought, better then you.

Some seven months, then.

"I haven't kept track, but I'll take you at your word."

He draws his knees up, hugging them to his chest and resting his chin on his knees as he regards her.

Softly, almost wonderingly, "Guinevere, what the hell are you doing here?"

So he said.

*She gazes back at him, her expression the neutral one she wore at court so often.*

Do you think I know any more than you do?

"Well, I know why I'm here. Mostly." His golden eyes, cold and so much like his father's, narrow.

"Unfinished business is a popular one, I've found. Probably that's what happened in your case."

*She pauses, thinking of Bran and Owen and Merlion.*

*neutrally* Possibly.

And why are you here, Mordred?

"Ah, that's private, my lady," he says with a grin.

Very well.

*She gazes at him for a long, silent moment. When she finally speaks, it is quietly.*

What do you wish of me, Mordred?

After a moment's pause, "I don't know. Try not to fuck up Bran too much."

*Her eyes narrow reproachfully.*

I would never do so.

Mildly, "Oh, and you got off to such a good start the other night."

*Her expression is edging towards dangerous.*

I did not see you helping.

"Ah, but, you see, I am the protective, snark, emotional older brother. I'm not supposed to help. I am supposed to blurt out family secrets and yell and shout and divert attention from the hero's mild mental break-down."

"Really, Guinevere, you should have been following the script."

You did an excellent job of it, then.

"Thank you. Although, I didn't actually blurt out anything that none of us didn't know already. There are entire segements of literature devoted to you and the French pretty boy."

*And now she's glaring, and it maddens her that he can play her like this, but she can't help herself.*

I have done my penance for my infidelity. Would you see me punished further? Is it not enough that I gave up my life at court? Is it not enough that I gave up my son?

Softly, "You didn't have to. Anyone could see just by looking at him whose son he is."

*She takes a long moment to compose herself. When she speaks again, her voice is soft and calm, if a touch strained.*

Perhaps.

. . .Perhaps.

Still with his soft voice calm and mild and utterly beautiful, "You disagree, my lady?"

No. He is. . . very like his father.

He says nothing to that - just watches and observes with cold golden eyes that can either freeeze a person, or make them talk just so that he'd look away...

The air around them cools, though maybe this is nothing more then Guinevere's imagination.

*She shivers a little, but hides it well, and watches him back. She's said more than she intended already.*