Bran pushes himself up on his elbow, breathless and wincing.

"Caliburn. Where..." Then he sees the sword, unharmed and unmarked, lying beside him on the ground. Bran reaches for it, biting his lip when he takes the hilt in his aching palm, and sheathes it in the scabbard without trying to stand up.

"I am fine. I will be. Thank you. Will? Merlion?"