They've both been in that room, thoughts wandering between columns of real and pointless, question marks drawn around words like clones and props. If he frames it like that--adding to those notes, raising new questions with which to form the shape of an answer--it doesn't have to be anything more.

It affects him; it's not about him.

"They're doing something to me," he says, pushing a hand back through his hair and leaving it bent to his palm. People disappear, strange creatures haunt the village beyond the gap--but this is different. "They did something to my gifts: Margaery has one part, and mine keeps getting worse. Neither of us can control it, I think it's how she found the room--she saw it out there before she even went looking.

"It's in there," he adds. rubbing his face as he lifts it and gestures to the papers. "I made you some notes."