I am not one for big speeches, so I will be brief. This is set before Robert's Rebellion (if it ever happened in this world... who knows really?), and this story will follow Lyanna Stark, and, yes, they will be some Targaryen, lurking in this fic. Good, bad, who knows really, I haven't flipped the coin yet :) (by the way, english is not the mothertongue :) )

I own nothing of GOT :)

It started as a common dream really, as things like this usually do. I was riding a horse, which, was only logical given how good I am at it. I could almost feel the wind, and the snow. Yes, there was snow, but it didn't melt and it was not cold.

I thought for a moment it couldn't possibly be snow, as it lacked most of the basic ingredients, but brushed it off. Winter had barely ended -with my fingers to remember it- and it had been so harsh everyone was praying for it not to happend any time soon. Besides, dreams have that thing with feelings and sensations, and given the fact I once dreamt of a second sun falling down the horizon, casting shadows down a living dragon made out of stones, I figured I had once again drank too much wine.

If anyone, it was Harrion's. Ever since he had come back from his excurtion to the Wall, he has at least doubled in size and has grown a fondness for wine (to say his mother isn't pleased is an understatement).

I say fair is fair. I have stopped counting the number of times I begged Father to see the Wall. Brandon had gone, so did Ned, and even little Benjen. The Night's Watch isn't a place for women they say, the nights are long, men are hungry for more.

Father knows deep down I could have cut through them alright, but what would be the point of cutting thieves and murderers? They were spared the blade, weren't they?

Still, I find it perfectly unfair that a boy -yes he will soon see his nineteenth nameday but if anything else, he has the mentality of a eight year old- who used to shriek at the sight of a wolf, would be deemed more fit to see the Night's Watch than I.

And he can't seem capable to shut up about it. He was particularly proud of himself and during his stay here, Brandon and him kept nagging on me about it. No wonder he gets along so well with Brandon (given how close they became this quickly, I am expecting their union to be announced any day).

So I carried on, because, after all, I was riding a horse, and it can't possibly get better than that (besides pretending to Brandon I saw a raven from Ryswell's in Master's Wyass hands, that was hillarious). At some point, the ground became hard, and the stone as black as the snow was white. Still, I carried on, even when my horse turned into a Stag (because who was I to refuse a weaponised horse?), and as I did, the snow kept falling more and more.

The Stag tripped, and strangely enough, I fell.

At this point, I couldn't see anything at all. The wind intensified and kept throwing that uncold snow in my face, in my hair, and it became difficult to breathe, until I realised it was not snow.

I didn't even want to imagine what kind of pyre could cause such harvok. Perhaps and entire city, surely acres of crops.

All I could see was a wave of fire, and blood, something whispered.

Strange, I thought. Dreams aren't meant to be this vivid.

I walked, and the stag followed me as I did, which I should have found strange, but didn't. Wolves were howling, sometimes from a distance, sometimes closer than I wanted to admit. The ground cracked under our steps, I guessed the shape of whiteoaks every now and then and with it, a whisper, though in strange or forgotten words.

Yet we carried on, the stag and I, though something vile was carried in the air. Something cold and strange.

Noises rose around us, shadows followed and the stag stopped. It looked as though it had rotten out of nowhere, and as I wondered how it could stand, it looked back at me, looked, with those blue frosty eyes...

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