[Dragonstone]

On Dragonstone, Alysanne Targaryen, the heir of the fallen dynasty, tossed and turned in her sleep. Her dreams had never been gentle, but tonight's was a tempest that ravaged her peace. The images before her grew clearer: a cold, unfamiliar landscape stretched out, shrouded in a cloak of white snow, and a young man with a commanding voice, giving orders to a group of men dressed in the blacks of the Night's Watch. His face was etched with determination, yet she knew him not.

Curly, she decided she would call him.

He had dark eyes and a dark mop of black curls.

One of the men suddenly lunged at him, which he barely dodged, an received a cut on his neck.

"Why?" He asked.

"For the Watch." The man answered before attacking again, but the man with curls caught his wrist and forced him to drop the dagger. The attacker backed away, hands up, signaling he meant no harm.

Men were still screaming. Curly reached for his sword, but his fingers looked stiff. He couldn't pull the sword from its scabbard.

Then another man appeared, tears streaming down his face. "For the Watch," he said, punching Curly in the stomach. The dagger remained embedded as Curly fell to his knees.

Curly gripped the hilt and pulled it out. In the freezing air, the wound was smoking. "Ghost," he whispered.

When the third dagger struck between his shoulder blades, he grunted and fell face first into the snow.

A fourth blow was delivered. Whether Curly felt it, Alysanne did not know.

The cold pierced through the fabric of her dream, seizing her in its icy grip. Her heart hammered in her chest as the crimson blossomed in the snow around him, staining the pure white.

She watched, powerless, as the life drained from the young man's eyes, his final breath misting the frosty air.

As the scene faded into the abyss of her subconscious, Alysanne's body tensed, and she felt the echo of the man's pain in her own flesh. A sudden, sharp ache pierced her abdomen, as if the dagger had found its mark in her as well. She gasped, bolting upright in her bed, the furs tangling around her. The warmth of her chamber was a stark contrast to the frigid world she had just witnessed, and she clutched at her stomach, feeling the phantom stab wound throb with each panicked breath.

Her eyes darted around the darkened room, searching for any sign of the assailants from her dream. Only shadows danced in the candlelight, playing tricks on her sleep-addled mind. The stone walls of her chamber remained steadfast and unchanged, the curved arches of the ceiling whispering the secrets of the castle's ancient past, oblivious to her distress.

Alysanne's breathing grew steadier as she pushed aside the heavy furs, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. The chill helped ground her in reality, her toes curling against the frigid surface as she padded silently to her children's adjoining room. The door was slightly ajar, allowing the dim glow of a night candle to seep through, casting a warm glow over the cribs of her twins, Valaena and Corlys.

Pushing the door open gently, she peered in, her heart swelling with love and relief as she saw their peaceful forms, untouched by the horrors that had invaded her own slumber. Valaena lay with one arm flung over her face. Corlys, the more active sleeper, was sprawled on his back, one leg kicked out, his small, chubby fingers wrapped around a corner of his blanket. The sight of them, safe and oblivious to the world's harshness, brought a soft smile to her lips, and she felt the last of the nightmare's icy grip melt away.

Alysanne stepped closer, her silver hair brushing against the rough stones as she moved. She reached out, her hand hovering over Valaena's head, feeling the warmth emanating from the pearl white and purple egg nestled beside her. The egg was a symbol of hope and a promise of the future she longed to secure for her children. Her hand hovered there for a moment, the weight of her dream and the fate of her line heavy upon her.

The twins slept soundly, their tiny chests rising and falling in unison, oblivious to the tumult that had disturbed their mother's rest. Valaena, the elder of the two, was a mirror image of Alysanne, with her mother's purple eyes and silver hair. Corlys, with his matching silver curls and dark purple eyes, was a fiery reminder of his parents Valyrian heritage. Both had the potential to wield the power of the dragons that were a part of their legacy.

Alysanne's gaze lingered on the pearl white and purple egg beside Valaena, feeling a surge of protectiveness and hope. It was a symbol of the future she was fighting for, a future where her family's lineage was restored and Westeros knew peace once more. With trembling fingers, she lightly touched the egg, feeling the warmth of potential life beneath its smooth shell. It was a gentle reminder of the burden she bore, to ensure that the Targaryen bloodline continued to thrive.

Her eyes flickered to the crib opposite, where Corlys slept, his eyes closed peacefully. She knew the fiery spirit that dwelled within him, and the fierce bond that had formed between him and Aegarax. Her thoughts drifted to the dragon, the smallest but most curious of the trio, whose deep purple scales seemed to pulse with the energy of the gods themselves.

With a silent prayer to the Fourteen, she retreated from the nursery, her footsteps as light as the whispers of the castle's ghosts. The corridors of Dragonstone were familiar to her, a labyrinth of shadows and stone that had witnessed the whispers of generations. As she moved through the castle, the echoes of her past seemed to dance around her, reminders of her heritage and the legacy she carried.

Entering Laenor's chamber, she found him asleep, his silver hair fanned out against the pillows, the light from the embers in the hearth playing across the contours of his face. He looked so peaceful that she hated to disturb him, but the urgency of her dream compelled her to act. She leaned over, her cool fingers brushing against his cheek. "Laenor," she murmured. "Wake up."

His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she saw the same fear and uncertainty she felt reflected in his gaze. But then, he saw her, and his features relaxed into a gentle smile. "Alys," he whispered, reaching for her. "What is it?"

"I had a dream," she said, her voice low and trembling. "A terrible dream, Laenor. It felt so real."

Laenor sat up, his eyes searching hers in the dim light. "Tell me," he urged, his hand finding hers.

"It was of a young man," Alysanne began, her words tumbling out in a rush. "With dark eyes and hair like night, fighting for his life in the snow." She described the grim scene, her voice trembling as she recounted the betrayal and the cold-heartedness of the men in black, who seemed almost remorseful as they stabbed the man.

Laenor listened, his thumb tracing small circles on her palm, his eyes filled with concern. "What makes you think it was a premonition?" he asked gently, his deep voice soothing in the quiet of the night.

Alysanne took a shuddering breath, her purple eyes haunted by the images that still danced in her mind. "I've had them before," she murmured. " The pain... I felt it, as if the dagger pierced me."

Laenor sat up, his gaze never leaving hers. He knew her gift of foresight was a double-edged sword, bringing both wisdom and torment. "Tell me everything," he urged, his hand moving to her shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Her eyes searched his, finding the strength she needed. "The man... I called him 'Curly', and he had dark eyes, much like the color of a stormy night. He was surrounded by men in black, their faces a blur of shadows and snow. They whispered 'For the Watch' before they struck him down," she recounted, her voice tight with emotion. "The cold, the pain... it was as if I was there with him, in that frozen wasteland."

Laenor's expression grew serious as he absorbed her words. He knew the weight such visions could carry, the way they could linger and haunt her. "We must consider what this may mean," he said, stroking her hair. "Could it be a warning?"

"Perhaps," Alysanne replied, her voice a mere whisper in the quiet of the chamber. "Or a call to action. The men in black, speaking of the Watch... could they be referring to the Night's Watch?"

Laenor's hand paused on her hair, his eyes narrowing in thought. "The Wall is far from our reach, my love," he said softly. "But we cannot ignore what the gods may be trying to tell us."

"And what exactly do you think they are telling us? We have no connection to anyone at the Wall." Alysanne said.

"It's not about us, it's about the realm," Laenor responded, his voice a mix of concern and curiosity. "If your dream is indeed a vision, it's a warning of something dire happening within the Night's Watch or perhaps something that will affect the realms because of them."

Her thoughts drifted to the Prince That Was Promised prophecy.

It was to start in the North with a terrible winter.

House Stark's words were "Winter Is Coming".

While ominous, they were one of the few mottos amongst the Great Houses that didn't immediately inspire fear.

But the way the words hung in the air between them, whispered as they were, suggested something more foreboding than a mere change in the weather.

Not to mention the dream was called "A Song Of Ice And Fire".

The Starks had been Wardens of the North for hundreds of years, and Kings of Winter for thousands of years before that.

They had ice in their veins.

While Targaryens had fire in their blood; dragon's blood.

The more she thought about, the more things pointed to some connection between House Stark and House Targaryen.

Were they destined to unite in marriage? Would that union produce this prophesied prince?

Surely, if this dream had been a warning, it meant the impending threat was nearing.

There was no way the promised prince had yet to be born.

If he, or she, was meant to be our saviour, there was no way the threat would near unless they were already born.

If so, who was it?