Prince Jon Snow was not the kind of man who had nightmares. He had fought off warriors, and slayed dragons, and defended his kingdom, and never had he ever lost one night of sleep. Until now.
He kept having this same strange dream. He’d find himself in a forest covered in snow, following a raven with three eyes. Suddenly, he’d encounter this young girl with dark hair and sad look. She’d ask for his help, saying she had been cursed by a jealous Queen who wanted her to die so she could rule freely.
She implored him to come to her land - Winterfell, he could still hear her voice on his mind, even while awake - and help her out of the Ice Prison she was kept in.
Jon didn’t believe in witchcraft, he said to her. Nor in magic, nor in anything that only existed on songs. But he believe in the cold, and he believe in the pain. And he knew, deep inside himself, that if he didn’t help the girl, that beautiful girl called Arya, he’d never forgive himself.