Two nights before they were set to leave Lothlórien — everyone was starting to feel the overwhelming time pressure of their mission — Robb awoke from another wolf dream. It was the third one he'd had that night, and he was starting to suspect that there was little point in trying to fall asleep once more.

Perhaps a walk would help, Robb thought, and got up slowly and quietly so as to not wake up his companions.

Despite the amount of time spent here — a month, if he'd correctly kept count — Robb had not seen much of Lothlórien at night. There was the small clearing where the Fellowship had set up their bedrolls as well as the path they took to have dinner, but other than that, Robb only knew the place illuminated by the warm light of the sun.

The moonlight, instead of drawing attention to the golden leaves of the trees as the sun did, made their silver bark gleam and shine like precious jewelry.

Awestruck by the sight, Robb wandered through the woods, careful to keep to the paths yet periodically distracted when he caught glimpses of ornate lanterns and large pavilions high up in the trees.

His gaze in the treetops, Robb did not see the stairs in front of him until the ground disappeared beneath his feet and he almost tumbled down the small slope. Yelping, Robb somehow found a branch to hold onto and righted himself, probably saving his ankles a lot of pain.

Before him lay a small depression in the forest floor, the centre of it paved with light stones and on it some sort of chalice. Across from him, on the other side of the clearing, a low and narrow waterfall gurgled almost lazily into a pond.

Robb looked around the clearing and, feeling as though he was doing something forbidden, slowly stepped forward until he was able to trace the coldly shimmering edge of the chalice with a hesitant finger.

A flash of something white at the edge of his vision made his head snap around.

There, gliding through the trees, barefooted yet as ethereal as ever, was Lady Galadriel. Before long, she too descended down the stairs, gracing Robb with a small smile, which he returned.

Only when she passed by him to approach the waterfall did he notice the silver pitcher in her hand, finely crafted with elaborate ornaments on it — interweaving branches, if he was right, of two trees. Galadriel lifted the pitcher into the water's flow and let it fill up. Once done, she made her way back to the chalice in front of Robb with soft steps.

The quiet splashing of water starting to fill the chalice intermingled with the bubbling of the waterfall and Robb watched, silently, intently, as Galadriel held the pitcher almost dangerously high above. Not a single drop escaped the chalice.

When it was finally filled and Galadriel lowered the pitcher Robb exhaled, faintly surprised at how captivated he had been. Blinking, he brought his eyes up from the water's rippling surface to meet hers.

"Will you look into the mirror?"
Robb's brows furrowed — what mirror? — and Galadriel's smile widened, now in amusement, as she gestured to the still water in the basin between them.

He hummed quietly, catching sight of his own face when his gaze briefly flickered down.

"What more will I see, beyond my reflection?" he breathed.

"That, I cannot tell — past, present and future are all within reach of the mirror's sight." Galadriel moved her shoulders in a way that, if witnessed in lesser beings, Robb would have called a shrug. "But what one is shown depends solely on the person who peers into it."

A slow, carefully steady exhale. "Does that include my world? My family?"

Galadriel tilted her head. "Perhaps."

Robb huffed a flat laugh. Such answers weren't particularly helpful when trying to make a decision. For all the usefulness of information about the future, he did not particularly care to witness his family's deaths in person.

But, he supposed, shoulders slumping, what was done was done. He could not bring his family back to life. If he weighed some personal hurt against a massive strategic advantage, there was no question about which would have to come out on top.

"Alright," Robb agreed, suppressing a sigh. "Aye. I will make use of your mirror. How does it work?"

"As mirrors usually do," Galadriel smiled. "You look. With intent."

Robb took this to mean he should glare, and proceeded to do so.
There was a sound of mirth from Galadriel, but before he could react, Robb was falling. The world blurred, shapes dancing around him, impossible to recognize. He lost his body, mind hazy as if caught in a dream.

When everything righted itself again, Robb — still suspended in space without his body — saw an egg in front of him, large and black, several cracks in its thick shell. He blinked, and out of the egg peaked a small snout of the same colour as the eggshell.

With a small gasp, Robb realized he was looking at a dragon.

A slender hand reached out to peel some of the shell away before carefully stroking the dragon's now exposed forehead. Who was this? Robb tried to look around, but found himself unable to move. Could the hand belong to Daenerys Targaryen, or was it someone else? Another Targaryen, one of those long dead? Was this dragon Balerion, perhaps?

The question answered itself when the owner of the hand leaned in, finally entering Robb's field of vision.
None of the Targaryens Robb knew of had hair this fiery — it was an almost unnaturally bright shade of red, like molten metal, and Robb was half-convinced he could see flames flickering in those locks at times. The person's eyes were just as strange, glowing in a colour somewhere between gold and amber.

No, this was someone else entirely. Someone from Middle-Earth, he was sure. A Vala, perhaps, or a Maia? In any case, they were, this Robb had to admit, the fairest person he had ever laid his eyes on. Elves and Valar included.

The vision changed so quickly Robb was half-convinced it had always been this: the person was standing upright in robes of black and gold, a sharp grin on their face. Their hand was resting on what seemed to be a black wall. Only when it moved and his field of view expanded did Robb realize that this was not, in fact, a wall but another dragon — maybe the one from earlier, grown?

And it definitely was grown. Tall as a mountain, its head was only visible because the dragon had lowered it; its clicking growl echoing in Robb’s nonexistent bones.

Had he been able to, Robb would have stumbled back, perhaps even fled. Instead, filled with abject terror, Robb tried to recall how large Balerion had been. The size of a house? A tower? A castle? It did not matter — he would not have stood a chance against this beast.

Robb exhaled shakily and the person's robe morphed into one more fit for a septon, though it was still the same shade of black. A golden stole wrapped around their shoulders and small lettering of the same colour decorated the hems of their sleeves as well as the bottom of the robe. Instead of the dragon, their bloody hands were touching a dark statue, grin transformed into a bitter frown.

The world pitched sideways and the person was sputtering, crawling out of the water on a beach, their expression absolutely livid. With every cough and gag, a plume of dark smoke emerged from their mouth.

As they dragged themselves out of the waves, their body seemed to harden, like lava solidifying into rock. Whenever they moved, however, the stone of their skin cracked open again, a fiery gleam shining through the fractures.

The person screeched, voice filled with pain and anger. Another plume of smoke was expelled and dissipated into the air. Amber eyes widened and where there was once white, black now seeped into their sclera, as ink poured into water. The irises, however, intensified in their glow.

The person gasped once more, clenching sharp, blackened teeth as one of their hands slowly dissolved into more of the dark fume.
With a groan and tightly shut eyes, they willed it into form again, fingers digging into the wet sand.

Their breathing became more and more frantic as control slipped from them before, with a last fume-accompanied sigh, they crumbled into smoke.

The cloud grew, moving in a way that was almost sentient. When it became aware of Robb's presence, it drew back for a moment, as if confused. Then, without so much as a warning, it shot towards him.

Darkness encompassed Robb's vision. He could hear only his own harsh breathing, and see nothing.

Then — a snap.

Robb froze — as much as he could, anyway, having no control over his movements, let alone a body — and listened.

So focused on sound, he did not notice the dropping of temperature until a cold breath at his suddenly, inexplicably existent throat made his insides clench in horror, a shaky gasp escaping his lips.

A cold pair of blue eyes snapped open.

Robb was falling again.

Then, for the first time in this vision, Robb saw a scene that made the tiniest lick of sense to him.

It was Jon, in his hand a sword of Valyrian steel — was that the Old Bear's blade? — fighting half-rotten corpses and, in the blink of an eye, a tall, pale being with a weapon of crystalline ice. The Others from Old Nan's tales sprung to mind, but why in the world would Robb's brother be fighting creatures of myth, of cautionary tales? What, would he see Arya battle Grumkins and Snarks next?

More people charged into the fight, Wildlings, by the look of it: few others wore so many furs layered and stitched together this savagely, with no concern to be had about one's appearance.

But — they were helping Jon, so Robb had best cease his nit-picking.

At the drop of a hat his surroundings changed once more, from the snowy wastes of what he assumed to be beyond the Wall to a small room with a single window. Painfully bright rays of sunlight landed on a bloodstained bed, occupied by a dark-haired girl — woman? — and a babe sleeping on her chest.

The blood was the woman's. And so was the infant. They had to be, deathly pale and wheezing painfully with every breath as she was.
She looked familiar, but who was even more recognizable was the man by her bedside. Dark hair and a long face, younger than Robb could remember ever knowing him, was his father.

Ned Stark was holding the woman's hand, gently, lovingly, blinking to dispel the tears in his eyes.

Oh–

A young version of his father, a strange woman with features Robb knew from somewhere, and a babe with a fluff of black hair? Was this…Jon's mother?

"Promise me, Ned-" the woman gasped with rattling breath.
It had to be her right? Who else could she be? Who else could the newborn be?

His father opened his mouth as if to speak, brows drawn together in a pleading expression. The woman squeezed his hand, and he stopped.

"Promise me."

Ned's shoulders slumped and he bit his lip. "I promise."

The woman smiled, mouthed a teary thank you.

Her hand slackened.

Robb exhaled sharply, blinked his own tears away, and in that short moment of darkness, his father's pale, dead face flashed up in front of him.
Ripping his eyes open, Robb launched himself backwards, nearly sending himself crashing to the ground. He looked around, chest heaving, to meet Galadriel's eyes.

"What in the Seven Hells was that?"

____________

❄️
____________

We finally get some foreshadowing but Robb doesn't know it, and a look into Westeros!
Next time: Robb gets his gear upgraded as Galadriel gives out some gifts.

Also! Thank you guys sm for 4.5k reads and over 250 Votes! It means a lot to me.

Once again I invite you to comment, ask questions or just yell at me :D