19th day of the 3rd Moon, 121 AC

Lyanna Velaryon's carriage trailed at the rear of the royal procession, a deliberate choice that allowed her a pocket of solitude, away from Ser Otto's sharp eyes and Aemond's unreadable silences. Through the frost-laced window, she watched the North unfold—endless forests draped in snow, silent but for the crunch of hooves and wheel over ice-packed dirt. Winter had claimed the land in full, blanketing it in a quiet that felt ancient.

Tucked into her gloved palm was the Valyrian steel dagger Aemond had given her—a slender blade with a hilt carved from dragonglass, kissed with runes. A princely gift, but more than that, a warning. The cold was deeper here. Unnatural. And it hummed against the blade like a whispered omen.

Then came the scream.

It cut through the quiet like shattered glass—raw and human.

Lyanna's head snapped up. "Did you hear that?"

Freya stirred beside her, half-dozing. "Hear what?"

"I did," said Ser Rickard, tense across from her. "Could be a fox. Or worse."

Another scream. Closer now. This time, even the horses snorted in alarm.

"Stop the carriage!" Lyanna barked, throwing open the door before they'd fully halted. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she leapt down, skirts gathered. Rickard cursed, scrambling after her.

"Lyanna—wait!"

But she was already gone, drawn toward the treeline, dagger in hand. The forest swallowed her, muffling the shouts of the guards behind.

The sound led her to a clearing dusted with ice and shadow. And there—at the edge—stood a woman cloaked in blood red. Her face was calm despite the chill, hair flame-bright beneath her hood.

And just beyond her, something moved.

A figure emerged from the trees, tall and skeletal. His skin was pale as snow, translucent even, with eyes that burned an eerie blue. Not human—no. Something older. Wrong.

Lyanna stepped forward, eyes narrowing.

"Are you hurt?" she asked the red woman.

"I am not," the woman replied, voice like warm smoke. "But you might be."

Ser Rickard crashed into the clearing then, breath fogging, sword drawn. He moved without hesitation, placing himself between Lyanna and the creature.

"Stay behind me, my lady," he said, eyes locked on the blue-eyed monster.

The creature didn't speak. It advanced.

Rickard swung—and steel met ice. The blade cracked in two like a twig. The thing backhanded him into a tree with bone-cracking force. Lyanna gasped, stepping forward, dagger in hand.

"Don't!" the red woman hissed. "That blade—it might be enough."

The creature lunged. Lyanna didn't run. She met it. Dagger up, she drove it beneath the ribs, deep into its frozen heart.

For a beat, nothing.

Then cracks appeared across the creature's body like glass fracturing. And then—with a groan like breaking ice—it shattered.

Fragments of bone and frost fell around her, glinting in the dim light.

Behind her, guards thundered into the clearing, led by Ser Otto and Aemond astride his horse, sapphire eye glinting with fury.

"Lyanna!" Otto thundered. "What have you done?!"

"She saved us," the red woman said softly, stepping forward. "The blade she used... was forged for such things."

Otto turned his scowl on her. "Who are you?"

"My name is Melisandre of Asshai. I came north on Lord Bennard Stark's invitation, to pay respects at Lord Rickon's funeral." She paused, meeting Lyanna's gaze. "And to see if the flame had chosen rightly."

Lyanna, still breathing hard, asked, "The flame?"

Melisandre's lips curled faintly. "The Lord of Light shows me many things. But rarely does he send me to meet a child of salt and smoke, bearing fire in her hand."

Otto bristled. "You'll ride with us to Winterfell. And you'll keep your riddles to yourself."

"I go where I'm meant to," Melisandre said calmly. "And it seems, for now, that is with her."

Lyanna extended a hand to the priestess, ignoring Otto's disapproval. "You'll be safe with us. Come."

As they turned back toward the path, Rickard limped beside her, bloodied but grinning. "Remind me never to question you again, my lady."

She sheathed the dagger, heart still pounding. "Good. I rather like saving the world before breakfast."

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The forest was behind us now, swallowed by the snow and the morning mist. I settled back into the carriage with Ser Rickard, who winced every time the wheels jostled against a rut in the road. A dark bruise was already blooming across his jaw, and his ribs were stiff beneath the dented plates of his armor, but he said nothing. Just nodded at me with a faint smile, as if to say: You were right. Again.

Before the door closed, I heard the crunch of boots against frost.

Aemond.

He pulled up beside the carriage, tall in the saddle, silver hair tousled by wind. His sapphire eye fixed on me like a blade.

"Are you harmed?" he asked, voice low, edged with something rawer than annoyance. Something like fear.

I shook my head. "No," I said softly. "Thanks to the dagger. Thanks to you."

His gaze flicked to the dagger now tucked against my belt, then back to me. "You shouldn't have gone off alone."

"I wasn't alone. Not really."

Aemond let out a breath, then leaned closer, speaking only so I could hear. "Next time, don't be reckless just to prove you can be."

"I'm not proving anything," I shot back, lifting my chin. "I just heard someone screaming and thought perhaps we shouldn't ignore it."

He looked away then, almost ashamed. "...Fine. But if you ever run off like that again, I will ride with your carriage myself."

I smiled—couldn't help it. "You'd be bored within the hour."

He said nothing, just stared at me like he was memorizing something. Then he turned in the saddle.

"Ser Rickard," he called over his shoulder.

"My prince?" Rickard answered stiffly, still aching from the earlier blow.

"Keep better pace with her. If she so much as leaves the carriage, I expect you on her heels. Understood?"

Rickard hesitated, then dipped his head. "Understood."

Satisfied, Aemond clicked his reins and wheeled his horse around, galloping back to the front of the procession, silver cloak snapping in the wind.

Only then did the carriage lurch forward once more, groaning as it pushed deeper into the North.

Inside, the lanterns cast long, flickering shadows that danced across the red silk of the woman beside me.

Melisandre.

She sat perfectly still, like a flame frozen in time. The only movement was in her eyes—dark, ancient things that seemed to see too much.

I watched her for a long moment, then asked, "Are you... a Red Priestess?"

Her lips curved faintly. "Indeed. I serve the Lord of Light."

"Why were you there? In the woods?"

"To meet you," she said simply, her voice like warm ash. "To see if you were worthy."

I tilted my head, frowning. "Worthy of what?"

Melisandre's gaze did not waver. "A life."

I blinked. "I already have one, thank you."

She smiled then, like I'd said something endearing. "Not a life. The life. A path forged in fire and shadow. Not many are offered such a thing."

I sat straighter, unsure if I wanted to lean in or pull away. "You're speaking in riddles."

"No. Prophecies," she corrected gently. "The Lord of Light does not waste his gaze. He showed me you—before I ever laid eyes on your face. A child of salt and smoke, born beneath dragon wings and crowned with fire."

I felt the weight of the dagger against my side, and a strange tightness bloomed in my chest.

"I don't believe in fate," I muttered, though it sounded weak even to me.

"Then carve your own," she replied. "But understand this—some people are chosen, whether they wish to be or not."

I stared out the window for a while, snow falling in lazy spirals. "If I am chosen... how would I know?"

"You'll feel it. In your dreams, in your blood. You'll see signs. You already have."

Her voice turned softer, almost maternal. "You faced the dead and did not run. That blade in your hand—it is more than steel. It was meant for you. Ask yourself why."

The road stretched on through the pines, and for the first time in the journey, I felt a weight settle on me that had nothing to do with grief or the cold. It was the weight of possibility—a dangerous, thrilling thing.

"What if I don't want to be chosen?" I whispered, half to myself.

Melisandre's voice answered like a prayer. "Then the world will burn all the same. But without you, it may never rise from the ashes."

We lapsed into silence after that. Ser Rickard dozed with his arms crossed and Freya, still shaken, stared out the window.

Melisandre sat beside me like a flame that wouldn't go out, her red robes a beacon in the gloom.

The carriage rolled on, northward toward Winterfell. Toward grief and duty. Toward something else entirely.

Destiny had a heartbeat, and I could feel it in my veins.

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The carriage creaked along the frost-hardened road, the wheels grumbling beneath us as Winterfell drew nearer. Outside, the moon hung low and pale, casting long shadows through the trees like reaching fingers. The lantern swayed with each jolt, its light catching in the ruby at Melisandre's throat, making it gleam like a living ember.

I tried to push her words from my mind—the Lord of Light has plans for you, child—but they clung to me like smoke. Even the cold couldn't banish the heat in my chest. Not fear. Not exactly. Something deeper. Anticipation.

As if sensing the storm behind my silence, Melisandre tilted her head slightly, the flickering light painting her face in dancing hues of gold and red. Her eyes—deep, ancient—settled on me again.

"You feel it, don't you?" she said quietly. "The pull. The stirrings of something vast and terrible awakening in the marrow of the world. In you."

I swallowed hard, pulse quickening. "What am I feeling?"

"Prophecy," she answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "The Lord of Light has seen it. A girl born of salt and storm, cast in shadow, touched by dragonfire. You will claim your flame at Driftmark, amidst bones and salt and ash."

I blinked. "Driftmark?"

Melisandre smiled faintly. "Yes. Your ancestral home, where sea meets sky. That is where your wings will stir." She leaned in, voice low and thick with promise. "That is where your dragon awaits."

I stared at her, stunned into stillness. "A dragon? You mean... truly claim one?"

"You will not find your destiny on the ground, Lyanna Velaryon," she murmured. "It waits for you in the skies."

Then, a surprising glint of amusement danced in her eyes. "And perhaps, when you take to the air, your hair will turn silver yet."

A startled laugh escaped me—half shock, half disbelief. "Mother would faint."

"She might," Melisandre agreed, her smile lingering. "But silver hair is no mark of power. It is not your blood that will determine your path. It is your fire. And fire, my child, burns in many colors."

Her tone shifted then, deepened, darkened. "But know this—should you rise, others will try to pull you down. Two shadows I saw, entwined like serpents, their hunger boundless. They will come for all you hold dear if you stand against them."

A chill ran down my spine, not from the cold.

"Who are they?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her gaze turned inward, as if watching visions flicker through flame. "A woman wreathed in golden lies, and a man with a crown of thorns. Together, they will try to steal the sky from you."

My mouth went dry. "Then why fight them? Why not walk away from all this madness?"

Melisandre's eyes burned brighter than the lantern now, fierce and absolute. "Because you are not meant to walk away. You were forged for the fire. And you will not face it alone."

I stared at her. "Who, then? Who stands with me?"

She paused. Just long enough to make the silence ache. 

"The dragon's essence burns beside you already. Fire knows fire, and you have already met your match. He will challenge you. Wound you. But in the end..." She smiled again, this time with something like sorrow. "You were made for each other. You and he are two flames on the same pyre."

Aemond. She meant Aemond.

I looked away, my mind spinning.

"But he hates me," I said quietly. "And I'm not so fond of him."

Melisandre chuckled softly. "Love and hate are cousins, child. They wear the same face until the fire chooses which one survives."

I said nothing.

The forest slipped past, endless and ancient. And ahead, through the trees, the distant glow of Winterfell's torches bled into the fog like a beacon.

"You are close now," Melisandre whispered, almost to herself. "Closer than you know. The Dance has begun, though no one yet hears the music. But when the drums of war sound... the world will burn."

And in the hush that followed, I felt the tremble of fate in my bones. Not like a storm waiting to break—but like wings, stretching in the dark, ready to fly.

-NYRA SPEAKS

changed the deatils but kept the dialouge pretty much the same

id like to think that Lyanna has many daggers.