I thrashed against the restraints around my arms. Strands of my curly hair stuck on my sweaty forehead and blocked my vision, adding to the images tumbling through my mind—wings and feathers floating to the ground, daggers flying through the air, swords clanging. A rational part of me told me I was in my room and that the arms wrapped around me were Bran’s, yet the nightmare paralyzed me. “It’s just a dream,” he whispered over and over, running a hand through my hair, pressing my head against his chest. I clung to him, my screams becoming whimpers. What was happening to me? It was bad enough I had to deal with headaches while awake. My nights were filled with dreams I couldn’t explain. “Is it the same nightmare?” Grampa asked from somewhere inside my room, my bedside lamp turning on at the same time. Concern knitted his brow as he stared at us. If he was surprised to find Bran in my room, he didn’t show it.
