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Every night it's the same.
l'm walking
and running, but
l'm not l'm not me.
l'm running through the godswood,
sniffing the dirt,
tasting blood in my mouth when l've made a fresh kill,
howling.
Old Nan used to tell me stories
about magical people who could live
inside stags, birds,
wolves.
That's exactly what they are, Bran,
-stories. -So she was lying?
-They don't exist? -Well, they may have done.
But they're gone from the world,
along with much else.
These are dreams, Bran, nothing more.
No, my dreams are different.
Mine are true.
l dreamt of my father dying.