Once she saved a dragon that fell from the sky, and in turn he gave her that wondrous sight of dragons, to have and hold and to do what she would with when the time came.
One night she grew tired of dancing for naught and so lay in bed awake. See now the dreams, they rush past like shadows, fine lords and ladies on dark, proud horses with the golden eyes, fast as seeming, quick as death.
They galloped past and under the bed soundless and she watched them go by: like the midnight parade of color, each a queen or king or lordly prince or jaded soul.
One in particular caught her fancy, as little girls do, and on she held out a hand, and so caught the dream, and was swept away.
See, the curious thing about a dream is that not many people know you can touch it, like you touch a lover or a dragon out of sky.
The one caught was high and queenly, out of beautiful place, and she was cold like ice, and her kisses froze the hearts of men, so that they loved her and died. She was bore on ghosting silver mare, proud and seeming, and never a thought did she cast on the little girl. (Perhaps snow queens prefer the maler sex- but this, of course, falls to personal preference)
Like a fickle-minded lover, so fell the dreaming to come in that place where there are mountains higher than dragons can fly, where the fields are white and the grass never stops growing and the sky is so big it leaves you breathless and wishing you could fly.
All a bad dream will do is seduce you. It pushes desire on you and creeps right into your secret heart, and then it leaves you in the dark. And perhaps this was one of those, but that she never found out, or had no desire to.
There in the snowing she met again that dragon-prince or lordling, the One-Who-Fell; and how she told him stories, and best he gave her solitude and companionship and that comely seeming of the sky.
And then she came to go, for dream is reality, and sorely she missed him, and he loved her well.
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