A Wraith in Winter

Chapters

Luna: ...and the Princess of Equestria
Melisandre: The Red Witch
Lapis: Cold Winds
Satin: The Lord Commander
Jon: Awakening
Thorax: The Exile
Ember: The Dragon Lord's Daughter
Luna: The Princess of the Night...
Jon: The Changeling
Flash: The Guards of the North
Thorax: The Pointy End
Ghost: The Direwolf
Jon: Discussions
Thorax: Questions
Luna: Dreamscape
Melisandre: City of Slaves

Luna: ...and the Princess of Equestria

Luna misliked many things about modern Equestria, but sugary maple syrup sat at the top of the list. It was beyond sticky, it tended to give foals sugar-induced nightmares, and it was her sister’s favorite condiment. Celestia’s stack of pancakes for her morning meal consisted of more syrup than actual flapjack, drenched and dripping onto the table with every ginormous bite. The alabaster alicorn clearly relished her indulgence, and syrup dripped down her muzzle.

If it was possible for her flowing, rainbow-colored mane to be sticky with syrup, it would be. Thankfully, their shared, magical mane and tail required little upkeep. They ebbed and flowed as they willed, a manifestation of their power after their ascension. Sometimes I miss styling my mane. The thought struck Luna suddenly, and she bit it away with another banana slice. Her sister folded a flapjack into a roll, then levitated it into her muzzle wholesale. Her cheeks bulged as she swallowed. It was utterly unbecoming of a Princess of a nation, and Luna thanked Harmony that they had privacy. The guards were outside the doors to the dining hall, allowing the sisters a few precious moments to speak, just to each other, without fear of eavesdroppers.

“You have to try these,” Celestia gushed. “You can’t be happy with just fruit.”

“I am going to sleep soon,” Luna reminded her sister. “That amount of sugar will keep me awake for the rest of your day.” She raised an eyebrow and folded her hooves on the table. “Are you sure you wish to break your fast with that, sister mine? The throne is already quite large enough.”

Celestia stuck her tongue out, brown with syrup. “You need to live a little, Luna. We have the best chefs in the world. They can make whatever you want, and some things you never knew you wanted.”

Luna took a bite of an apple. The skin crunched and the flesh was quite juicy. Lady Applejack’s no doubt. “I am quite satisfied with what I have.”

Celestia shrugged her great white wings and levitated another pancake up to her maw. Neither sister wore their regalia at the oak table, but they sat on the plushest velvet cushions bits could buy, and the pillars along the wall were gilded. Luna didn’t recognize many of the paintings beside the pillars. She had been a painter in what little spare time she had before, but it also seemed the styles had evolved past her own. One painting was only a stylized image of her sister's cutie mark, a rising sun. The painting next to it was of her own cutie mark, a moon. It didn't look quite as good, as if the painter was in a rush.

“You know, the guards were quite upset when they fished Fact Finder out of the fountain this morning,” Celestia commented with a swallow. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

Luna’s mouth quirked. Fact Finder was one of several seneschals charged with keeping Celestia’s open Day Court functional. Far too many Ponies clamored to see their Princess every day, and it was Fact Finder’s job to assess cases and direct them to lower courts, if available.

The Throne of Equestria did not rule over the entire land directly. Though the Diarchy was effectively absolute, Canterlot only claimed and administered the heartlands. For all of Luna’s attempts to curtail noble power, the old lines had stubbornly clung to privileges for a thousand years. And new classes of money rose up beside them, Ponies who made enough with factories and farmlands to live better than Celestia and Luna had in their Everfree Castle. It had been Luna’s idea to create a rival bureaucracy that answered to the Princesses, but even those Ponies could be bought, like Fact Finder.

“Yes,” Luna smiled grimly and remembered the tan unicorn’s panic when the alicorn stormed into his chambers in the servant’s wing just before dawn. She dragged him from his bed with a flare of her horn, saying “You hath been dismissed from Our service,” and teleporting him into the fountain outside the gates to Canterlot Palace.

“I had a petitioner last night,” Luna said to her sister.

Celestia clapped her hooves together like a filly. A strand of syrup stuck between them. “That’s wonderful, Luna!”

“Tis not wonderful,” Luna rebuked. “She was sent away from your court with a rightful claim to be heard!”

Celestia lowered a pancake and gave her sister her full attention. Luna ignored the syrup on her muzzle. “Duchess Berry hath written decrees in Our name and mark, taxing her demesne to the brink of starvation. Her friends in Canterlot are paid well to ensure no word of this reaches our ears. Fact Finder is one of them.”

“How’d you find this out?”

“I asked young Misty for a description of the stallion that turned her away, then sought out his dream,” Luna answered. “Fact Finder freely confessed his crimes to Berry Bundle during a rather odd birthday party,” she added, amused. Luna had manipulated the dream to make the unicorn more comfortable and malleable, and his confession had been both long and revealing.

“You went into his dream?” Celestia asked uncomfortably. “That’s not a confession, Luna.”

“The dreaming mind is more truthful than the waking one,” Luna replied defensively. “Fact Finder hath, has, taken bribes from several more Ponies for years, and he implied that many others do.” She thumped a hoof on the table. “We must investigate this!”

“Luna, I had a sodden Pony beg me for forgiveness just after I raised the sun,” Celestia said softly. “He confessed to everything with just a little prodding. You didn’t need to terrorize him.”

“I did not terrorize him! I showed him actions have consequences!”

“Like when our guards see a furious Princess throw a Pony in the fountain,” Celestia said dryly.

Luna’s ears wilted. The guards had been shocked to see her storm into the Servant’s Wing, true, but she did not register their expressions as fear. She teleported in the decree and held it before Celestia. The taller alicorn reached out with a sticky hoof, then laughed awkwardly when Luna drifted the paper away with a glare. Celestia reached out with her magic and held the paper at a respectful distance from her muzzle. “I don’t recall raising taxes in her domain,” she mused.

“We have not,” Luna confirmed. “I checked last night. She has been forging Our marks since I returned.”

Celestia winced at the reminder. “Yes, well, I’ll need to have a word with Duchess Berry. I’ll summon her to a private session.”

Luna stared blankly at her sister. “What? What of her punishment?”

“She’ll obviously pay everypony back and issue an apology,” Celestia rolled her eyes. “I have to do this from time to time. You underestimate how effective my disapproving frown can be; you’re immune to it’s full weight, little sister.” Celestia frowned and arched an eyebrow as an example. The effect was ruined by syrup more than Luna’s familiarity with her expression.

“Sister, she has stolen from our subjects for years!” Luna thumped the table again and the plates rattled.

“Well, what would you do?” Celestia steadied her swaying stack of pancakes.

“I have sent fair Misty back to Hope Hollow with a decree stripping Berry Bundle of her titles, along with her entire family,” Luna revealed with a whicker.

Celestia sat up on her cushion. “Luna!”

“We still have that right!”

“Luna, that’s going to cause pure chaos today,” Celestia groaned. “I haven’t done that in…” she paused to think. “A very long time. Everypony talks here. I wouldn’t be surprised if all of Upper Canterlot knows by now.”

“Let them talk,” Luna said stubbornly. “Let them know the consequences of abusing Our trust.”

“Sister,” Celestia said softly. Luna hated that tone of voice. It usually followed some bit of asinine advice. “A bad apple doesn’t spoil the bunch,” Celestia said, proving Luna correct yet again. “Every know and then, somepony gets a bit too big-headed and I have to say how disappointed I am in their behavior.”

“That is not a punishment.”

“If you strip away her titles, how can she pay back those poor Ponies?” Celestia asked. “I share your anger, I truly do, but Berry’s family has served well, and I imagine her fillies will continue to do so. Think about the long term.”

“Our Ponies are hurt now.”

“Maybe they’ll be hurt without Berry’s grandfoals?” Celestia suggested.

“Your punishment for treason against the crown is talking?” Luna said sourly. The stars floating in her mane dimmed.

“It’s better than the punishment a thousand years ago,” Celestia replied.

Luna closed her eyes and breathed in. Celestia’s sticky hoof found hers on the table and patted it reassuringly. “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry.”

“I am not some thing made of glass,” Luna said sharply, but did not retract her hoof. Celestia returned to her diminished pancake stack, and Luna chomped on another apple.

“Forgiveness,” Celestia said, “is the most effective weapon we have. I suspect Berry will travel to Canterlot and skip to the front of the line with her bribery, all to scream and beg that your decree be undone.” She giggled to herself. “It will be a most amusing show, and I will extract her tearful confession before the Royal Court, then send her on her way to give back the money.” Celestia gave a rare full smile. “I’ll make sure Raven follows up on it.”

“You will undo my decree?” Luna said in a pained whisper.

“May I?” Celestia requested, but Luna knew the answer regardless.

“Do as thou wilt.” Luna stood up and away from the table, having a rare moment of staring down at her sister, seeing the sticky syrup rubbed into her fur around the muzzle, and her sticky hooves resting on the silken tablecloth. You have always been a glutton, sister mine. You have not changed as much as I believed.

“You always hated attending court,” Luna remarked conversationally. “What changed after I was gone?”

“Somepony had to do it,” Celestia answered slowly. “I still don’t like it, but Twilight loves lists. I’m certain she’ll find a way to make it tolerable. Before you go to bed, there is one other thing.”

Luna waited.

“Another town disappeared in the north,” Celestia admitted with a heavy sigh. “The guards found it last night. Several buildings burned down, but no bodies, thankfully. Cadance is at her wit’s end trying to calm down the Crystal Empire.”

Luna frowned. “How many has that been? Seven?”

“Too many,” Celestia agreed. “I’ll ask Twilight to investigate today, and to bring the Elements.”

“Do you truly believe that Sombra survived?” Luna and Celestia had fought the tyrant unicorn a thousand years in the past. He was cunning, wicked, and a master of illusion magic, enough to rival Luna herself, but Celestia was the better fighter. Sombra had killed the Princess Amore and seized control with pure fear, ruling as a slaving despot for nearly a year before the sisters faced him. On the cusp of victory, he enacted a spell that stole the Crystal City, displacing it from time.

Luna knew a spell of that caliber took far too much magic, and suspected that Sombra turned to blood sacrifices in the end. She never told her sister about her suspicions. Celestia had cried for a day as it was, over Amore and the Ponies she failed to save.

“It’s not like Sombra to be subtle,” Luna reflected. She had known him briefly, before his fall to corrupt powers. He was a talented mage, but not quite a friend. There had always been a darkness in him. The unicorn with a crooked horn that returned with the Crystal Empire was entirely consumed by hatred and foul magic, a snarling beast more animal than Pony. His death by young Spike was a mercy.

“I don’t know,” Celestia shrugged and nibbled a syrup-coated lower lip. “Chrysalis is still out there as well.” The changelings were their other old enemy. Chrysalis and her brood stalked the shadows from even before Discord’s reign. Celestia had faced them more than Luna, but neither knew much about them. The attack on Shining and Cadance’s wedding was their first emergence in centuries, and only defeated by the pure love between the couple. “I don’t like this.”

“I mislike this as well,” Luna concurred. “The Dreamscape may hold answers.”

“Dreams?” Celestia slightly snorted. Luna ignored it.

“Night Court is hereby cancelled.”

“No,” Celestia replied immediately. “Just because one petitioner went poorly—”

“My only petitioner,” Luna interrupted. “I have sat in an empty throne room quite enough. I will search the Dreamscape to see if I can locate our subjects, night and day. We will bring them back. Together.”

“Together,” Celestia echoed.

Melisandre: The Red Witch

The ropes were bound tight. Melisandre ignored how they chafed against her new form, shifting as best she could to bring her arms together and pray. The strange, misshapen horses continue to stare at her in obvious fear, but Melisandre closed her eye to shut them out.

“Show me the path,” she muttered in High Valyrian with an unfamiliar tongue. The words flowed awkwardly between short fangs. “R’hllor, Lord of Light, let me feel your presence.”

Beneath the pain ebbing through the right side of her body, Melisandre felt the inner fire roil inside her. It gave her comfort in this cold place, where she had been herded into and shut out in the dark. Some storage shed mayhaps, the thought slipped through her meditation. The wooden structure was filled with shovels and picks, and lit by one lonely lantern that was brought in by her two jailors. She longed to look into the flame flickering bright inside it, but that meant staring at the two horses at the door.

“Oi!” the tall green mare knickered in a raspy voice. “Stop that!” She spoke the Common Tongue well, and spoke it clearly as any Northman. She sat on her haunches next to a shovel. Her tail curled nervously around a hind leg.

“Hit ‘er again!” her shorter friend urged with clear fear and terror. Her own pickaxe was by her side, but she made no move to grab it. “Hit ‘er ‘fore she casts some spell!”

Melisandre felt the tall mare shift, but she refused to come closer. “Lord of Light, show me why I am here,” she intoned again. She finally managed to rub her cloven hooves together, feeling the ropes chafe against her red fur.

There was a great commotion outside the dark shed, and it seemed to fill the little village outside. Voices shouted out and hooves stomped through the snow. Melisandre opened her eye. The tall mare looked over her withers toward the rickety wooden door, then picked up her shovel and mumbled something to her compatriot.

“Ya can’t just leave me ‘ere with that thing!” the short mare exclaimed and jabbed a hoof at Melisandre. The taller mare waved to the pickaxe and pulled the door open. A wind rushed through, swirling snowflakes that added to the melting snow on the floor and nearly guttered the lantern. She kicked the door shut as she waded out into the snow.

Melisandre was left alone with the trembling horse. Like herself, the proportions were all-wrong, but the priestess did not question why R’hllor made them that way. The mare noticed Melisandre watching her and took her pickaxe between her forelegs. She clutched it like a coward might clutch a sword. Melisandre turned away to face a wall of shovels and prayed again, “Lord of Light, show me your will.”

“S-stop it!” the mare whickered.

She does not know High Valyrian. Show me why I have been sent to this place. Melisandre felt the fire within her roil. She breathed in as deep as she could; the ropes cut her breath short. She smiled as she felt the warmth, then the heat and fire from above her head. The short mare whinnied with short, gasping breaths. Melisandre opened her eye and fixed her with a sharp glare.

The mare attempted to raise her pickaxe and strike, but the weapon fell from nerveless hooves and she turned tail and fled through the door, knocking the lantern over and extinguishing the light. The naked horse left a stream of yellow in the snow behind her as she ran. The wind slammed the door shut.

Melisandre was not left in the dark. The fire danced above her head, casting rich red hues around the room. She basked in the warmth of the light and shook her head. Her mane stuck to the right side of her face. Muzzle, she corrected herself. Clear as light. Her shadow stretched along the wall, showing a four-legged creature with a long, curved horn.

Dozens of hooves plunged through the snow outside her shed. Melisandre had been around enough knights to know the clanking of arms against armor by sound. The sound surrounded the shed as the hooves spread out. There was no shouted commands, which implied that the knights were well-trained and knew what to do. Two sets of hooves approached the door and pushed it open. The first to enter was the tall mare, scowling and still holding a shovel in her teeth.

The second horse was a white-furred knight. The square muzzle, shaped in a frown with suspicious blue eyes, suggested the knight was a stallion. Melisandre did not look at his purple greaves and barding, but the helmet on his head. The purple metal studded with crystals fit as a half-helm, allowing his white horn to stick out. His horn glowed with soft blue light, unlike hers, which roiled with red fire. Melisandre lost concentration and the fire above her went out.

It was the first horn she’d seen since her own. As his light brightened and filled the shed, his eyes swept over Melisandre and his expression fell. The knight erupted in a long, low sigh and turned to face the tall mare. “That is not Sombra,” he said in a soft baritone, as if speaking to a child.

The mare spat out her shovel. “No,” the mare said, “but look at ‘er horn! All twisted and crooked! Look at ‘er fangs!”

Melisandre kept her mouth closed, but swished her tongue around. Her fangs were barely fit to pierce fruit, but her horn did seem to spiral and curve, judging from her shadow on the wall.

“A witch, she is!” The mare jabbed a hoof in her direction, but refused to make eye contact. “She came from the snow and burned up Coal Carver! Burned away her fur!”

“She’s being treated right now,” the stallion replied dismissively. “She will live.”

“Look at ‘er!” the mare nearly screamed. “A monster fit to be Sombra’s bride!”

“A Kirin,” the stallion sharply corrected. His helmet lifted off his head, glowing in blue light. His mane was a deeper blue that nearly matched his eyes. “It is not your fault you do not know,” he sighed. “The Kirin are…reclusive. My wife may know more, but I suspect not.” He jerked his head to the door and flicked his tail. “Leave us.”

The mare’s lip trembled, but she preformed a bow and stumbled out. She left her shovel, and the stallion gently moved it aside. He sat down and his helmet rested between his hooves. His eyes were still suspicious, but they lacked the intensity and hardness.

“I am told you do not speak Equestrian,” he said in the Common Tongue. “Do you understand me?”

“I do,” Melisandre said back in a melodic voice. “Might I know you name, good ser?”

The stallion blinked and recovered quickly. He sat up straighter. “I am Shining Armor, Prince of the Crystal Empire.”

Melisandre shuffled against the ropes binding her front and back legs together. After some effort, she managed a partial bow without falling to the floor. “I am Melisandre of Asshai, Red Priestess of the Lord of Light. I greet you, Your Grace, and beg your forgiveness.”

The Prince took a deep breath. “My Ponies say you attacked them.”

“I defended myself, Your Grace. I was set upon in the snow.” In truth, Melisandre had approached the small village during the snowstorm, guided by the light from the wooden houses. She had concerns, but her body appeared like theirs, so she prayed to R’hllor and approached. The black-furred mare she first saw near a wooden house took one look at her, whickered in fear and struck her with a shovel.

The beating had been intense, but Melisandre felt her inner fire surge forward. For one moment, the snowstorm was driven back in a red flare, and the mare’s bloody shovel melted in her hooves. Then the black-furred mare caught fire herself and rolled helplessly in the snow. Her screams attracted the village, who swiftly bound the near-unconscious Melisandre and flung her into the shed. She had lost count of the days she sat there with no food or water, and only R’hllor to sustain her.

The stallion, Shining Armor and apparently a Prince, chewed on his lower lip. “Is there a reason you did not explain yourself?”

Melisandre tilted her head and felt her rich red hair unstick from the right side of her muzzle. She tossed her head back. The Prince flinched and rubbed a hoof into the melting snow on the floor. Melisandre did not know the full extent of her injuries, but her right eye had been swollen shut for days and crusted with dried blood. The entire right side of her body was bruised underneath the fur and scales along her back. “I did not think they would listen, Your Grace.”

Shining Armor’s blue eyes flicked down to the ruby choker still fastened around her furred neck, then back up to her muzzle. “There’s some spells that can help heal you. Have you been fed?” he asked with another sigh.

“No, Your Grace. The Lord of Light gives me all I need.”

The stallion frowned and his horn pulsed with light. Melisandre felt the magic wash over her, rich and clear and unlike anything in Westeros. Whatever it was meant to do, the stallion sighed again and looked even more regretful. “Right. I am sorry for your treatment, but…” he trailed off and shook his head. “I won’t make excuses for my Ponies. I am sorry. Why are you here?”

I ask that myself. “The Lord of Light wished me to be,” Melisandre replied simply. “I did not mean to intrude upon your lands, Your Grace. My ritual went—” she might have said wrong, but that implied that R’hllor was mistaken in sending her here. “My magic did not work as intended and I arrived in the snowstorm several days ago.”

“I know that feeling,” the Prince chuckled slightly. “Twilight has her moments.”

A strange name, perhaps ominous. Melisandre was quiet and the stallion looked at her again. His eyes widened. “Do you know where you are?” he asked softly.

“No, Your Grace,” Melisandre said honestly.

“Prince is fine,” the stallion waved a hoof placatingly. “I am sorry for your treatment. Ponies are…on edge right now, and your appearance frightened them.” He groaned. “I said I wouldn’t make excuses. I am sorry.”

Melisandre mulled over his words. “Ponies, good Prince?” She eyed his horn. None of the others were horned. “Do they fear horned ones?”

Prince Shining opened and closed his mouth for a moment. He rubbed a hoof over his eyes. “I only know of Kirins from one book, barely more than a page. We haven’t had contact with them, with you, in centuries. Celestia and Luna probably know more, but—” he cut himself off and frowned at her. “Do you know them?”

Melisandre shook her head and bowed again. “I do not know those names, Prince. I do not even know Kirin, if that is how Ponies refer to us. Common is not my native tongue, but I learned it at a young age to travel.”

The Prince lowered his hoof and muttered, “This is a disaster,” under his breath. “Right, do you know anything about where you are? Equestria? The Crystal Empire? Ponies?”

Melisandre’s lips quirked into a smile. “I know nothing, good Prince.” She dipped back into a clumsy bow. “I place myself at your mercy and beg your forgiveness.”

The stallion shifted on his hooves, clearly uncomfortable. Not a born King, Melisandre decided. The smallfolk spoke rudely and abruptly as well. He was certainly younger than her, but also did not seem to regard her appearance as especially beautiful. There was nothing to be done about that. Perhaps the Lord of Light wished to humble me about my appearance. Melisandre’s ruby thrummed, as if in agreement.

The Prince’s lips pursed together in thought. “By Coal’s own admission, she struck first and you responded, but her burns are severe. I cannot let you wander the Frozen North. You will doubtless be attacked again. I am bringing you back to the Crystal City as a guest, not a prisoner, but you will answer our questions after treatment.”

Melisandre dipped her horn lower. “As you please.”

The Prince looked to the side uncomfortably. “You may rise.” His horn glowed and Melisandre felt her bindings loosen. She watched through her good eye as the ropes uncoiled and drifted away from her in clear awe. Magic, true magic, used so flippantly. She rose to her cloven hooves and stretched, hearing unfamiliar bones pop and shift. She took a deep breath and gasped at the flare of pain in her right side.

“We’ll take care of that first,” the stallion promised at her gasp, “then some food.”

“I have endured worse,” Melisandre responded, “but I thank you, Prince.”

He pushed open the door, unconcerned about the strange mare at his blue tail. “Twilight will know more, and she’ll be rearing to talk to a Kirin. She’s in the Crystal City now.”

“As you say, Prince.” Melisandre followed him out into the village. The shack was surrounded by a dozen other armored Ponies hefting spears. Some bore wings that flapped in the wind, holding bulky crossbows in their hooves. They looked at her in clear shock and suspicion.

“Stand down!” the Prince barked. “She’s a Kirin, not some red witch. They’re very reclusive.” After a moment, he added, “She’s not a Changeling. I checked.” The knights relaxed marginally, but shifted their stares towards the mountains and fields beyond the village.

Melisandre felt the cold wind kick up the surrounding snow. The wingless and hornless Ponies of the village gathered beyond the knights. Their hooves shuffled in the snow as they clutched strange coats and cloaks tighter around themselves. Melisandre stared at them as a light snowfall fell into her vibrant red mane. Snow. The Lord of Light has sent me here for a reason. Her curved horn felt as warm as her ruby.

Lapis: Cold Winds

Lapis Lulzi fell into the snow with a cry as her foreleg buckled. The makeshift bandage slipped around her knee and spilled dark red droplets into the snow. The pale blue Earth Pony bent down and pulled the strip of cloth taut with her teeth. Tears froze to her muzzle from the pain while the cold winds raged around the fallen pony and threatened to bury her.

The Earth Pony struggled to catch her breath, feeling the cold air bite at her lungs. “Emerald,” she called out into the storm. “Wait!”

Ahead of her, the blurry shape of a green Earth Pony halted in the snowstorm for a breath and turned back. Lapis could barely make out Emerald’s namesake green eyes through the snowstorm, then they disappeared as she turned away. Emerald continued trudging through the snow, away from Lapis.

Lapis watched her supposed herdmate abandon her with wide eyes.

For nearly a season, they had bunked together in a small mining town, so new that it didn’t even have a name yet. The Earth Ponies, both miners by trade and talent, were part of a herd of Equestrians entranced by the promise of adventure in the Frozen North. For a thousand years, it had been nothing but snow storms and blasted tundra, but then the Crystal Empire reappeared, straight out of the old stories.

The new Royal Couple had defeated the legendary tyrant unicorn Sombra, and Princess Cadance offered generous contracts to expand the crystal mines all along the mountains. Her husband, the Captain of the Royal Guard, Shining Armor, promised them safety. Lapis and a hundred other ponies had taken up their offer to build a small community nestled in the Crystal Mountains, one of a few dozen set up over the past two years.

The Crystal Empire was rich, but it wasn't without its problems. The Crystal Ponies were skittish around the trains from Equestria, Lapis noticed, and tended to keep to themselves. The few Crystal Ponies in the small town had their own bunkhouse. Several weeks ago, the shipments were delayed by the Crystalling and the birth of Princess Flurry Heart. Something happened during the celebration that required the Royal Sisters to intervene.

It was all a lie. Lapis grit her teeth and stood. The blood streaming from the slash on her leg was freezing to her coat, but Lapis seized on the pain as a motivator and trudged after Emerald, following her tracks before the snow buried them. Emerald and Lapis were following the train tracks south, to the rail station and other ponies. The snowstorm had buried the rails overnight, and Lapis had no idea if they were even headed the right direction anymore. Everywhere she looked, she only saw snow. Snow, and dark shapes in the distance.

The attack had come at night, during a sudden snowstorm. They had too few Pegasi to clear the storm, so the miners quit early and retreated to their bunkhouses, burning the coal they dug up in their search of crystals suitable for enchantment. The miners were paid a generous stipend, provided by the Crystal Crown, and additional quota for whatever they dug up. The early arrivals had already made a thousand bits in a single season.

Emerald and Lapis had been a fun evening with drinking and games with the other mares; it hadn’t been the first time the Frozen North had sent a wild storm into the valley, and the ponies weren’t concerned. Lapis and Emerald huddled together under two quilts and discussed which of the stallions in camp would make a good herdmate with a few of the other mares in the barracks. As always, there were too few stallions and too many mares.

Garnet was discussing a rumor she’d heard from the mailpony about the other mining camps sharing their stallions around when a window shattered from the outside. A powerful gust of wind threatened to knock over the lanterns hanging from the rafters of the wooden building. The mares in the bunkhouse, twelve in total, quickly propped a spare mattress up against the window. As Lapis leaned against the mattress to support it, she heard screaming from the other bunkhouse across the way. She pulled the edge of the mattress back and peered through the broken window to see the other building on fire. The wooden building was going up in smoke that mixed with the falling snow. Before she could raise an alarm, a pony fled out into the snow, towards Emerald’s bunkhouse.

Shapes emerged from the wind and surrounded her; they were shaped like ponies, but moved too stiffly in stumbling gaits. The mare gave a wordless howl of terror, and one of the shapes leapt onto her back and drove her down into the snow. Emerald watched, frozen in terror, as the whinny was silenced with a sickening crunch that carried over the howling wind. The shapes turned towards her building.

Her memory was fuzzy after that. The figures in the snow pounded on the sides of the building. One tried to climb through the window, gnashing its teeth before Emerald caved its head in with a powerful strike of both front hooves. Lapis had been sliced across the foreleg from the broken glass, and Emerald tied a strip of pillowcase around the wound.

Lapis only remembered the piercing blue eyes and mottled skin of the not-pony, just like the pictures of those disgusting changelings that attacked the Royal Wedding. It had been the talk of Equestria for a season afterward. The Princesses had been attacked in their palace in Canterlot, by an enemy that nopony had even known existed.

Nopony but the Princesses, Lapis corrected herself as she pushed forward. They had known about them, and Celestia and Luna had done nothing. Luna, Nightmare Moon, had returned to the welcoming hooves of her sister and brought nothing but misery with her.

The other windows were hastily barricaded, but it wasn’t enough. A lantern was thrown by a screaming mare, and the building went up in smoke. Garnet was dragged through a hole in the wooden wall when the creatures broke through.

Lapis didn’t try to save her; she used her pickaxe to chop through some loose floorboards, and pushed some snow aside. Emerald and her escaped by crawling under the elevated foundation, digging themselves out of the snow. The not-ponies avoided the fire above them, retreating into the storm without words. Emerald seized a burning blank in her teeth and waved it about, and Lapis limped after her. They didn’t have time to grab their goggles, coats or boots. They waded out into the snow, naked except for their fur, trying to outrun the storm and the monsters pursuing them.

Lapis realized she was going to die. “Please Celestia,” she breathed out haggardly. “Please, let me make it back to my family.” No amount of bits was worth this. She hadn’t written to her mothers and father in a year, not since they had needled her to settle down and find a herd. Well, she snorted, I tried to find a herd, didn’t I? And she left me to die.

A howl echoed behind Lapis in the storm. The pony sobbed and kept moving forward, trudging through the snow one hoof at a time. Her eyelids began to freeze, and suddenly she didn’t feel so cold anymore. In fact, she was almost sleepy. Lapis kept stumbling forward until a shape approached her from the front. She watched, feeling detached from her own body, as Emerald staggered out of the cold winds ahead.

“I thought you left me,” she managed to slur and fell to her knees.

Emerald moved stiffly forward, bright blue eyes burning through the churning snowflakes. Her lower jaw was gone, ripped from the muzzle. Frozen blood streaked across her barrel and forelegs. Emerald didn’t seem to notice.

Lapis was too tired and cold to cry, or scream out in terror. The blue earth pony laid down in the snow and waited. She couldn’t run, even if she had the will and the energy. There was nowhere to run; the rail station was too far away.

The shapes in the snow danced around the pair. Emerald made out equine figures pirouetting in the snow, like a dance. Howls echoed through the storm and reverberated in Lapis' bones. A shadow fell across the fallen pony. Emerald stared down unblinkingly. With the last of her strength, Lapis raised her wounded foreleg.

Emerald gently pushed the foreleg aside, then pressed her cold hoof to Lapis’ throat.

Satin: The Lord Commander

Leathers slumped down against the ice wall once the door was pulled shut, clasping a gloved hand over his stomach. Blood oozed between his fingers, and his pockmarked face twisted in a feral grimace.

“I’m done for,” he bit out to Satin.

Satin dropped his crossbow and crouched down next to the former wildling. In the dim light provided by the torches, the ice cells looked more like a tomb than a prison. Carved deep into the Wall, the cells were bitterly cold, and the walls wept next to the torches and lamps.

Satin glanced at the blood-soaked glove. “Keep applying pressure,” he urged. “He didn’t get to your guts.”

“I can’t go on.” Leathers propped himself up with Longclaw and stuck the hilt out. “Take it, boy,” the old wildling snapped. “Give me your crossbow.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You must. That Red Witch and those Kneelers have the Lord Commander, but you’ll have his blade. It’s old, strong steel.” Leathers thrust the hilt towards Satin and let go. Satin grabbed the pommel on reflex. “Is your crossbow ready?” Satin stood and nudged it over to the slumped man with his boot.

Leathers tucked the stock under his arm and propped himself up against the wall. “I’ll kill the first man that enters,” he rasped. “The rest is up to you.”

Leathers was a wildling, one of the thousands that followed the King Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, to attack Castle Black. He surrendered when Mance was crushed by Stannis Baratheon’s war host. Jon showed mercy to the wildlings when Stannis burned their king. Leathers took a black cloak, forsook his culture, and trained the boys in the yard that hated his people. He worked with Jon, even after Jon betrayed Mance’s trust and fled to warn the Night’s Watch of the attack.

Satin stood and looked down at the dying man. He had never truly trusted the wildling until tonight. For a moment, he felt guilty, but then he grabbed the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands and stepped down the tunnel. His gloved fingers ran over the snarling wolf's head carved into the weirwood hilt. The Night’s Watch only survived long enough for Stannis to arrive because of Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell and the son of Eddard Stark led the defense of the Wall when no other man could. Satin stood beside the boy the other men called ‘Lord Snow’ mockingly. He helped set the stairs ablaze and save Castle Black. Jon was as young as him, but no other man took the challenge to defend the Wall.

He deserved to be Lord Commander. He was the best of us. Satin was a whore from Gulltown, born in a brothel and raised to be nothing but a pretty face. Satin took to the role wholeheartedly, even in the Night’s Watch. He kept his fair, black hair curled and his new-grown beard perfumed. He strutted in the leather mail and fur cloaks, and wore the looks from the older men as a thorny armor against the cold of the North.

But Jon didn’t see him as a whore; he saw him as a friend. Jon named Satin steward and squire, charged him with serving wine and learning his letters. Satin claimed to be older, but in truth, they were both sixteen. The older men of the Night’s Watch, the highborn men, rankled with the young Lord Commander’s choices. They saw the Wildlings as the enemy, not the great threat in the lands beyond the Wall. They held their cups away from Satin when he moved to fill them, and their eyes danced with hatred and, sometimes, bitter lust. Satin was used to the looks.

Those older men, men like Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck, had betrayed their rightful Lord Commander. When Jon announced he would go south to fight Ramsay Bolton, they departed the Shieldhall and grabbed their daggers. While the wildlings and the good men of the Night’s Watch volunteered to follow their Lord Commander, they sharpened their knives in the dark and plotted.

They found Jon in the yard later that night. Ser Patrek, one of the Queen’s Men, attempted to fight Wun-Wun for the Wildling Princess’ hand in marriage. The giant crushed him, splattering his blood over his banner and throwing his body across the yard. Jon was attempting to regain control of the madness when the traitors rushed him.

Satin wasn’t there. He was in Jon’s quarters, cleaning up after an earlier meeting. Ghost, Jon’s direwolf, howled and snarled, then broke down the door and rushed through the halls. Satin followed the wolf, knowing in his gut that something was wrong, and emerged into a courtyard washed in blood and dying men. Ghost charged towards the body and disappeared into the fighting.

Castle Black had fallen, not to the Wildlings or the White Walkers, but to itself. The madness consumed every man, and Black Brother fought Black Brother in the falling snow. Queen Selyse, Stannis' wife, screamed hoarsely for her fanatical knights to defend her tower. Satin was equally guilty of the madness, but he took pride in that. The ruddy-faced Bowen Marsh claimed Longclaw for himself, stripping it from Jon's body and leading his clique of men into the Shieldhall.

“We have done a good thing,” he proclaimed to his band of twenty men. “Snow meant to destroy all that we have stood for.” Satin had slipped in, overlooked as a whore’s son, with a crossbow hidden in his cloak. Bowen raised a cup, ignoring the fighting outside. “For the Watch,” Marsh intoned solemnly, and Satin loosed his crossbow from the shadows. The bolt caught the old man in the throat, and he fell back onto the high table. Tormund Giantsbane led his wildings into the hall at the signal, and the fight grew savage as stone axes clashed against steel. Satin crawled between benches and under long tables, slipping in blood, all the way across the hall to Bowen Marsh.

Marsh, the tough old pomegranate, had tried to crawl away, but only managed two feet. Satin stood and kicked the old man over. “For the Watch,” he echoed, and stomped his boot down of the quarrel sticking from the old man’s neck. He retrieved the Valyrian steel sword, Jon's sword, and hacked his way to Tormund.

“Har!” Tormund shouted with his white beard flecked with the blood of three Black Brothers. “You did good, crow, but those mailed kneelers dragged Jon to the ice cells!”

“What?”

“The Witch!” Tormund shouted and slammed his axes against a shield. “She was there with the wolf!”

“I’ll stop her,” Satin promised. He had no other plan. There is no plan. That died with Jon.

Satin found Leathers stabbing Othell Yarwyck to death atop a table. Leathers grabbed Longclaw and hacked Yarwyck’s head off with one savage swing, then they went into the courtyard together to fight their way to the ice cells. Wun-Wun still protected Val, the Wildling Princess in the tower, but there were no clear sides in the fighting anymore. Jon had held them all together. One of the southron knights, with heraldry on his shield that Satin didn’t recognize, blocked the doors.

Despite it being a two-on-one fight, the knight was armored in thick plate. Leathers raised Longclaw and slashed the Valyrian blade across the knight's arms, cutting the steel like butter, but the knight swore and kicked the man back, thrusting his short sword towards the stomach. Leather leapt back, but not quick enough, and the blade found purchase in the leather armor. Satin stood with his crossbow, waiting for the knight to expose his unarmored neck, but the knight raised his shield in time to block the quarrel. He bashed Leathers with his shield and knocked him down, then advanced on Satin.

Satin did not have time to reload. He dropped the crossbow and drew his own sword. The knight disarmed him easily with three swings and knocked him to the ground. The knight raised his bloody arm to hack down on the boy, then a white arrow punched into his neck with a spurt of blood. Satin looked to the tower, where Val leaned out a window with her weirwood bow. She shouted down something, but her words were lost in the wind. Satin helped Leathers up and entered the ice cells.

And now, he was alone, facing who knows how many men. For Jon. Satin pulled his gloves tight and followed the echoes of conversation down the tunnels to a cell buried deep in the wall. Another of the Queen’s Men blocked the cell. Satin recognized him as Ser Malegorn of Redpool. The knight hated Satin, and refused his offer to escort Queen Selyse during the wedding of Alys and Sigorn. “How’d you get down here?” he asked with confusion.

“Killed your man at the door,” Satin responded and readied Longclaw.

The knight unsheathed his blade. “Whore.”

The knight was armored, but the hallway was narrow. He had a fair chance.

“Enough,” a strong voice intoned from the cell. Satin knew it as well. “Ser Malegorn, sheathe your blade and allow him to pass.”

The knight’s hatred warred with his obedience, but he sheathed his sword and stepped aside. “I don’t need my blade to gut you, whoreson,” he promised.

Satin stepped past him into the cell and froze.

The Red Woman, Melisandre, stood above Jon Snow. Ghost sat at her side, looking down at the body. Jon had been stripped of his clothes, laying naked atop the ice. The red wounds ran down his chest, smeared with frozen blood. His brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, unblinking and faded. Melisandre surveyed the candles arranged around the floor; her red robes swirled around her body and her ruby necklace glittered in the flickering light.

Satin pointed the sword at the witch. “What are you doing to him?”

“Saving him,” she responded simply. “I warned him of the daggers in the dark, but he did not listen.”

“You told him of his sister, of Hardhome, of Stannis. All of it was wrong.”

“I was not wrong about this.” Melisandre pointed a finger down to Jon. “I have made mistakes, I have admitted as much, but the boy cannot die now.”

“Jon is dead,” Satin admitted for the first time.

“Not yet,” Melisandre answered. “I have seen his face in the fires. He still has a part to play.” Her crimson eyes looked at the sword, eyeing the swirls in the metal. “You have brought his sword.”

“It belongs with him.”

Melisandre held out a thin hand tipped with red fingernails. “He is the only one that can quell the madness outside. I will return your friend and Lord Commander. I must. Give me the sword.”

Satin hesitated. Ser Malegorn cleared his throat behind him.

“Do not force him,” Melisandre commanded. Satin heard muffled grumbling and the knight moved away again. He looked at Ghost and offered her the hilt with one gloved hand. Melisandre took the bastard sword delicately with both hands. She held it above the candles and looked at the blood. “Whose blood is on the blade?”

“Othell Yarwyck.”

“The blood of a traitor, taken.” Melisandre intoned. She stared at Satin, ruby lips pursed in thought. “Are you prepared to die for your Lord Commander?” she asked neutrally. “Will you do anything to save him?”

Satin didn’t have to think about it. “Yes.” He stood straight and bared his neck.

The Red Woman smiled, and her teeth shone brilliantly in the light. “Remove your glove. I do not need your life.” Satin pulled the glove off his left hand and Melisandre lightly poked his palm with the tip of Longclaw. The cold steel broke the skin without effort, and blood welled down the blade. “The blood of the innocent, offered,” she remarked.

Her eyes flicked over Satin’s shoulder, and he felt mailed hands seize his shoulders. “Do not hurt him.” Melisandre stepped towards Ghost. The white direwolf stared down at Jon’s body, then looked up as she stopped before him. “A life for a life,” Melisandre said, and swept Longclaw across Ghost’s throat. He dropped on top of Jon without a sound and his blood soaked the ice.

“No!” Satin roared and struggled against the knight’s grip. Ser Malegorn pulled him back and away from the cell, throwing him into the hallway. Melisandre laid Longclaw atop the two bodies and knelt. Her voice echoed in the room as she began to chant in High Valyrian.

“You bitch!” Satin screamed with tears in his eyes and rushed the knight. A fist caught him in the stomach and he fell back, gasping for air.

“Whoreson,” Ser Malegorn growled.

The chant grew in volume. Satin looked between the knight’s legs as Melisandre straddled the bodies and leaned down to kiss Jon on the lips. He looked back up as Ser Malegorn drew his blade. “Your Lord Commander isn’t here to save you now, bastard.” Satin scrambled back against the ice. The chanting reached a fever pitch in the room behind them. The torches in the hallway guttered out. A cold wind blew past them. All the air in the hallway was sucked into the cell and the candles dimmed; Satin felt the breath leave his lungs and the chant cut off in a long, strangled syllable. Ser Malegorn turned around to look.

The room exploded with light and heat. Satin closed his eyes, but the light burned through his eyelids. Blinded, he crawled down the hallway, feeling the walls and floor weep water. The chant picked up again, one long syllable stretching into infinity with a voice high and unfamiliar. The knight screamed raggedly as the heat engulfed him. Satin only lived because Ser Malegorn stood in the way, but he felt his perfumed beard catch fire. He pawed at it and smashed his face against the melting floor as he crawled, feeling the heat and fire roar over his head. Once he was certain he would burn, another cold wind blew again down the hall, and the heat retreated into the room.

Melisandre had fallen silent. Satin blinked rapidly, and the hallway slowly faded back into sight. The torches had all gone out, but a soft glow came from the ice cell. Ser Malegorn had fallen to his knees, unmoving. Satin crawled forward until he reached him. The knight had been fused with his armor. Smoke wafted from the melted steel and metal. His helmet had the visor up, and his face was completely burned away. Satin retched at the smell of burning meat and stumbled to his feet. His own hair was nearly singed away as well. Satin brushed against the weeping wall to get past the knight into the ice cell.

Satin took in the room, slumped against the wall, and wept. The candles had melted into puddles of wax, but the wax glowed white. Everything else had been burned away. Longclaw, Ghost, Jon, even the Red Woman, all of it was gone. Satin’s bloody hand fell into a puddle of water as he stared forward blankly. Nothing’s left, not even ash.

He paused. Valyrian steel was forged in dragonfire, made with the magic of Old Valyria, before the Doom. It couldn’t burn. It couldn't. He looked for Longclaw in the wax and water, but it was gone as well. He felt hope surge into his chest. They hadn’t burned. They were just gone. Satin held that desperate, foolish hope in his heart and waited.

Jon: Awakening

Jon awoke with a gasp. “Ghost,” he coughed out with blurred vision. His chest felt cold. His entire body felt cold, and once his vision cleared, he realized why. Jon lay in a snowy, flat field. There were rolling hills of snow in every direction. Snow, but no trees, no Wall, no Castle Black. Jon struggled to raise his head, and felt the wind blow on his face.

They dragged me north of the Wall to die, Jon thought numbly, but it made no sense. They had stabbed him in the courtyard, in front of everyone. As his senses returned to him, Jon realized he laid on the snow naked. They stripped my clothes and left me. With a hiss of effort, he raised his head and looked for the Wall, or the Haunted Forest. Anything.

The sky to the east was tinged an unnatural pink, and the sun peeked through the clouds to the west. There were no landmarks, nothing but a vast expanse of white in every direction. Jon sluggishly blinked and tried to roll over, but his legs moved awkwardly. He tried to brush the snow from his chest, but his hands moved clumsily and knocked against hard mail. Jon coughed again and looked to his left, finding a snarling wolf gaping at him.

Longclaw. The Valyrian steel sword was buried in the snow. Only the hilt stuck out, showing the carved snarling wolf that Jeor Mormont had made, before he gave it to Jon. Once, it was the head of a bear, the sigil of House Mormont, but the Old Bear and previous Lord Commander had it remade after the fire.

The blue-eyed corpses, Jon remembered. He burned them, burned the Lord Commander’s room, and burned his hand. It felt like a lifetime ago, when Jon first arrived at the Wall to join the Night’s Watch, when his brothers and father were still alive. Eddard Stark had been named a traitor and beheaded by the boy-king Joffrey Baratheon, and his brother Robb had rallied the North and the Riverlands to his side in the resulting war. Now, all of them were dead, killed by more treachery at the Red Wedding.

And now I’ll join them. Jon had been dragged north of the Wall to die, left only his blade. Why wouldn’t they take Valyrian steel? It was worth a fortune, there were only a few blades left in the world of that metal. Nothing made sense. With another grunt of effort, Jon reached out to grab the hilt.

A black arm with only four fingers grabbed the pommel. Jon blinked at it. His vision swam again and the wind blew into his face. There was a dark mass in the center of his eyesight and he pawed at it with his other arm. Jon hit himself in the nose and an inhuman hiss left his mouth on reflex. He rolled over into the snow and felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades, then rolled back and forced himself up onto clumsy legs.

Longclaw came with him, pulled out of the snow by the unfamiliar arm. Jon felt the familiar weight of the blade and dropped it back into the snow, raising his mangled hands to his face. His immediate thought was that he had been burned. His arms were charred black and the bone exposed on his fingertips. He was missing a finger on both hands. Jon struggled to focus and shook his head.

Claws. These are claws. They bent a bit stiffly, but far better than the joints on his burned hand. The white tips were sharp talons jutting from fingers coated in black scales. He followed the arms to his chest, which was equally white and crossed in a pattern. Scales. Jon touched an unfamiliar hand to his chest, feeling the hard scales that he first thought were mail. He could feel the cold claw rub against his chest. There were no stab wounds. While his chest and belly were white, the black scales traveled around his sides. Jon twisted his head to look, and a leathery cape struck him in the face.

He recoiled and coughed, and a sudden burst of heat and flame shot out of his mouth. The shock sent him tripping over his legs and back into the snow. Jon looked down; his legs bent strangely, as if there were too many joints, but he did not trip over them. A thin, snakelike tail with white ridges and a red-flared tip was wrapped around his left foot. His foot was now a claw like his hands, missing one toe. The wicked white talons on the end looked very sharp.

Tail. Claws. Talons. Jon pawed at the black leathery cape and felt the sensation on both ends. With some effort, he pulled it taut and hissed again at the sharp pain. There was only one thing it could be. Wing. Jon felt another on his other shoulder. Wings, he corrected. Jon stood up again, and he felt the tail swing to counter-balance. There was only one scaled creature with wings, one that breathed fire. Dragon.

Jon stood in the snow for a moment. I’m hallucinating from the cold, he concluded. I’m dying in the snow in Castle Black, and this is the Seven Hells. Jon believed in the Old Gods, the carved faces of the Weirwood trees, but the Old Gods could be cruel. Was this a punishment? For doing the right thing? Or what he thought was right. Some of the men disagreed. Jon flumped down into the snow and snorted another small plume of flame. His felt his mouth twist in a smile. It felt too long.

If he was meant to be a dragon, he still felt cold. The wind bit into his skin and scales, and the sun was setting. He would die out here. Again, he corrected himself. I’ve already died once.

Jon closed his eyes. Death would not be so bad. Robb was gone, killed at the Red Wedding with his mother. Ned, his father, loved Jon like his own proper children, despite Jon’s status as a baseborn bastard. Bran and Rickon were dead, killed by Theon Greyjoy in Winterfell. Sansa had been missing since Joffrey’s poisoning.

Arya. Jon opened his eyes. She was alive, married to Ramsay Bolton, the son of Roose Bolton, the man who betrayed and killed Robb with the Freys and Lannisters. Ramsay fed his enemies to dogs, or flayed them, or both. He had sent a letter on tanned skin, apparently believing that Jon had stolen Arya away from him. Melisandre had told Jon that she would arrive at Castle Black, but instead Alys Karstark found her way there, fleeing from her treacherous family. She’s still alive. I gave her the sword. Needle. Stick them with the pointy end.

Jon stood up and gripped Longclaw with both hands. “I have to try,” he said aloud, testing his voice. It sounded the same, but his tongue felt long and awkward. Jon took one step, and felt the tail sway and balance. The leathery wings shifted naturally. He took another, then another, then another, marching through the snow with the sword held in front of him. He walked through the snow towards the distant pink glow, squinting in the wind. "I have to try," he repeated. The Old Bear's words echoed in his mind. "I will not sit here meekly and wait for the snows and the ice winds."

He walked until nightfall. The sun set unnaturally fast, and the moon rose equally quick. Jon paused to stare up at the full moon, it was far larger than it should have been. Where am I? The Seven Hells are supposed to be hot. But it was bitterly cold, far too cold. Dragons should not get cold, but Jon couldn’t manage to summon another flame. He had no idea how he had done it in the first place. Even if he did, the wind still blew snow that stuck to his scales faster than he could brush it away.

The pink glow to the east seemed brighter and closer at night, but Jon’s pace slowed to a staggering, swaying gait. He was tired, lost, disoriented, and confused. He thought idly of his family, and Longclaw nearly slipped from his claws twice, only caught with a fumble. Finally, he fell forward into the snow, and did not rise again. He turned his head to the left, and his muzzle carved a track in the snow. Muzzle, he thought with a grin, but his mouth didn’t respond.

There was a cave a few yards away, the mouth half-buried by the snow. Jon tried to lift his arms, but they wouldn’t respond. I should’ve stayed in that cave, Ygritte. Her gap-toothed smile danced between his eyes and she shook out her fiery hair. “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she teased and beckoned him into the cave. The wildling was naked, just like the day they spent in the hot spring. Jon wanted to go with her so badly, but he couldn't. “I’m sorry,” he said to the approaching shadow and closed his eyes.

Thorax: The Exile

The dragon had stopped shivering, which was either very good, or very bad. Thorax poked at the snarling wolf with ruby eyes in the pommel of the sword while he waited. You’re a damn fool, his brother said in Thorax’s mind, and for once changeling agreed with his imaginary brother. Every changeling knew the one rule when dealing with dragons: Don’t. Dragons weren’t worth the time and effort; they put the bare minimum in with their whelps and hated each other more than anything else.

As a counterpoint, Thorax’s stomach growled again. He crawled over to the black and white dragon, then hissed softly as he felt the emotions pouring off him. The dragon dreamt in his restless sleep, dreaming of something or someone that he loved deeply. It went against everything Thorax had been told about dragons back in the hive, but he was too hungry to care. Perhaps he dreams of his hoard.

Thorax opened his mouth and drank, siphoning away the love and filling the gaping hole inside himself. The dragon twitched and Thorax closed his eyes. Forgive me. Every changeling needed the innate magic of emotions to survive, or else they went feral, then starved to death. Unlike every other race in the world, the changelings couldn’t replenish their magic naturally; they had to take it from others. The Queen always said they were the ultimate predators, but Thorax only ever felt like a parasite. Now look at you, brother, Pharynx sneered again. The ultimate parasite, hiding in a cave and waiting to die.

Thorax had been hiding in the cave for a moon, working up the courage to approach the shielded city just beyond the horizon. He had been drawn there by the wave of pure love that emanated from the city, but the shield frightened him. It was like the shield in Canterlot, during the wedding. The small changeling had fled before that defeat, and when he saw the pink shield again, he fled again into the snow. He only stumbled across the cave by pure luck and took shelter from the wind. He had ventured out a few times, watching the ponies work and in their green fields beyond the dome, but he never exposed himself.

He could feel their emotions at a distance; they were wary, uncertain, frightened. Of what, he wasn’t quite sure, but a solid guess would be changelings. Changelings worked in the shadows, always and forever, until Queen Chrysalis decided to launch and all-out assault on the ponies.

Thorax had a decent life before he had flown away. Sure, the other ‘lings made fun of me, but most of them are probably splattered against the mountain. He cut that line of thought off with a grimace. His brother could be cruel, but he didn’t wish him dead. The emotions turned to ash in his mouth as the love churned into despair, guilt, and regret. Thorax skittered back, holed legs fumbling on rocky floor of the cave. The dragon mumbled indistinctly and Thorax’s wings drooped again; he overfed and turned the dream rancid. This had happened several times during the night. At least now, he didn’t feel the hunger clawing at the edges of his mind.

Thorax leaned against the far wall and watched the dragon toss and turn. He was small and lean for a dragon, barely more than a whelp, and Thorax carried him easily enough to the cave from where he had fallen, despite the changeling’s emaciated state. Surely, this was meant to happen, Thorax thought. The dragon’s emotions had drawn Thorax out of the cave, and he would have surely died in the chill winds, dragon or not. The changeling only had Queen Chrysalis to pray to, and Thorax didn’t feel like invoking her gaze.

Thorax didn’t have any wood to burn, or any supplies. He had nothing but his chitin and fangs. If the dragon knew what a changeling was, this would likely turn bloody. The sword lay at his hooves and Thorax touched the pommel again. The sword resisted his magic, and the blade had a deep purple hue that swirled along the entire length. He had carried it by mouth into the cave, curiosity driving him as much as caution. Thorax hadn’t seen many swords, but this one seemed different. It was sharp enough to gouge the stone when he set it down. Kill the dragon now, Pharynx whispered. You’ve had your fill. He’s useless. Thorax shook his head. No, I won’t do it. I came here to be friends. There's another way.

Damn fool. He will kill you. Thorax gulped. He didn’t want to die, not out here in the snow. Surely, the dragon doesn’t either. Thorax summoned all of his courage, and waited against the wall, ignoring the voice of his brother. By the time the dragon stirred awake, the light of dawn crept through the mouth of the cave. He stretched awkwardly and scraped his claws against the rock, then abruptly withdrew his arm to his muzzle. Thorax watched as the dragon hit himself in the face with a hiss, then hold a claw out into the light.

Thorax stayed against the wall in the shadows; the dragon’s eyes were blood red, matching the two short horns on his head. He looked terrifying, even as a whelp barely larger than a pony. The dragon rubbed his muzzle with a claw, grimacing, then whispered, “Ygritte?” It sounded like a name. He sat up with a hiss and repeated, “Ygritte?” with obvious confusion and a hint of longing.

Thorax didn’t know how to respond to the strange, dragon-like name, but froze when the dragon’s eyes swept around the room and locked on him. The dragon didn’t look away, nor move. He laid his claws on the stone floor. He sees me. Say something. Anything!

“H-hello,” Thorax awkwardly hiccupped. The dragon did not reply. Thorax felt the absolute confusion emitting from the dragon, although that was clear from the puzzled frown on his lips. “I-I, uh, I found you outside,” Thorax explained. “I brought you in here.” The dragon’s eyes flicked down to the sword. Thorax blanched. “It’s a v-very nice sword. I was just taking a look,” he lied and pushed the sword over. The blade stopped between them, point facing the dragon. Thorax cringed. That looked hostile.

The dragon still hadn’t answered the changeling, so the pair sat in silence for several moments. Thorax grew concerned when the dragon didn’t even blink. Damn fool, he’s going to eat you, Pharynx whispered again. Thorax glanced to the mouth of the cave. If he ran, he might make it, but the dragon would certainly chase him. Thorax had another thought. Dragons might have their own language. They don’t spend much time with the other races. “C-can you understand me?”

“Yes,” the dragon replied bluntly. The confusion was replaced by mild surprise.

“O-oh,” Thorax said lamely. His wings chittered. "Uh, t-that's good."

The dragon frowned and his tail swished across the floor. He grimaced and turned to look at it, then returned to Thorax. “Are you one of the Children of the Forest?”

Thorax blinked. “What?” He lost his stutter.

“Are we beyond the Wall?” the dragon asked again.

“What wall?” Thorax frowned. The changelings in charge of cleaning the muck from the hive weren’t given geography training; that was for infiltrators.

The dragon narrowed his eyes, but Thorax didn’t feel suspicion, just more confusion. “The Wall,” he enunciated. “It guards the North, protects all of Westeros. The Night’s Watch have guarded the Wall for thousands of years. You can see it for days.”

Thorax decided on honesty. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re in the north right now. There's no wall anywhere near here.”

The dragon was quiet for a while. Thorax felt the confusion fade to grief, then heartbreak and a deep sense of loss. “Are we in the Seven Hells?” he said lowly and looked down at his claws.

“I don’t know what that is,” Thorax shook his head. “My name is Thorax.” He bit his lip with a fang, then added, “I’m a changeling.”

The dragon blinked at the name. “I am called Jon Snow.”

“Snow?” Thorax attempted a laugh. “Are you from here?”

“I doubt it.”

“O-oh.”

Snow flexed his claws again, then wiggled the talons on his feet. “Changeling?” he asked softly.

Thorax felt his hopes sink. “Yes,” he sighed.

One of Snow’s wings shifted. “Am I a dragon?”

Thorax didn’t reply immediately. He tasted confusion, hesitation, and melancholy, but not deceit. It was a genuine question. Not a changeling. What kind of dragon doesn’t know he’s a dragon?

“Um, yes,” Thorax offered. “You are a dragon.”

Snow nodded like it was the expected answer and picked up the sword. He held the snarling wolf's hilt easily in one claw. Thorax tensed, but the dragon pointed the sword away from him and towards the mouth of the cave. “I thank you for saving my life,” Snow said gravely, radiating honesty.

Thorax was taken aback by the sincerity. Then he immediately felt guilty about feeding off him. Fool, he doesn’t know. Tell him and he will kill you. “I-it was nothing,” Thorax deflected. “You were right outside.”

“Still, I thank you for your hospitality. You live here?” Jon asked and peered deeper into the cave. He hadn’t stopped frowning, seemingly at everything.

Even by changeling standards, the cave was awful. “No. I, uh, don’t really live anywhere. I was traveling to the city.”

The dragon's tail swished in thought. “What city?”

“The city,” Thorax repeated slowly. “The only city up here, really. It has a shield around it.”

“Like a wall?”

“No, uh, a shield.” Thorax waved his hooves in a circle, but the dragon just stared at him with those red eyes. “A magic shield?”

“Magic,” Snow repeated. He looked down at his claws again. The swirl of emotions was hard to parse for Thorax. “You know magic?”

“A little?” Thorax replied hesitantly. The dragon was beyond strange, but he made no aggressive moves with the sword.

“Who would know more?”

“Well, the Crystal City is half a day away,” Thorax answered.

“You were headed there?” Snow stood up with another hiss and shook his legs.

Thorax immediately realized his mistake. The dragon clearly didn’t know anything about the area, about changelings or ponies or the war. “I, uh, I was waiting for the storm to clear,” the changeling desperately tried.

Snow walked to the entrance and stared out into the snowy fields. He kicked some of the piled-up snow and climbed out. His legs slipped a few times, as if he was unused to them. He vanished for a moment, then returned. “The storm is gone and the sun is out.” Snow crouched down and stared into the cave.

“It’ll come back,” Thorax lied. He stayed against the wall.

“We have no wood for a fire, nor any trees. We must move.”

“You’re a dragon. You can make fire.”

“I do not know how,” Snow said with a shrug.

Thorax opened and closed his mouth, searching for another excuse. Fool. He sighed and slunk towards the mouth, climbing through and getting snow in his legs. He shivered and extended his gossamer wings, fluttering them in the sun. Thorax felt renewed confusion and glanced over at Snow with weary eyes. The dragon was staring at his legs. “Are you injured?” The wary concern, concern for him, was welcome.

“No,” Thorax answered and shook some snow from a leg. “Uh, changelings have holes in their legs.”

“Right,” Snow said dubiously, then looked toward the pink-tinged sky.

“The city is that way,” Thorax advised and pointed his snow-free hoof.

Snow looked to him, then nodded and gave a small, lopsided smile that showed too many teeth. “I thank you, good sir Thorax.” He stood in the snow and waited, sword in one claw and held casually.

“Um, you’re welcome?” Thorax guessed. The dragon’s archaic speech had thrown him off.

They stared at each other for a heartbeat before the dragon spoke up. “If you do not wish to enter, would you mind showing me the way?” The dragon was making the choice to be brave for him, and Thorax was relieved deep in his heart. I'm a coward.

“N-not at all.” He set off, trudging through the fresh snow, and the thin dragon followed.

Ember: The Dragon Lord's Daughter

The Bloodstone Scepter sat propped up in the rocks, seemingly watching the volcano through the pulsating red stone atop the staff. The haft, made of rough, purple crystal, rested easily within Ember’s reach. She could feel the strange magic glow around it, calling to her in the back of her mind. Her claw twitched and she resisted grabbing it. Her father would know if she held it, even for a moment.

Ember’s father, the great Dragon Lord Torch, continued carving out stalactites from the cavern inside the volcano, taking great care in placing them along his so-called ‘gauntlet.’ His tongue stuck out between mismatched teeth as he concentrated on placing the rocks perfectly. He grinned as the lava flows pushed them together in a rhythm.

He’s never smiled like that for me. Ember curled her tail against her leg and looked away. For fifteen years, her father had labored on this challenge, neglecting his hoard and his only surviving daughter. “It is the duty of the Dragon Lord to choose his heir,” Torch had proclaimed to her when she was just a wingless whelp. He held the Bloodstone Scepter between carefully pinched claws and lowered it to her side so she could see it.

Ember had been entranced by the staff, but not for its beauty. “Why is it so small?” she asked.

“It was made like that,” Torch said dismissively with a great snort. “The first Dragon Lord hid it away in his hoard, as I’ve said before.”

Ember didn’t believe him then, and she still didn’t believe him now. Her father was over a thousand years old, one of the oldest and largest dragons in the world, and there was much he would not tell her of the past. Torch would not speak of her mother, or if she had any siblings. The great dragon rubbed his faded blue scales against the side of the cavern, scratching an itch with a grimace that seemed more pained than pleased. His rocky crown brushed against the ceiling.

Ember rubbed her own arm against the rock face, carving another small furrow with her claws. He hadn’t noticed she was there yet, like the past few days. You have an heir, and she is being wasted. Her father didn’t care about her, only his great project. When she threatened to leave last year and explore the world, he turned to his hoard and retrieved a small bundle from the strangely small piles of gems and gold.

“Take your gift then, and make your own hoard, as is custom.” It was the only gift he had ever given her, a suit of armor, made of gold and humming with pony enchantments and magic.

“I don’t need armor,” Ember scoffed and rolled her red eyes.

“There are beasts that can cleave through a dragon’s scales like butter, and magic that can make blades do the same,” he had replied simply and thrust the armor out with a huge claw. “If you don’t want it, sell it.”

Ember kept it out of spite. The other young dragons called her ‘Princess’ Ember mockingly, laughing through their fangs, once it was clear that Torch would not pass the scepter to her, not without winning his gauntlet of traps and challenges. The worst of all of them was Garble, the young, boisterous red dragon that created her nickname.

According to Dragon Law, which Ember suspected her father made up as he went, he needed to pass the scepter to a new Dragon Lord, the worthiest dragon to follow him. His ‘Gauntlet of Fire’ would be the ultimate test of strength and endurance, a race through the active volcano in the heart of the Dragonlands, dodging specially made traps and obstacles along the way.

Ember watched her father struggle again to squeeze an arm through another cave opening to adjust something. What’s the point of all this? The Reader isn’t even participating. The Reader was the second-oldest dragon Ember knew, a white drake the size of a castle with faded gray eyes. Torch had forced her to go to him for nearly a decade, just to be lectured on math and history.

Ember went to him again last week, the first time in years. The dragon squinted and backed protectively against his hoard, a trove of old scrolls and books on shelves carved against the back wall. “Hello, Ember.” The dragon blinked slowly. "Are you finally here to finish your letters?"

“What is my father doing?” she challenged.

“Whatever the Dragon Lord desires, as is his right.”

“No, the Gauntlet of Fire. What is it?”

“Ah,” the Reader sighed. “You wish to win.”

“Of course!” Ember snarled. “Why don’t you?”

“I’m too old to participate in these kinds of things,” the dragon replied sadly. “I’m too big to even appreciate many of my books. You should go out into the world and fine more. Knowledge is the best treasure.” The dragon waved his claw at the shelves.

Ember had heard that throughout her life, far too many times. “Dragons rule by strength, not books. What is this challenge?”

“It is a tradition as old as position of Dragon Lord itself. Your father beat Black Maw’s challenge a thousand years ago.”

“What was the challenge? How did he win?” Ember pressed.

The Reader laughed, then stopped and waved a claw through the smoke before it could reach his shelves. “It was before my time. There is an account in the books, if you wish to read them.”

Ember’s muzzle twitched. It was a deliberate provocation from the older dragon. She glanced over at the wall near the cave’s mouth, where she tried to scratch her name as a whelp. The shallow carvings had faded, both to the weather and time, but Ember could still make out her squiggles in the rock. “What about the other dragons? Who’s the strongest?”

“I cannot say,” the Reader answered. “I have few visitors these days. Perhaps Grimclaw, if he still lives.”

“What about the others? What about the dragonesses?"

“The Dragon Lord has always been male,” the Reader answered with a frown. “The dragons will come when your father calls them. I cannot say more.”

His phrasing stuck with Ember. ‘I cannot say more.’ Did that mean he had more to say?

“Ember,” a great voice rumbled above her, shaking the loose stones and the Bloodstone Scepter.

The dragoness looked up with lidded eyes. “Dad.”

“What’re you doing here?” Torch asked with a warning growl, but there was no strength in his sharp frown.

“Guarding the Bloodstone Scepter, since you left it out in the open.” Ember responded and gestured to the staff. Her claws brushed the stone haft. “Any dragon could claim it now.”

“Not until the challenge,” Torch snorted. “None would dare.”

“Even Grimclaw?” Ember asked.

Torch’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his great wings, causing dust to scatter across the mountain. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Around,” Ember said vaguely. “The other whelps are gossiping.”

Torch stared at her for a long moment, then shifted away. “Grimclaw is long dead,” he rumbled. “Struck down for his pride by vengeful griffons.”

“Then I have a chance,” Ember replied evenly and held a claw over the staff.

“No,” Torch said, not turning back. “The Dragon Lord is always male. It is Law,” he intoned gravely.

Ember’s claw trembled over the scepter, but she pulled it away and leapt off the ledge. The small dragoness flapped her wings and flew away before her father could spot her tears. She flew over the lava fields to her own, small cave in the side of another mountain. A group of young dragons, barely more than whelps, gathered below to skip rocks in the lava or wallow in the geysers. “Well, Princess Ember,” Garble greeted from below. The red, hooked-nose dragon was seven years younger than her, but still outsized her by a head. “Back so soon from daddy?” His boulder-headed friends laughed along with him.

Ember ignored it and marched into the cave, rolling a rock aside and pulling out her dusty armor. She breathed a gout of fire over it, burning away the dust and debris. The metal held strong and glowed in the heat. Pony magic has its uses. She strapped the greaves around her legs, then adjusted the tail bands. The chest plate threw off her balance, so she took a moment to adjust to the weight. The helmet slid over her white horns and fit snugly. There were only narrow slits to see. Ember stumbled around the cave, but adjusted her footing and began to flap her wings. I’ll need to practice. I’ll prove you wrong. I’ll prove them all wrong.

Luna: The Princess of the Night...

The mare that approached the throne was a brown Earth Pony wearing an ill-fitting beige dress that stretched around her flanks. The mare performed a stuttering bow, then looked around the empty throne room nervously. One of the two Night Guards gestured to the throne with a wing, so the mare gulped and stared up at the elevated pedestal. Her knees were shaking so hard Luna almost told her to sit down.

It will do no good. Princess Luna sighed and rested her front hooves under her chin, reclining back in her sister’s throne. It was oversized for her smaller frame, so she ended up nearly disappearing into the plush velvet cushion. “State your petition, citizen,” Luna enunciated slowly, taking care to make her words clear. Modern Ponish still eluded her. The silver tiara bumped against her horn as she leaned too far back, so she moved a cushion between her hooves.

The mare whispered something. Nightshade, the commander of her Night Guard, tapped a silver-shod hoof on the tiled floor. “Speak up,” she barked in her rough voice. The mare’s trembling increased and her mouth locked up. It appears I must intervene. Luna waved a front hoof towards the back of her guard.

“Nightshade,” she said softly but with a lilt of disdain, “be kind to our first petitioner of the night.” Our only petitioner tonight, she thought sourly. Nightshade’s ears pinned back. The illusions on the armor gave the Pegasus a bat-like look that intimidated most of her citizens.

“I apologize, citizen,” Nightshade immediately bowed to the Earth Pony and spread out her bat wings.

Luna squinted through the windows to judge the hour. Her sister’s dawn was fast approaching, and the Lunar Princess had done nothing during her Night Court, seen no petitioners, and passed no decrees. The alicorn instead sat in the large throne, surrounded by cushions, and patrolled the Dreamscape. Anypony that wandered in would witness Princess Luna of Equestria seemingly passed out in the throne, guarded by two ponies that seemed more bat than pony. Luna was equally capable of doing her duties in her bed and study, but Celestia insisted that her younger sister be available.

“Everypony will gallop to the court to see you,” her sister gushed over pancakes at breakfast while Luna slowly ate several slices of varied fruits as her dinner. This conversation had occurred just after Luna's reappearance to reclaim Nightmare Night. Luna had simply nodded, knowing the conversation was already lost before she ever sat down at the table. She suffered through a lonely court every night, more proof that Equestria no longer needed her.

A thousand years ago, Luna believed that she would be the better princess to lead Equestria, jealous of her sister’s sun and frivolity. Together, they had bested Discord and forged a realm out of the madness, yet it was Luna’s mark that decreed the taxes and the laws. Celestia ran through the countryside, smiting the monsters left behind in the wake of Discord’s short reign, earning the love of the ponies they claimed to rule together. Whatever Celestia did, the ponies loved, yet they spurned Luna’s night and sneered at her decrees. It was no wonder she declared herself Nightmare Moon. Foolish mare, Luna snapped in her head. Thou hast no right to mock. This is the results of thine sins.

Luna focused on the small Earth Pony before the throne, her first and only petitioner for the long night. “Why have you come, my little pony?” Luna said, trying her sister’s favorite title for their subjects. It sat uncomfortably on her tongue. The mare swallowed and rallied her courage.

“I’m Misty Glade. I’m here from Hope Hollow,” the mare squeaked. Luna reassessed her age and the dress from her high-pitched voice. The mare was closer to a filly. Most likely to young too form a herd in this age. “We’re a small logging town in the west Whitetail Woods.”

“I am familiar with Hope Hollow,” Luna said easily. Her patrols in the Dreamscape were not bound by the material world. Luna could drift from doorway to doorway, skipping thousands of miles in a moment to quell the nightmares of her subjects. Hope Hollow had few nightmares, mostly mundane situations such as finances and relationship troubles.

Luna’s comment gave the filly more courage. “We cannot pay the new tax,” she said, then rapidly added, “I petition the crown for relief in dire circumstances on behalf of the community.” Luna’s ears perked. The mare spoke formally, using an updated sentence from her own law codes written a thousand years ago. Clearly rehearsed. She has done research.

“What dire circumstances hath,” Luna cut herself off, “has befallen your village?”

“Bushwoolies infested most of our trees for logging. We needed to hire someponies to help relocate them, and we’re behind on our quotas.”

A task for fair Lady Fluttershy. “You are here to ask for aid in this?”

Misty hesitated. “I’m here to ask the crown to exempt Hope Hollow from the tax increase.”

Luna frowned and fluttered her wings. “You wish to negotiate your tithe?" That was a matter for her lower court.

“Tax, Princess,” Nightshide corrected quietly.

“We can pay, but we can’t pay the increased crown tax.”

“What increase? We hath not authorized such a thing,” Luna narrowed her eyes. Her sister’s tax system was notoriously inefficient. Luna loved her sister dearly, but mathematics was never her strong suit, not even with Starswirl’s tutoring.

“The tax,” Misty said slowly. “The recent increase. Duchess Berry said it was for the crown. She had the postings put up and everything.” Misty pulled a folded slip of paper from her dress.

Luna floated it up to her muzzle with her magic and inspected it. It bore her cutie mark and her sister’s, which faintly hummed with energy. After a moment to scan over it, her teeth grinded together audibly. Forgery. The Duchess forged Our marks.

“Princess?” Nightshade called up. Luna realized she was kneading Celestia’s flank cushion with her front hooves, slowly rending it open on her silver shoes.

“We hath decreed no such thing, nor sent notices,” Luna ground out, staring off at the windows of the throne room. Stained glass images of her sister and six ponies glittered in the light of the chandeliers. “Duchess Berry lied to thee.”

“She has ponies that come by and collect it, though,” Misty said, visibly confused. “Like always. I know some of them.”

Bribery. Luna did not know all the nobles of her sister’s court. Duchess Berry Bundle was one of the several dozen that had bowed low and swore fealty to Luna after her return. Luna remembered how their eyes always went to Celestia and avoided her own. The family lines she interacted with in the past had shifted with marriage or died out entirely during her thousand year absence. Young Mi Amore Cadenza of the Crystal Empire was familiar, the distant descendent of Princess Amore. The only other was Blueblood, a foppish stallion and the last of the line of Platinum of the Unicorns.

“How long?” Luna asked, looking over the well-worn dress Misty wore. It wasn’t fit for a harvest dance, let alone the royal court. The dreams of lost money made more sense now in the Dreamscape. “Hath she increased such tithes before?”

“Um, yes?” Misty said. “W-when, uh, when you…” she trailed off.

When I returned. “We have not raised any taxes. Why are We only told now?” she said in a harsh whicker, addressed more to herself than her audience.

“We can't go to Duchess Berry, and I tried to go to Princess Celestia,” Misty protested. “I waited in line all day, but the deputy said it wasn’t a concern for the Princess.”

Luna could tell when a pony was honest; she once bore the Element of Honesty to defeat Discord. Misty had traveled for days to be rebuffed by her sovereigns. She had turned to her in desperation. The filly swayed on her hooves, fear combating fatigue. The ponies that waited in line for Celestia to hear their petitions passed through several guard checkpoints and seneschals, who turned ponies away with concerns that could be handled by the lower courts.

The velvet cushion exploded in a puff of feathers. “Duchess Berry is false!” Luna’s hoof clanged loudly against the throne, and she surged up to her full height, towering over the Earth Pony and her guards. Misty cringed back. More bribery, in our court, in our home. The forged letter crackled in Luna’s magic, and she flung it down to Nightshade. The Pegasus barely had time to catch it.

There was a flash as Luna teleported in her quill and inkpot from her study, then another as a parchment appeared before her muzzle. While descending the steps to Misty, the Princess wrote out her decree. “You shall pay no taxes henceforth to Berry Bundle and her House,” Luna roared. “She is known as a false friend of the crown forever more, and she will be—”

—she will be hanged is what Luna wanted to say, but Equestria ended the death penalty during her banishment. Doubtless, a decree of such from the feared Princess of the Night would be taken as the return of Nightmare Moon.

—she will be flogged was a compromise, but her sister forbade such actions as well. It would make Luna’s message clear, but nobility cherished one thing before any other, no matter the age.

“—and her family is hereby tripped of their titles,” Luna finished with a grim smile, then affixed a glowing magical seal of her cutie mark to the parchment. We still have that right, to make and unmake thee as We please. She cast an additional spell on the letter to preserve it, then floated the parchment over to Misty. "This decree is bound by my magic. She cannot contest this, nor can she destroy it."

The Earth Pony blinked at the flowing hornscript and tucked the letter to her chest. She yawned and blushed at the Princess with wide brown eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Not all of our subjects can enjoy the night,” Luna said in a softer tone. “It is a lesson We learned well. Where are you staying?”

“Warden’s Room and Board.”

“Lower Canterlot,” Nightshade snorted. “That place is a wreck, but cheap.” Misty didn't argue.

“Commander, set Misty up with a guest room, We have enough spares.”

“Please, Princess, I can’t!” Misty exclaimed, then her pupils withdrew in terror for shouting at the Princess. “The train leaves tomorrow at six in the morning,” she squeaked.

“That is in less than three hours,” Luna replied. Misty looked through the windows and her ears drooped. Trains. “Arrange my chariot and the flight crew,” Luna said, turning to the other guard.

“Are you planning to go yourself?” Nightshade asked warily. Luna snorted. If I did, Sister would hear of it by dawn. “Misty shall fly back and be reimbursed the cost of her tickets. Both of them,” she clarified with a stomp. “Our subjects should not have to crawl to us to see justice done. Arrange an escort and ensure the decree is delivered to Berry Bundle.”

Nightshade smiled and bore her illusionary fangs. "My pleasure, Princess."

Misty said nothing, struggling not to hyperventilate before Princess Luna. Commander Nightshade gently guided her away from the throne, pushing the smaller mare towards a side door. The other guard departed for the dockyards hanging underneath Canterlot to ready the chariot. Misty stumbled against the door, walking with three hooves as she clutched the letter to her chest. Luna made a note to seek her out in the Dreamscape for more details, such as the name of the seneschal who dismissed her. This is only the start. Even if Misty returned to Hope Hollow with a cadre of Night Guards, the Duchess would probably run to Celestia with her tail between her legs.

Luna stood alone in the throne room and remembered the old unicorn nobility, pompous hornheads of the likes of Duchess Berry. Her sister had scrubbed their shared history clean of the daily treachery of the Everfree Court after Discord, but Luna had not forgotten. She remembered seeking out plotters in the Dreamscape, and the occasional swing of her scythe in the night. It won her no friends, and her sister was always too busy carousing. It appears the past is not as far behind as I thought. Her teeth ground together again.

Jon: The Changeling

Jon stumbled through the snow on cold, clawed feet, following the strangest creature he had ever seen. The self-named Thorax occasionally stopped and shook snow loose from the holes in his legs before continuing forward. He called himself a changeling, as if that word meant something. He looked like a great insect from the marsh, with black plating and buzzing wings vaguely in the shape of a small horse. It was obvious from his mannerisms that he was unused to the cold.

The day was still bitterly cold, but the wind had died down over the course of the morning, so the pair made decent progress through the snowy fields. It left Jon time to think and find better footing on his awkward legs. His ankles on his feet were placed higher than they should be, and his knees bent awkwardly. He had stumbled over several times into the snow, Longclaw nearly plunging in down to the hilt before Jon tightened his grip and pulled it free. Thorax would pause and watch him with big, solid blue eyes, but just chittered his insect wings while he waited for the dragon to stand again.

Dragon. Jon mulled it over in his head. If he was a dragon, he was possibly the smallest dragon that ever lived. As for the changeling, Thorax could’ve called himself a grumpkin or snark and Jon would’ve believed him. Beyond the Wall, far more stranger creatures were said to exist. The Children of the Forest who made the Pact with the First Men, Ice Dragons and Frost Spiders, Giants and Direwolves.

Jon had seen the last two with his own eyes. Direwolves were thought all dead before Lord Eddard and his children found the litter. There was one for each of the Stark children, and Jon found Ghost away from the others, having crawled from his mother's body to the shade of a tree. Their mother had died to a stag. It had been an omen, a wolf killed by a stag. Robert Baratheon, the Crowned Stag, rode to Winterfell and named Ned his Hand of the King, and his father died a supposed traitor.

Ghost, Jon thought again. Where are you? The Wildlings called him a skin-changer or a warg due to his connection to his wolf, but he hadn’t felt Ghost since he woke up in this place.

Jon flexed his talons along Longclaw’s carved pommel. His grip was easily stronger now; his hand had been badly burnt during his first encounter with the wights in the Lord Commander Mormont’s chambers. Ghost had helped him then, but now he was nowhere to be seen. If he’s still at Castle Black, the men will kill him.

The thought sat low in Jon’s stomach, and he ran a claw across his white belly. There were no stab wounds, but he remembered the blades and the blood smoking in the snow. For the Watch.

Jon snorted another plume of flame through his nose on reflex, feeling his wings and tail twitch. The fire whooshed through the air and dissipated two feet ahead of him, near his guide. Thorax turned his head back and stared at him with solid blue eyes. “I’m fine,” Jon offered slowly and rubbed his muzzle with his free claw. “I apologize.”

“I-I thought you said you didn’t k-know how to make fire?” Thorax asked. His stuttering didn’t come from the cold. The changeling seemed naturally nervous, probably from the dragon with a Valyrian blade at his back.

“I don’t,” Jon confirmed. “I was thinking about…” He didn’t want to think about it anymore. His own men, his sworn brothers. He didn’t command them to go south to fight Ramsay; he asked for volunteers. Bowen and Othell opposed him at every turn, and drove their blades into him over—

Another snort of flame emerged with a hiss. Thorax jumped back, crouching low in the snow. Jon loosened his grip around Longclaw again and felt his too-long mouth twist in shame. “I am sorry,” he said again. “I do not wish to talk about it.”

“T-that’s fine!” the changeling said hurriedly and resumed walking towards the pink sky. Jon wrenched his eyes away as Thorax turned back around. The changeling’s short tail hid nothing, and Jon’s eyes were seared with an unfamiliar mix of parts.

They traveled silently for a time before Jon’s curiosity bubbled over. “Are you male?” Thorax’s voice was high-pitched and strangely toned, but it sounded like a man.

“Yes?” Thorax called over his shoulder, mildly confused. “I-I mean, changelings can be any—” He clamped his mouth shut with a clack of teeth. “I m-mean yes.”

Jon frowned out of suspicion, but there were more pressing concerns. He motioned down to his chest and belly. “Am I a male dragon?”

Thorax turned around again and looked Jon up and down. “Yes?”

It was too cold to feel anything down there, so Jon took him at his word. “Thanks.”

The changeling licked his fangs. “Um, n-not to be rude, but you do know what m-male and female are, right?”

You know nothing, Jon Snow. Jon’s frown twisted to a wry smile. “I suspect my knowledge is rather useless right now, but I do.” From what Jon could recall from books and Maester Aemon, the dragons of the Targaryen Dynasty didn’t really have set genders, at least none that he could recall. Their riders assigned them names, or the survivors of their rampages.

Thorax slowly turned back and marched through the snow, and Jon followed. By the time the city came into sight, the sun hung high in the sky. Jon risked squinting up at it. It shimmered strangely to his eyes, and was far too close. Winter was here. The nights grew long and the sun never lingered so high in the North. He returned his gaze forward and his eyes widened as the mismatched pair crested a snowy hill and beheld the city in the distance.

It shimmered under a pink bowl, as if a great glass dome had been placed around it. Green fields and colorful crystal buildings stretched into the sky inside the dome, and the city bustled with small, distant dots. Jon watched numbly as some roaring contraption plowed through the snow in the distance, passing through the dome and coated with plates of metal that reflected in the sunlight. Thorax paused at the hill as well, staring towards the city and rubbing his front hooves together.

For a moment, Jon was seized by the memories of the Others and the White Walkers. Their armor and weapons were made of frozen crystal, said to render asunder any mortal blade that tried to match them. Only Sam had ever killed one with a dragonglass dagger. The spire in the center of the dome looked imposing enough to be a citadel.

“It’s the Crystal City,” Thorax offered by his side. “I-it’s nice and warm in there. The shield keeps out the snow.” He winced and backed away when Jon turned to face him.

“Do changelings know of the Others?”

“N-no?”

“The White Walkers,” Jon tried. “The Great Other and the Long Night?” The changeling’s eyes were blue. Blue like the walking corpses. Jon held Longclaw half-ready.

“No,” Thorax said a bit more forcefully. His hooves were full of snow again as he backpedaled.

Jon advanced until his tail slapped against one of his legs. This is absurd. He held Longclaw up and examined his arm. Black scales traveled along his arms to his shoulders and back, but his chest was as white as weirwood. He had no idea what his muzzle looked like, aside from too narrow and too long. He turned away from Thorax in a flush of shame and planted Longclaw in the snow blade first, then sat down beside it and laughed. It had been a long time since he laughed, being the Lord Commander was a thankless, tiring task. And I sent my friends away, Sam and Pypar and Edd and Todder. I left myself with no one, and turn on the only one that saved my life for nothing.

“I apologize,” Jon said again and recognized how hollow it sounded. “I am very far from home, and nothing is familiar. You saved my life and I am a poor guest.”

“It’s f-fine.”

“It is still no excuse.” Jon stared towards the city and tried to pick out the colorful dots. “Thank you for taking me here. Are your people in there?”

Thorax took too long to respond.

“They are not,” Jon guessed. Why else would he be in a cave outside it? “You have taken me far enough. I thank you, but I can only offer my sword.”

Thorax shook his head at the offered blade. “Changelings change shape,” he finally said and plopped heavily into the snow with a chittering sigh.

Jon blinked. “Like a skin-changer?”

Thorax struggled to respond, then sighed again. “Can you promise me something?”

“Of course,” Jon said immediately.

“Promise me you w-won’t k-kill me. Just tell me to leave.”

Jon looked at the snarling wolf with ruby eyes on the end of Longclaw’s pommel. He reached over, drew the blade out of the snow, then tossed it softly between them. It landed closer to Thorax than himself. “I give you my word.”

Thorax closed his eyes and erupted into green fire, like wildfire. It traveled along his body with a crackle. Jon flinched back and fell onto his wings in surprise. The folds in the wings pinched and turned awkwardly in the snow, and the dragon spent a moment wrestling with them before looking back at Thorax.

A small gray horse stared back at him.

The proportions were all wrong. The coat was too thin, the eyes were too large, the muzzle too square, and hooves too wide and flat. There was a picture of a solid gray crystal on its flank. It blinked at him with brown eyes and said, “H-hello.” The voice had lost the echo, but still sounded somewhat male.

“Thorax?” Jon asked.

“Y-yes,” the horse nodded.

Changeling. The name made sense now, to some extent. “Why are you a horse?” Jon asked.

The horse frowned. The stallion’s face was more expressive than Thorax’s natural fangs and eyes. “I’m not an Arabian,” Thorax nickered. “I’m a Pony.”

The Hill Clans in the North bred hardy ponies with thick fur coats for travel in winter. The thing in front of him looked nothing like that. “Are you sure?” Jon asked, but felt stupid for even voicing the question.

The pony looked suddenly concerned. “Y-yes?” he said in a worried whicker, turning around in the snow and mumbling to himself. Thorax scanned himself over quickly and nodded as if to assure himself. “Yes, I am a Pony,” he said proudly and stomped a hoof into the snow.

“Why?”

Thorax looked down towards the city. “O-oh,” he stuttered. “Um, changelings aren’t really p-popular, and the Crystal Empire is ruled by Ponies.”

Jon felt his sharp teeth with a pointed tongue. “Dragons aren’t popular with Ponies,” he assumed. The colorful dots in the distance worked the fields around the city. Jon noticed there weren’t any walls. I suppose magic is their wall.

“N-not really.” Thorax’s furry ears perked. “But I’m a Pony now, and I think you’re fine!”

“And these Ponies know magic?” Magic was an easy answer to what happened, but Mance’s wife Dalla warned Jon about sorcery. The Horned Lord once said that sorcery is a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it. Mance Rayder supposedly had a horn that could knock the Wall down with a single blow, but Melisandre burned it with her own powers. Jon’s men whispered that his direwolf Ghost was magic, and warging and skin-changing was an old kind of magic from when the First Men still worshipped weirwoods across Westeros. Magic was an easy answer, but it was rarely simple.

“I’m sure they’ll know what happened,” Thorax said with the most confidence Jon had ever heard him use. His newly furry legs walked down the hill and towards the city. Jon stood, but grabbed Longclaw before he followed. The Valyrian steel caught the light of the sun.

Flash: The Guards of the North

Flash Sentry gave the mare his most disarming smile and a slow, friendly wave. The Crystal Pony flinched from the attention and abruptly turned down a side street, shoulders slow and moving in quick, jittery strides. Her coat, a shade of bright blue, glittered in the sunlight filtering through the shield as she disappeared between a closed bakery and an open vegetable market.

“You’re too ugly, Lieutenant,” Flare quipped with an easy, gap-toothed grin. She tapped her horn knowingly and bumped the Pegasus with a shoulder. “Crystal Mares dig magic.”

“Reminds them too much of Sombra,” Trench replied from Flash’s other side. The brown Earth Pony looked nervously down the alley and tried to see which way she went. “She was a bit suspicious, though. We should investigate.”

“No,” Flash sighed. “We shouldn’t.” He shook his head, making his golden helmet chafe against his ears, then lifted a foreleg and pulled a strap on his greaves tighter with his teeth. Flash tested the fit with a quick stomp, then continued on the patrol, trying to ignore the glare of the sun reflecting off the crystal buildings along the street. His two friends and squadmates followed.

“We’re here to be a reassuring presence, not to harass Shining’s citizens,” Flash reminded them with a mild frown. A young colt caught sight of a frowning guard and scurried under the vegetable stand. On reflex, the mare at the stand placed a sack of potatoes in front of the colt and blocked him from sight. She looked away when Flash raised a wing in greeting. He didn’t stop and continued to lead his guards down the street. This was a mistake.

Flash Sentry had known Shining Armor for years; they graduated from the Royal Academy together as part of the same class. The head of Princess Celestia’s Royal Guard was always a unicorn, and Shining Armor was easily the finest Unicorn in the academy. He memorized the manual so thoroughly he mumbled quotations from it in his sleep. That habit saved Flash on a few inspections when they were both cadets.

The official response to a tragedy was to increase the presence of the Royal Guard in surrounding areas to assure Ponies they were being protected. The Crystal Empire didn’t associate helmeted and armed Ponies with protection, however. Princess Amore ruled ably a thousand years ago with the Crystal Heart as her only force. She ruled well, until Sombra killed her, usurped her throne, and sent the Crystal Ponies into the mines. Sombra ruled through fear, and the sight of armed soldiers stoked more fear than reassurance. Flash twitched his wings against the gilded armor along his barrel. At least I talked Shining out of keeping the identity enchantment. At least they can tell we’re all different Ponies.

The golden armor standard to all Royal Guards was the most heavily enchanted in the world. Unicorn Mages with marks and talents worked tirelessly to refine their spells in Canterlot. Flash enjoyed the cooling spells and featherweight enchantments. Wish they’d get the fit right around the legs, though. His wing brushed against his collapsed spear hung by his side. The metal shaft folded into two parts and locked together. It could be a flimsy weapon, if not for the runes etched along the haft.

Trench seemed to guess his friend’s thoughts. “We should stop using the appearance enchantment in Equestria.”

“It’s tradition,” Flare Warden replied with a whicker. Next to Flash, the shorter mare could’ve passed for his younger sister. Both were blue-maned with orange fur, but Flare’s eyes were bright pink compared to his own bright blue.

Trench lowered his voice to a whisper; a hard feat for the tall Earth Pony. “It makes it easier for changelings.”

“We don’t use that word,” Flash rebuked him sharply, stopping in the street.

“We’re all thinking it,” the Earth Pony answered defensively and scuffed a hoof against the rough cobblestones.

“We don’t know what happened,” Flash said, referring to the morning's news. Another mining settlement was discovered by a mailmare, burned down and destroyed. The search team failed to find any bodies, just like all the others. A near-riot of Crystal Ponies was barely dispersed by Princess Cadance. The pink alicorn was clearly stressed, torn between her subjects and her foal.

“What else could it be? Sombra?”

Flash shushed the Earth Pony with a sudden jab of his greaves. Metal clinked against metal on the street, and Trench rubbed a forehoof against his armor to rub out the scuff mark. Some of the Crystal Ponies stopped to watch the exchange, then rapidly trotted away.

Pointless. Flash sighed. Since the liberation of the Crystal Empire and the death of the Tyrant King, the Crystal Ponies had proven to be a superstitious and easily frightened herd. Flash still felt sympathy for them, to be stolen away for a thousand years out of time would’ve destroyed most mares. After all, look at Luna. He shook the thought out his head.

The Royal Guard was admittedly biased against the Princess of the Night; she preferred her own guards and her own, long-forgotten enchantments of bat wings and fangs. Despite her oddness, anypony offering criticism of Celestia’s sister within earshot of Captain Armor tended to have surprise reassignments to the frontier. Nopony told him about the running bet on when she’d declare herself Nightmare Moon. “I heard Shining’s getting ready to name a replacement,” Flash offered as an apology to his squad.

“Not you?” Warden asked mockingly. It was also well-known amongst the guards that Flash had been passed over for promotion thrice by his best friend. You break from the book too often, Shining said. Prove me wrong here, and then we’ll talk.

“Maybe,” Flash answered impulsively, but without much hope. He was technically in charge of several three-pony squads throughout the city, but the Crystal City was too large to properly patrol with only three hundred guards. They needed more Ponies, and Equestria wanted more coal and railways. And nopony was coming north anymore to mine the mountains.

“How’s the little terror?” Flare asked. She meant Flurry Heart, the newborn alicorn foal. It was the first natural birth of an alicorn in living memory, including Celestia’s. Flash cast an eye about for other Equestrians on the street, but didn’t spy any.

“Seems like she’s not bringing in anymore gawkers,” Flash said neutrally. He shook his wings out and continued walking down the street.

“Princess Cadance is a stronger mare than I to push out those wings,” Warden chirped. “Are they really that big?”

Flash had only seen Flurry Heart once, at a safe distance as she dragged her tutor Sunburst down a hallway. “Yes.” Warden and Trench laughed and the noise startled the few Crystal Ponies left on the street. They cleared the way for the trio.

After the liberation and coronation of Princess Cadance, the Crystal Empire was jubilant. Celestia had published a series of articles and essays of her own memories of the Empire; it made the front page of every newspaper. Luna’s memoirs made page four. There had been a huge surge of starry-eyed Earth Ponies to work the green fields around the Crystal City. Pegasi lined up to manage the weather, and Unicorns applied to learn Sombra’s secrets.

Sombra’s dungeons and laboratory had been sealed off by order of Princess Cadance. Sunburst was confirmed as the Royal Crystaller for his connections to Celestia’s academy. The weather was always sunny within the shield, which made rain and irrigation a difficulty. Flash had been pressed into cloud duty more than once. And the fields turned out to be too small for the number of Earth Ponies that arrived.

The Crystal Empire, really just a city in the snow, only survived due to Equestria’s support. The payment for that support was the crystals and precious ore in the mines. The Frozen North varied between mountains and frozen tundra. The Crystal City's reappearance meant that there was finally a presence in the north. “Let’s go to the train station,” Flash decided. It was off-route, but the streets from the station to the palace were the busiest.

“Thinking like that ain’t gonna get you promoted,” Warden warned.

Trench just nodded. It took several minutes to trot there.

As they turned a corner around a three-story purple house, Flash froze and gaped at an empty street. He ran through his head a list of patrols supposedly in the area, and came up with at least seven. A Crystal Pony crouching behind a cart in the street spied his helmet peeking around the corner and waved her hoof wildly with panicked eyes.

Trencher went tense and slowly retrieved his own spear and extended the haft. “Changeling,” he whispered.

Flash reared off the ground and flexed his front hooves. The knives in the greaves extended with a clunk, and he retracted them. At least that works. “Warden, you got that spell, right?”

“Yeah,” she said softly and her horn glowed pink. The Crystal Pony was too preoccupied staring under the cart down the street to notice her coat flicker and shimmer. “She’s clear,” Warden said.

Flash scanned the rooftops as he walked forward. A lot of Equestrians lived closer to the outskirts than the palace, and some Crystal Pony merchants liked to set up their stalls along the way to the train station and sell little trinkets. The pony he crept up to looked to be selling her tea sets as ‘ancient antiques.’ Honestly good business sense, Flash judged from the pile of bits next to the cart. The mare waved him to crouch lower and harshly whispered, “He’ll see you!”

Flash practically crawled along the cobblestones and suppressed a wince. His armor didn’t cover his belly. “Who?” he asked once he was close enough.

“The dragon!”

Flash looked over the top of the cart towards the train. “Sir Spike?” The Crystal Ponies revered Spike. Hatched by Princess and prodigy Twilight Sparkle, he had saved the city from Sombra when the Crystal Empire returned. That doesn’t make sense.

“Another dragon,” she hissed in a whisper. “He has evil eyes like Sombra and has some poor pony under his thrall!”

Flash bit his lip. Crystal Ponies were difficult to work with. They panicked over the smallest detail, and the disappearances around the outer mining towns had nearly caused a stampede. “Right,” he sighed. “Where is this dragon?”

The Crystal Pony jabbed a hoof down the street and laid down behind the cart. “He has a sword!”

Of course. Flash waved Trench and Flare forward with a wing and slowly walked down the center of the street. He spied eyes watching him from alleyways and windows in every building. “Something spooked them. Some creature probably got off the train.”

“Like that Griffon?” Trench asked suspiciously. “Might be changelings.”

“We checked him.”

“Still…”

Flash tuned him out. Sky High should be patrolling around here. Where is her squad? He wasn’t concerned until he turned around another corner and stopped short at a slim dragon staring at his reflection on a bright crystal wall. A beleaguered pony sat next to him with a teary-eyed frown.

The dragon carried a long sword loosely in one claw. The blade seemed to shimmer in the light.

Thorax: The Pointy End

Thorax’s pony ears wilted into his mane at the shriek of the train’s whistle. He stopped in the field. Even at this distance, it was still loud. Behind him, Snow’s wings flared out suddenly and the dragon whipped his head towards the train station again. After a moment, he roughly marehandled his wings with awkward claws, folding them against his back. “You say Ponies ride that thing?” he asked with a hiss.

“Yes,” Thorax replied confidently, stomping his hoof into the grass. “We do. It’s perfectly safe.” At least, the changeling believed it to be perfectly safe; he had never ridden one before. He flew from Equestria to the Frozen North, drawn by the burst of pure emotion. Changelings weren’t meant to go it alone. They needed others. And you’ve saddled yourself with the most awkward dragon in the world, brother, Pharynx whispered again. Thorax shook his head and felt his mane bounce. He couldn’t suppress his smile. “It’s fine,” he said. “Let’s go!” He trotted through the dirt path through the strawberry fields towards the train station.

Snow followed him, gripping his sword loosely and warily staring at the parked train. It was a typical Equestrian-style engine, colored candy pink and belching steam, with equally garish passenger and baggage cars. As the pair approached, Thorax noted the few passengers arriving. Many more Ponies stood at the train station and piled their luggage to leave. The changeling slowly stopped and extended his senses. The station was a mix of fear and apprehension. They’re afraid of something. Thorax glanced over his shoulder at Snow. He was slightly hunched, with a mild frown. His red eyes still scanned over the train, but he noticed Thorax’s look. “Is it meant to look that…odd?” he asked.

“Ponies like bright colors,” Thorax responded. “Uh, the sword might be an issue…”

Snow looked down at it and adjusted his grip. “I’m missing the scabbard.”

“We could leave it.”

“No,” Snow growled with narrowed eyes, then wrinkled his muzzle and blinked slowly. “I would prefer not to just leave Longclaw in a field,” he said in a softer tone.

“Longclaw?” Thorax asked. “You named it?”

“The Mormonts named it thousands of years ago. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont gave it to me.” The dragon gave it a lazy swing. “It’s Valyrian steel, one of very few left.”

“It’s expensive,” Thorax summarized. “Is it part of your hoard?”

“A what?” Snow asked and focused on the disguised changeling.

Thorax paused and felt nothing but honesty and confusing radiating from the dragon. Told you, Pharynx chuckled. “You know, your stuff?” he tried to clarify. What kind of dragon has a sword for his hoard?

“I suppose it is the only thing I own,” Snow replied slowly, still confused. The train whistle blew again, but this time the dragon didn’t jump.

Thorax sat on his furry haunches and raised a hoof to think. Dragons and Ponies didn’t mix well, despite the rumors about the new Princess supposedly having a dragon friend. Ponies had shiny things, and Dragons liked to take shiny things and sit on them. Dragons don’t mix well with anything, actually, not even themselves. Despite Snow’s visible hesitation to pass through the pink shield, he followed Thorax inside. Thorax himself was slightly worried that it would repel the changeling and burn away his false face, but his gray-furred hoof passed through without issue.

Thorax hoped Snow thought his shaking was from the cold and not fear. The dragon seemed to regard him fondly, with a flavoring of melancholy and nostalgia. Thorax reminded him of someone, but the changeling didn’t dare ask. The earlier burst of suspicion prevented the changeling from prying further. Whatever a ‘White Walker’ is, he’s clearly afraid of it. I’m not sure I want to know. Thorax looked over at the station again and blinked his pony eyes. Nopony had noticed the pair in the distance yet, but the emotions were still desperate. “Let’s go around,” Thorax offered neutrally.

“Dragons aren’t popular?” Snow asked with a bit of a quirked muzzle. “Or is it the sword?”

“Both?” the changeling said uncertainly.

“Smallfolk have every reason to fear an armed stranger,” Snow replied. “I can wait here. I’ve driven away all the ones in the field, it seems.”

Thorax cringed. The two approached through the several fields tended by Earth Ponies. Thorax enjoyed the sun on his false fur, and Snow seemed mesmerized by the city ahead of them. “It must be as large as King’s Landing,” he had muttered, but Thorax was more focused on the farmers ahead of them. The first Earth Pony, a yellow mare with a bandana, lifted her head from her row of potatoes and gaped at Thorax and Snow in the distance. Thorax waved his furry hoof and gave her a fang-free smile. The mare galloped away. It had been the same result with all the others they crossed paths with so far.

“I’m not sure that will help,” Thorax said. So far, all of the suspicion and fear had been directed towards the dragon and not himself. The changeling part of him said to keep the dragon around to draw attention away. His conscience reminded him, I showed him what we could do, and he accepted it. I won’t just leave my friend.

Thorax’s stomach growled, and Pharynx whispered, You didn’t show him everything. No amount of Pony food would fill that void inside him, and changing into a pony took more energy than he liked. “I’m with you,” Thorax said, forcing more confidence into his voice. “We’ll b-be fine.” He trotted down the dirt path, but took the fork away from the train station and towards the city. “J-just don’t mention, uh, skin-changers.”

“Agreed.”

As the pair entered the outskirts, Thorax stopped again to marvel at the architecture. The only other major city he had seen was Canterlot, stationed on its lonely mountain and gilded with gold and marble. The Crystal Empire was older; most buildings were squat little two story houses with crystal walls at the outskirts, but the buildings grew in size and splendor the closer to the palace in the center. Thorax resisted hissing and sticking his tongue out. Love and hope were in the air. The shield around the city seemed powered by it. If Chrysalis learns about this place, she’ll take it by storm. The thought settled into his empty stomach. She’ll throw every ‘ling she has left at it.

“We just walk in?” Snow asked warily. He stared down a mostly empty side street with his mild frown.

“Well, yes.” Thorax answered. “Why?”

“There’s no gate,” Snow explained. “Or guards. There’s no wall.” He paused and stared towards a Pegasus flying in the distance.

“Is that common where you’re from?” Thorax couldn’t resist asking.

“I suppose sieges are different when one can fly,” the dragon said dryly.

Thorax thought about Canterlot. “Yes,” he cringed. “It is.” He hurried at a trot and Snow struggled to keep up with him. The dragon seemed to struggle walking on his hind legs, and Thorax briefly tried to imagine him on all fours. Some dragons are like that, right?

The street was full of vendors selling their wares from several stalls and carts. Crystal Ponies and all three tribes waved at each other and bartered over their goods, haggling with a mix of bits and shards of sapphires. Thorax basked in the friendly atmosphere with a sigh and closed his eyes.

The emotions suddenly turned sour, and the small crowd quieted down. Thorax knew what the problem was before he opened his eyes. Snow was standing beside him. He stood taller than a stallion, with red eyes and short red horns. Black scales ran down his back, arms, and legs, but his belly was as white as snow. His wings were tinged red, and small white spikes ran to a spade-like tail from his head.

At first glance, the dragon looked terrifying. But Thorax had spend all morning with him, watching him stumble into the snow and flex white talons on black claws. His claws weren't’ very sharp, and the spikes and horns were surprisingly blunt. His startling red eyes seemed more youthful than piercing and menacing. His voice was soft and light for a dragon. Thorax hadn't asked, but he had to be young. Maybe fifty? That's young for a dragon.

The Crystal Ponies didn’t take the time to assess his appearance like Thorax. They gaped at the dragon, forgotten bits falling from hooves and teeth, then scattered to alleyways and inside buildings. Thick crystal doors slammed shut behind shimmering coats and tails. Thorax offered a wave and nervous smile to one mare and she fainted, slamming her muzzle into her crystal stall and tumbling into the street. Snow winced next to him.

In the time it took to sigh, the street cleared of ponies.

“I should leave,” Snow said bluntly with his frown. It seemed to be his natural expression.

“P-ponies are really nervous,” Thorax said. “You should try smiling. It might help.”

Snow looked down at Thorax and attempted to smile. His lips stretched awkwardly around his narrow muzzle.

Thorax’s brown eyes reflexively shrank in fear. “Don’t smile.”

Snow returned to his small frown and snorted. He looked over his shoulder back towards the fields. “I should just wait out there.”

Thorax thought about approaching somepony alone and trying to convince them to go meet Snow. His hooves shuffled against the cobblestone. Just leave him, Pharynx said. Find some isolated pony and drain them. Take their face.

No, Thorax argued in his head. They’ll connect me to Snow anyway. I’m here to make friends, not cause a panic.

Pharynx chuckled. Thinking like a changeling, brother.

Thorax lashed his fluffy tail. “L-let’s keep going. Y-you’re more l-likely to get into trouble without me.”

“True,” Snow nodded.

The next street was already deserted. Thorax suppressed a whimper. I’m right here. He’s not that scary. Snow walked to a quartz building, a furniture store from the sign, and stared at his reflection in the crystal. He turned his muzzle up and down, then smiled a bit more naturally. His teeth gleamed bright white, with small fangs at the front of his muzzle.

Smaller fangs than mine. The realization hit Thorax hard, and he looked down at his furry fake hooves. He couldn’t possibly be friends with anypony, not as he was really. The Queen ruined that at the wedding. Ponies were too afraid. He sat on his flank and sniffled.

“I appear to be the weakest dragon in the world,” Snow observed with a slight laugh. “A lance could run me through.” He glanced over at Thorax, and the bitter amusement vanished. He adjusted his grip on Longclaw so the blade faced away and knelt next to the disguised changeling. Thorax felt his eyes flash as he absorbed the genuine concern out of habit, but the tears disguised it.

Snow sighed. “I should leave. I will await whatever these…Ponies send in the field. I do not wish to cause you distress.”

Thorax opened his mouth to respond, but a voice cut him off.

“Step away from the Pony, dragon!”

Thorax snapped his head to the end of the street. An orange Pegasus in golden armor leveled a spear evenly between his front hooves. A brown Earth Pony and orange Unicorn stood below him with their own spears ready. The golden armor of the Royal Guard gleamed in the sunlight.

Thorax felt the absolute bafflement first. “Really?” Snow said so softly that he had to strain his pony-ears to hear it. The dragon carefully set the blade down, then slowly stood on shaky legs and raised his claws above his head. “I mean no harm,” he called out.

“Why don’t you step away from the pony, then?” the Pegasus called back.

Snow stepped away from Thorax and back against the wall.

Thorax found his voice. “I-it’s fine!” he stuttered and wiped a hoof over his muzzle. “H-he’s with me!”

The guards slowly approached down the street, eyes locked on the dragon. The Pegasus broke eye contact to address Thorax. “Come towards us,” he ordered. Thorax felt their fear as he slowly approached. None of it was directed towards him. The Earth Pony, the largest of the trio, was the most terrified. The Unicorn mare masked her fear with bravado. The Pegasus was clearly the leader; he forced his fear down and radiated stubbornness.

Thorax sat on his flank in front of them and waved his hooves. “I-it’s fine,” he pleaded. “I-I found him out in the snow.”

“Beyond the shield?” the Pegasus asked.

Thorax froze and desperately thought of a lie. “I-I work the fields. I saw him stumbling around from the edge, then fall over.”

“You should’ve gotten a guard,” the Unicorn rebuked.

“I-I didn’t see any!” Thorax lied.

The Pegasus grumbled something under his breath and landed. “Typical. What’s your name?”

“Crystal Hoof,” Thorax blurted out. Idiot. “His name’s Snow.” Double idiot, even if it's true.

The Earth Pony scanned him over. “You’re not a Crystal Pony,” he observed.

“Thanks for the obvious, mudhead,” the Unicorn snapped.

“N-no?” Thorax guessed. “I wanted to come here. I carried him through the shield.”

The Pegasus leaned in and whispered, “Did the dragon threaten you? We’re here to help.”

Thorax took a deep breath and forced his nerves to cooperate. “No. He’s really confused,” he said clearly. “He’s got no idea where he is right now.”

“What about the sword?” the Unicorn asked.

“It’s sharp?” Thorax offered. “He offered to pay me with it earlier.”

The Pegasus bit his lip, then tucked his spear under a wing and slowly walked towards Snow. The dragon remained against the wall with his arms raised above his head. He didn’t say anything as the Pegasus approached, eyeing the sword on the cobblestones with a nicker. “What’s your business here?”

“I am very lost, ser,” Snow replied. “I woke in the snow and found my way here.”

Thorax blinked. He didn’t mention me.

The Pegasus didn’t seem to pick up on it. He bumped the pommel of Longclaw with a hoof. “You just swing this around and frighten everypony?”

“I lost my scabbard. I am aware carrying naked steel is a challenge, but I would rather not leave it in the dirt.” The Unicorn approached and her horn lit up in a glow. The carved wolf glowed bright pink for a moment, then the glow flickered and faded away.

She narrowed her eyes and her horn glowed brighter. "You lace this thing with dragon scales or something? I can't grab it."

Snow stared at the glowing horn. “What are you looking at?” the Pegasus asked.

“Is that magic?” Snow asked. He kept his arms above his head.

“What?” the mare snorted. “Never seen a unicorn before?”

“No.”

The two ponies stopped and glanced at each other. “Have you seen a Pegasus?” the stallion asked and flared out his orange wings.

“Is that what you are?”

“Yes,” the orange stallion frowned.

“No.”

The Earth Pony approached with nervous hooves and ushered Thorax to follow him. “You see a pony before?” the Pegasus continued questioning.

“No, ser,” Snow answered neutrally.

“Not before Crystal Hoof?” the leader pressed.

Snow glanced at Thorax, then nodded.

The Pegasus’ muzzle pressed into a thin line and he mulled over the answers. “You have no idea where you are, you have no idea who or what we are, and only have that sword. That about covers it? Anything else you want to add?”

Snow stared at the stallion for a long moment. His eyes flicked up and down. “I am unarmed, ser. I apologize for startling your smallfolk. I suspect I am very far from home.”

“How’d you get here, then?” the Unicorn chuckled.

“I was stabbed.”

Thorax nearly choked on the raw honesty. What?

The guards seemed equally taken back. Their ears pinned and tails swished nervously. The Pegasus licked his lips and whickered, “You look fine.”

“I was not yesterday night,” Snow answered slowly. “I do not know how I arrived in your kingdom, ser.”

The Ponies shared a look. Thorax felt concern and confusion. “Well, how about you come with us and try to figure out where you are. You have a name?” the Pegasus asked.

“Jon.”

The mare picked up the sword with her mouth, carrying it lopsided by the hilt. Snow winced and watched the mare’s slobber drip onto the carved, snarling wolf. The mare slowly moved back, eyes locked on the dragon, but Snow didn’t lower his arms or make any aggressive moves. The Pegasus waved a wing and stared at Snow expectantly. Snow stared back and blinked. “Right,” the Pegasus laughed uneasily. “You wouldn’t know that. Follow me.”

Snow slowly followed the pony with his arms still raised. The mare trotted behind him, spear drifting in her magic. The Earth Pony left Thorax to speak quickly with the Pegasus. They conversed in a series of harsh whispers. Thorax trotted next to Snow and offered him a brittle smile. “I thought you said your name was Snow?” he asked conversationally. The guards were fearful and cautious, and Thorax hoped the conversation would convince them to relax.

“Jon Snow,” the dragon answered. “My first name is Jon. Snow is…” he trailed off. “Snow is a bastard name.”

“A what?” the mare mumbled and more spit slathered onto the wolf.

Jon almost lowered his claws, then thought better of it. “I am baseborn, outside of my father’s line.”

Thorax didn’t understand the answer, but pressed forward. “Well, my name is Crystal Hoof.”

“So you said,” Jon answered with a straight muzzle. “I thank you for your help. You saved my life.”

“I-it’s nothing.”

The four ponies and one dragon turned down an alley. Jon moved slower and his eyes scanned over the guards. Thorax blinked, confused by the sudden burst of wariness, and then the Pegasus and Earth Pony turned around. The group stood between two houses with crystal walls, and the alley was narrow. It was only once everyone stopped did Thorax register the tension from the guards. Jon shifted against the left wall.

“Right,” the Pegasus said and maneuvered his spear back between his forehooves. “Drop the disguise, changeling.”

Thorax froze and his false muzzle trembled. No.

The Earth Pony stepped forward and gestured with his own spear for Thorax to step forward. “S-step away, Crystal Hoof. He’s not a dragon.”

The Unicorn walked around the two and braced her hooves against the cobblestone. She spat the sword out and drifted the spear to her side. “You expect us to believe that sob story, dragon. I thought changelings are smart.” Her horn flickered with energy. "Bet you stole that sword from Sombra's armory."

Thorax stepped forward toward the Earth Pony. It took all his courage not to fall over. “P-please,” he stuttered.

“It’s a changeling,” the Earth Pony answered. Fear and nervousness emanated from him, and his pinprick eyes were locked on the dragon. He roughly pulled Thorax behind him; the disguised changeling stumbled against the right wall. Not me. They think it's Snow. Pharynx whispered, Run.

“I’m not here to fight,” Snow said. He raised his arms higher.

“You thought we’d just welcome a dragon with open hooves because of Spike, huh?” the Pegasus snorted. He twirled the spear and flapped his wings above his friends. “We’ll take you in. Just tell us about the others. Tell us about the towns.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, ser.”

“You heard of changelings?” the Unicorn snarled.

Jon paused just a moment too long. “No.”

The Pegasus smirked. “Flare, cast the spell.”

The Unicorn’s horn erupted in light.

Thorax wasn’t the target, but his magic was weak from hunger. He was too close to the caster to avoid the residual effects of the illusion-stripping spell. He stared down at his hooves as the fur flaked away, revealing black chitin and ugly holes. He felt his fangs return to his muzzle and his eyesight blurred as the pupils burned away. The Earth Pony noticed out of the corner of his terrified eyes, and looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with Thorax.

The changeling raised a holed-hoof and rasped, “W-wait—”

The Earth Pony whinnied and bucked him against the wall. Thorax felt his fin snap against the crystal and his head spun. The pony seized him with a large hoof, throwing his spear aside, and slammed the changeling's head against the wall again, then the cobblestones. A fang rattled loose. His senses were flailing. The pony nearest to him was in complete panic; the other two weren’t much better. The dragon’s emotions burned brightly.

“Trench, stop!” a voice shouted, but the Earth Pony just slammed Thorax down again.

“It’s a trick!” the Earth Pony whinnied. “It’s a trick! Blast him! Blast him!”

Thorax watched as the panicking Unicorn, Flare, released a spell point blank into Snow as he dropped his arms. The pink laser splashed against his chest and slammed him into the wall. The crystal spiderwebbed with cracks, but Snow fell to all fours and wheezed, shaking his head and only bruised.

Dragon scales are resistant to magic, Thorax remembered distantly. Something warm trickled down the side of his head.

The Unicorn and Pegasus backed-up and shared a look of wide-eyed realization. Thorax’s senses were going mad, but he knew that look. Oh, real dragon. The Earth Pony smashed a hoof down on his back and Thorax felt a wing break.

The Pegasus looked back and snapped, “Trench, stop!” He dropped his spear and hovered above the Earth Pony, wrapping his forelegs around his neck and trying to pull him away. Trench reared up and struggled, whinnying with froth in his mouth. Thorax took the opportunity to cough.

Jon looked up at Thorax, then over at Longclaw. He had fallen near the sword, and the snarling wolf on the pommel was within claw reach. His eyes narrowed to slits. Flare noticed the stare and her horn sparked. A pink glow surrounded the blade, but failed to pull it away. Jon grabbed the hilt and stood, taking Longclaw in both claws. His wings extended and tail lashed to balance him as he rushed forward.

Thorax had watched Snow—Jon—move clumsily all morning. But in that moment, his claws danced on the cobblestones. He sidestepped one wild blast, then Longclaw caught another laser before it reached his muzzle. The metal shimmed and the spell bounced into the far wall. The Unicorn screamed in terror and thrust her spear forward with a burst of magic, but Jon deflected the strike with a vertical swing, then thrust the blade forward at an low angle.

It found purchase under Flare's muzzle and the sword tip pierced the back of her golden helmet.

Thorax felt the fear cut off suddenly as blood poured forth from her muzzle. Without breaking stride, Jon wrenched the blade free and nearly severed the mare’s head from her body and rushed towards Thorax. The encounter had taken only a breath. The Pegasus and Earth Pony still wrestled with each other above Thorax’s body, but the Pegasus reacted quickly. He leapt off his friend’s back and rolled along the cobblestones in the alley.

The Earth Pony snatched up his discarded spear and thrust it towards the dragon with wild eyes. Jon parried the strike, snatched the haft with one claw and jerked it down, and swept the sword across the pony’s throat with the other claw. The large Earth Pony collapsed on top of Thorax; the changeling felt the blood seep onto his back and broken wing. He scrabbled his hooves across the cobblestones and tried to pull himself free, but the stallion was still alive and crushing his lungs with his dying flails.

The Pegasus neighed a battle cry and lashed his own spear forward, using his wings to maneuver in the tight alleyway. Jon was driven back, but kept in the center of the alleyway, parrying or dodging the thrusts. He tried to knock the spear against either wall and lunge into range, but the Pegasus flapped his wings and flew back each time. Jon skidded back as well with each low thrust; his talons cleaved grooves into the cobblestone.

He's fought spears before, Pharynx whispered. You feel that, brother? There was only one source of emotion in the alley. The Earth Pony died choking on his blood; the Unicorn was dead from a thrust through the skull. The Pegasus was all fear and rage, and his thrusts grew wilder.

The dragon felt nothing and said nothing to the Pegasus. He’s killed before, brother.

Finally, the Pegasus overextended a thrust and Jon snapped Longclaw down. The shaft broke under the swing and the spear tip clattered to the ground. The Pegasus discarded the haft and flexed his forelegs. Short blades extended from the greaves on his hooves and he dashed forward. Jon clearly didn’t expect it and leapt back, nearly out of the alley and into the street.

A mare screamed, joined by a filly, then a stallion. Thorax felt a wave of pure panic engulf the area and his head throbbed. He extracted a foreleg from under the Earth Pony and pressed it against his head. His hoof came back coated in green blood. You’re probably going to die, brother, Pharynx advised. “Thanks, Pharynx,” Thorax mumbled.

A roar came from out of sight; Jon and the Pegasus reappeared in the alley. This time, the Pegasus was being driven back by savage hacks from the dragon’s two-handed grip. Jon didn’t flap his wings to take flight like the pony. Instead, his wings and tail moved on their own to balance him. The Pegasus dodged upwards and out of range of a horizontal swipe. Jon knelt, snatched the broken spear and flung it upwards with one claw. It was a poor throw that sailed over the pony’s head, but he reflexively dipped his wings.

Jon grabbed a dangling hind leg and pulled the smaller pony down, throwing him onto the cobblestones. The Pegasus whickered in pain, then brought his forelegs up and caught the downward thrust of the sword between his greaves. Jon stood over the pony and hissed as he forced the blade slowly towards the throat. The Pegasus pushed back, and blood seeped from between the greaves and trickled through his orange forelegs. The pony was losing, and the bloody sword point edged closer to his throat.

Thorax coughed and felt something in his chest rattle. Jon looked over at him, and Thorax felt a wave of uncertain emotions, then hard resolve. The dragon pulled the blade free and stomped onto the pony’s unarmored belly with a heel. The Pegasus coughed and lowered his forelegs; Jon smashed the snarling wolf on the pommel into the Pegasus' muzzle. The pony went limp, breathing shallowly through a broken, bloody nose.

Jon dropped the blade and pulled the Earth Pony entirely off Thorax. The changeling wheezed and coughed again. The dragon flipped the changeling over and scooped him up with his claws. His wings folded against his sides. “Can you hold onto my back?”

“I’m gonna throw up on you,” Thorax mumbled. He reached and looped his hooves around the dragon’s neck and slumped over his folded wings.

Jon hissed in discomfort, but picked up the sword with one claw and gripped one of Thorax’s forelegs with the other. “We need to move,” he said, more to himself than the changeling.

Thorax’s head throbbed. The wave of fear was spreading through the city. Screams and whinnies were everywhere. A mare ran screaming past the alley, not even realizing it was where the panic started. “Thorax?” Jon asked.

Thorax opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. He gagged and nearly lost his grip. Jon’s claw tightened around his foreleg and kept the changeling from sliding off his back.

The train whistle blew again in the distance, and the dragon turned towards it and ran.

Ghost: The Direwolf

Ghost dug the rabbit out of the snowy burrow with slow, deliberate strokes of his paws. The rabbit hissed and tried to retreat further, but Ghost’s snout crashed through the hole and clamped around its neck. It did not have time to react. The direwolf’s powerful jaws broke the neck with a single twist and pulled the rabbit out of the snow, crunching down on fur, meat, and bones.

Ghost learned not to waste a meal in the cold forests with his other-half. The death in the wind had driven every creature into hiding, but his nose was powerful. Once, he laid beneath tables in a stone place—home—and was fed pieces of seared flesh with his brothers and sisters, but now he had to hunt. Ghost finished the rabbit, swallowing it whole, and resumed prowling through the snow fields again; his white coat blended in perfectly and his light steps were silent. Only his red eyes could give him away, even in the light of day. The sun warmed his thick fur and bushy tail.

Ghost stopped and sniffed the air. He smelled more of the not-men; the strange four-legged creatures that smelled like men but resembled the things men rode. Ghost learned to avoid them with his brothers and sisters when he was still little. The hooved-things panicked and struck out their legs at the smell of a direwolf, now matter how the men barked. It took too many days for the hooved-things to calm down and trust the wolves. They were not worth the effort. Ghost turned in the other direction and inhaled. It was bitterly cold, though his fur kept him warm enough to move. There was a faint scent that made his lips curl.

Dead things.

Not the kind to scavenge from, but the kind that still moved. Ghost and his other-half knew of them; they had fought them together. Ghost sensed them in the forest and snows around his other-half, and led him deftly around them. The men had brought them inside their stone place once, and Ghost had torn into it to save his other-half. The flesh wriggled in his teeth. He was not yet hungry enough to hunt them, but their scent was always in the winter winds.

Ghost felt his other-half move away again. His tail drooped into the snow, but in his heart he was happy. They were alive. Ghost never howled, not until he felt the sharp things pierce his other-half and throw him into the ground. His other-half did not understand the warnings, how the scent shifted around the men and their eyes betrayed their thoughts. Ghost knew, and so did the fiery woman. It was plain in her eyes.

They had lost their sister long ago, then their brother. Now, Ghost couldn’t feel his grey brother who smelled of summer, nor his wild brother in the islands. His little sister and her smaller cousins were beyond his ears. He couldn’t hear her howl to them and lead them through the rivers.

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. It was a thought from his other-half, but Ghost knew it to be true. Once they were all together, all small, suckling at the teats of their dead mother with the antler in her neck. Ghost had been the first to open his red eyes to the world; he had left the pack to stumble into the shade. He had always been different. His white coat and red eyes marked him as such. His other-half found him under the tree, though Ghost made no noise. They were meant to be together.

Here, they were alone. Ghost had laid with his other-half's form, sharing his warmth and licking the blood from his face, but nothing the wolf did stirred him awake. The fiery woman and her metal-clad men arrived, moving through the screams and cries of dying men. She offered Ghost heat and promise, but the wolf still awoke alone in the snow. He stood on his four paws and howled again into the night, and the wind answered.

Find him. The direwolf felt his other-half again.

It had been a long, hard day of crawling through the snow on frosty paws, and Ghost was still no closer to his other-half. The air and sky smelled strange, thick with some scent that tickled his nostrils. It nearly blocked the scent of the dead things, but Ghost was accustomed to smelling them in the cold winds.

Ghost turned on the snowbank and stared back towards the scent of the not-men. His other-half was that way, away from the dead things in the wind. It was an easy choice to follow. Ghost bounded through the snow on silent paws. Find him.

Jon: Discussions

Jon risked peeking out the window with his too-long face, raising an eye just above the frame to glimpse the passing trees and light snow. The carriage continued to rock rhythmically underneath him, and he slid his head down after a moment. The forest around them moved swiftly, as swift as any horse Jon had ever ridden. He moved one of the strange packs aside and stacked it against the door to the carriage. It joined the others in a haphazard pile. Queen Cersei brought less to Winterfell, Jon smirked, but his toothy smile fell into another frown as the carriage rocked.

Everything about his surroundings was strange. The glass was smudged with snow and dirt, yet it was the finest quality he had ever seen, surpassing the windows in Winterfell. The glass had no signs of age; it did not pool at the bottom of the frame. The wooden carriage they hid in was reinforced with metal bands, and shelves lined the interior. The carriage was the last in a long line, pulled by some loud contraption powered by steam. Jon smelled burning coal earlier and deduced that it somehow provided heat and power. How it did so he wasn’t quite sure, nor why all the carriages were painted in such bright, contrasting colors. It reminded Jon of a mummer’s band, but his companion was still unconscious. The dragon slowly crawled across the bags to inspect the changeling’s head.

Jon tightened the torn strips of cloth around Thorax’s head, taken from a plain dress from one of the bags. The changeling’s flesh was cracked, as if struck by a blow from a hammer. Jon winced again as he remembered the large hooves of the Pony beating down on Thorax. Green blood clotted around the largest of the fissures, but the bleeding had stopped. Thorax moaned softly and his eyelids flickered, but he did not wake. Jon felt briefly guilty about stealing from a lady, but shook his head with a hiss. Life or death. He tore another strip of cloth free with his sharp talons and bound it tight, adding the bloody strip to a small pile. Thorax moaned again.

The changeling had not regained himself, and it was nearing nightfall. A head wound of that caliber is likely fatal, Jon admitted with a grimace. At least for a man. The changeling’s flesh seemed closer to an insect’s armor. The dragon reclined back on some of the softer bags and piled-up clothes, feeling his wings stretch out involuntarily. His sigh sounded more like a hiss, and he didn’t move to wrangle them again. Between checking on Thorax, Jon idly flexed his tail back and forth across the floor, curling it around a clawed foot. The muscles were new to him, though they aided him well enough in balance earlier.

Longclaw rested next to Jon, wrapped in more cloth. Red blood seeped through the clothes.

It was luck, Jon reminded himself, not skill. Three men—ponies—versus one was a vicious prospect for even the best swordsman. Armed with short spears, it should have been impossible. Jon rubbed his chest with a claw, feeling the white scales for a bruise. The light from the horned one struck him there and the force felt like a warhammer. His breath left his lungs and he nearly choked on his forked tongue. The pony seemed surprised to see him still alive; she died with that look on her short muzzle.

Unicorn, Jon thought. He had only seen the creature on emblems and heraldry, but they were said to still exist in legends. The large pony died as well, choking on his blood and froth from a slit throat. Only the winged one lived. The dragon flexed his right claw and stared at the talons. After a day of struggling just to walk, it seemed absurd that he could outfight three knights in an instant. Though, they were poorly trained. Only the flying one fought with some degree of skill and speed. The others swung their short spears wildly.

Jon frowned and looked over at Thorax, still laying on a pile of clothing. Something had happened between changelings and ponies. The fear of a dragon was expected, but they seemed so certain of his skin-changing nature that it was never in consideration. Jon grabbed another bag and opened the metal tongue along the side, pulling it along the bag until it spilled open. The first bags he opened with claws and thrusts of Longclaw until he found the straps and metal parts.

Jon pulled out another dress printed with flowers and blinked. Every pony I have seen is naked. Why do they have so many clothes? It appeared clothing was optional for the creatures here. None had said Jon was indecent, and the armor worn by the knights was rather lacking. If Jon had baser instincts, he might have stomped lower on the winged one’s underside and crushed something truly important. Jon leaned his head against a bundle of clothes propped against the wall and hissed again, trying to shake the thoughts from his head. Killing a man was never truly easy, nor was killing a knight only doing their duty. Even if that duty was stomping an unarmed friend to death.

Jon wanted answers, and the only one capable of providing them was probably dying. The dragon's red eyes scanned the blocked door. It had been a long, desperate run back to the train, and panic had completely overtaken the streets. The ponies reminded him of the smallfolk of King's Landing, though he had never seen it. He heard enough stories from his Black Brothers. They love to riot. The ponies ran from him, trampling each other in their haste. Jon saw some of the armored knights join in the chaos as well, fleeing with the smallfolk and screaming, some not even registering his presence as he dashed through the streets back to the field, encumbered with Thorax on his back.

Whinnying, Jon corrected himself, but without any bite. The winged guard screamed like a man when Jon killed his friends. Men, not monsters.

The train was leaving when he arrived; the carriages were pulled along bars of metal and wood. Jon leapt aboard a small platform on the end cart, nearly losing Longclaw yet again when Thorax fell off his back. He managed to grab the changeling and haul him up, and snagged Longclaw’s pommel with his tail. Jon still had no idea how he did that. His tail didn’t respond to half his attempts to move it afterwards.

Jon leaned over and grabbed Longclaw, holding it in his lap and wiping the rest of the blood off the Valyrian blade. He eyed the barricaded door. No one had come to the last carriage, nor had the carriages ceased moving. He didn't hear any voices outside, only the rhythmic clacking as the carriage rocked and swayed. Jon wasn’t sure what he would do if someone did try to open the door. The dragon took a deep breath and exhaled with a small puff of smoke from his nose. The smoke didn’t surprise him anymore.

“Brother,” Thorax whimpered, slowly opening his blue eyes. They seemed less cloudy and more focused now. The changeling sluggishly reached a hoof up and touched the makeshift bandage wrapped around his head. He removed the hoof with a dual-toned hiss.

“Your skull is fractured,” Jon said bluntly. “I’m not sure about the bones.”

“We don’t have bones like…” Thorax trailed off and looked at the pile of green-soaked strips of cloth next to his head. “How long?” he rasped.

“Most of the day. It is almost dusk. There is less snow outside the carriage.”

“Carriage?” Thorax asked, then seemingly realized the swaying of the room wasn’t due to his head. “We’re on a t-train?”

“Apparently so,” Jon answered. “Heading south, if my sense of direction is right.” His right claw drummed on the carved wolf and he sat up straighter. He was tired. “Why did they try to kill you?”

“T-they w-weren’t—” Thorax stuttered.

“They were. The big one nearly split your head open, skull or not.”

Thorax licked at a fang with a forked tongue. “H-he was j-just scared.”

Jon didn’t reply, but just stared at the changeling. Thorax’s broken wing twitched. Jon hadn’t tried to fix the gossamer, insect-like wing.

“They feared your kind more than mine,” the dragon stated. It was strange to refer to his twisted body as mine, but Tyrion’s voice echoed from outside the hall in Winterfell. Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength.

“W-we attacked them,” Thorax sighed.

“We?”

“O-our Queen,” Thorax clarified. “S-she wanted to take the Princesses at the capital. We attacked during the w-wedding—”

Neither the dragon or the changeling were prepared for the burst of fire and low roar that escaped Jon’s muzzle. It set fire to one on the bags on the opposite shelf, but Jon ignored it. He stood up and towered over Thorax. “What?”

The changeling froze and Jon leveled Longclaw at him. The fire spread to another bag.

“Finish it,” he growled. Images of Robb danced before his eyes. The Red Wedding. They cut off his head and stitched Grey Wind’s to the stump. “The King in the North!” they cried as the Freys paraded him through the Twins.

“T-the w-ed-ding…” The changeling was frozen with fear. His mouth opened and closed.

Jon gripped Longclaw with both claws and raised the blade up.

“P-please!”

Jon’s muzzle erupted in a snarl. Janos begged. “This will go easier if you stay still.”

“I flew away!” Thorax rasped, breaking into a coughing fit. The little changeling quailed against the floor. “I ran! I didn’t fight! I couldn’t!”

Jon lowered Longclaw. Slowly. He returned the blade to his side, then grabbed the flaming bags flung them to the floor. He patted them down and put out the fire, watching the flames lick at his claws. He felt the warmth and the heat like it was a candle. “How many died?” Jon asked lowly as he put out the flames.

“W-what?”

“How many did you kill?”

Thorax blinked slowly. “N-none. We wanted to capture the Princesses.”

Jon snorted another plume of smoke. “You sacked a city and killed no one?”

“W-why would we?” Thorax asked, confused. He hadn’t stopped shaking. “W-we need—we needed them alive.”

“But you deserted.”

Thorax flinched. “Yes.”

“And then you hid in a cave.”

“Yes,” he sighed.

“Until you found me.”

“I-I wanted to apologize. I wanted ponies to s-see we could be good. S-so many are afraid of the Queen, like me. I’m a coward.”

Sam. Jon laughed bitterly and it clearly took Thorax by surprise. Old Gods watch over me, I’ve ended up with Sam. “It takes courage to admit you’re a coward. I doubt they’ll accept your friendship.” His muzzle twisted into an ironic smile and Jon repeated the words of advice, “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”

“You k-killed them,” Thorax stated. “I saw you.”

“The big one was about to beat you to death, and the horned one knocked me into a wall.” Jon’s claws brushed against his chest. “That was magic?”

“Magic,” Thorax confirmed. “A spell. She cast another t-that made me change. They w-weren’t trying to kill us.”

Jon hissed and looked away uncomfortably. The winged one tried to stop his friend, but it was a close thing. “Would you have preferred to die?”

“No!” Thorax exclaimed and tried to sit up. His legs slipped out from under him and he fell back into the bundled up clothes. “I just…” he trailed off. “You’ve killed before.”

“Yes,” Jon answered bluntly.

“You’ve killed Ponies?”

“No,” Jon said. “I’ve never killed a pony before, nor a dragon or a changeling. I’ve killed men.”

Thorax processed the answer with a frown. “How many?”

Jon paused to think. He didn’t count the wights in the Lord Commander’s quarters; they were already dead. Orell, when I met Ygritte. Qhorin, he died true to his vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch. Jon recalled the battle at Castle Black, when the Wildings attacked under Mance Rayder. I fired arrows all night, commanded the defense. Ygritte. She took an arrow to the heart, fletched with white feathers. It might not have been my arrow, but it was my choice. Janos Slynt, he died begging after his defiance.

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted.

That answer seemed to frighten the changeling more than any number. “W-were you about to k-kill me?”

“Yes,” Jon admitted. He had no true defense for his anger, beyond his brother Robb.

“Oh,” Thorax chittered. “I thought so.”

The sat in silence for some time.

“My brother,” Jon started, then stopped haltingly and clacked his teeth shut. After a moment, he began again. “Robb was killed at the Red Wedding. They gave him bread and salt, promised him guest right. The Freys and Boltons slaughtered him for the Lannisters.” Jon knew most of the meaning would be lost behind his words and waited for another question.

Thorax didn’t ask.

“I head you mention your brother,” Jon prompted.

“He’d call me an idiot,” Thorax gave a weak chuckle, "for even trying. I guess he was right."

Jon crawled over and looked critically at the wound in the fading light. The cloth was stained green again. “You are bleeding again, if it’s your blood that’s green.”

“The pressure helps,” Thorax said. He spat some kind of slime into his hoof and rubbed it over the cloth. “Magic helps.”

Jon considered asking about a maester, but dismissed the idea. “That’s a fatal wound for most men.”

“No,” Thorax slurred. “Just need rest.” He gave the dragon a hazy look. “You should rest.”

Jon was tired; his sleep in the cave was restless, and the piles of clothing were comfortable enough. “Are you certain?”

“I can h-heal this,” Thorax forced confidence into his voice. “And my wing, but we n-need to leave before the train reaches the next stop. Y-you killed a Pony, and the Princesses won’t forgive that.”

“Not you,” Jon replied.

“T-they saw m-me.” Thorax kneaded a hoof into a bundled-up pair of odd breeches. “I can’t go back to the hive,” he said clearly, speaking as much to himself as to Jon, “and they’ll look for changelings now.”

Jon returned to the opposite wall and peered through the window again. The trees raced by in the dim light of sunset. He propped more of the bags and clothing up as a pillow. His wings stuck out again as he laid down, but the dragon just left them. Thorax watched him and blinked slowly, struggling to stay awake. The slime he rubbed against his head hardened into a translucent shell. “The winged one asked about the others,” Jon suddenly remembered. “About towns.”

“I-I don’t know what he meant,” Thorax said slowly. “Changelings can sense other changelings. I was the only o-one near. I haven't been to any towns.”

Jon had more questions, and the little changeling seemed close to death, but there was little he could do now. Either Thorax would survive the night, or he would pass in his sleep. Deserter, Jon thought with a suppressed frown. Is it possible the right thing is to desert from an unworthy cause? He kept Longclaw at his side with a claw on the pommel and closed his eyes.

That night, he dreamed of Ygritte. Her hair—kissed by fire—framed her face, with her pug nose and gap between her teeth. She smiled a dazzling smile all the same and waded into the shallow pool of water. They were in the cave Beyond the Wall again. The hot steam pools provided warmth from the cold outside. Jon followed her, hearing claws clack against rock and stone, caressing her cheek with blunt, white talons. The water was nearly scalding, but it felt like a warm bath against his scales. Ygritte leaned against him, naked as he was, and whispered, “You're mine. Mine, as I'm yours." Jon felt his wings curl around them protectively as they embraced. “And if we die, we die,” Ygritte continued. “All men must die, Jon Snow. But first we’ll live.” She leaned in to kiss him, and Jon’s muzzle drifted to meet it.

Ygritte gasped as a white arrow struck her heart. She fell away from his grasping claws, falling back into an endless void of black. A raven circled above him, landing on a horn and pecking at his scales. "Snow!" it cried.

Jon opened his eyes and held up a claw to a ray of light streaming in from the window. The carriage still rattled along. After a brief struggle with his stiff wings, he sat up again. Thorax managed to prop himself up during the night. His bent wing was fastened to his side with more slime, but he removed the cloth from his head. The eggshell cracks did not seem as bad. He offered Jon a brittle smile, but did not make eye contact. “T-the train will reach Rainbow Falls soon. W-we need to jump.” Thorax placed a genuine saddlebag across his back with flickering green magic.

“We have little supplies,” Jon yawned. He grabbed up some of the heavier looking clothes. Good for scrap, if nothing else. “Where do we go?”

“As far away as we can get,” Thorax answered with a sigh. “If we make it to Griffonstone, we can follow the mountains to the Dragonlands.” He eyed his bent wing. “Hopefully I can fly by then.”

Jon stared at him, then glanced at his own wings. Hopefully I can as well. “Griffonstone?” the dragon asked slowly and rubbed his muzzle.

“Y-yes?”

“Griffons.”

Thorax looked surprised. “You know what they are?”

“Only as heraldry,” Jon quipped, then frowned again. “Do they fear dragons?”

Thorax winced, and that was all the answer Jon needed.

Thorax: Questions

Thorax plunged his muzzle into the river and drank deeply, then lowered the stolen canteen into the water and held it between his forelegs. The water passed through the holes in his hooves, but the changeling ignored the feeling and heaved a chittering sigh of relief.

Jon sat nearby, lowering his claws into the river to cup mouthfuls of water, watching Thorax with a red side-eye. The dragon struggled with the logistics of slurping the water up from his claws; more spilled on the ground than reached his muzzle. After several attempts, Jon growled in exasperation and plunged his narrow muzzle into the river and drank, then refilled his own canteen. When he was done, the dragon stood and retrieved Longclaw from its resting place under a nearby willow tree. He set the canteen down in its place, next to the saddlebags and other stolen items. “I am going to check the snares,” Jon announced, then stepped over roots and disappeared into the underbrush before Thorax could reply.

Thorax watched him leave, knowing he was also going to relieve himself. The dragon was a surprisingly good liar by omission, but the changeling had picked up several quirks of behavior. By far, the strangest dragon in the world.

Thorax felt the bursts of embarrassment and discomfort every time he walked in front of the dragon, and Jon blushed luminescent the one morning Thorax had stumbled across him relieving himself against a tree. He twisted away and ended up spraying his feet. Thorax apologized, then never asked or spoke of it again.

I don’t want to know. The friendly thing to do would be to ask, but Thorax was too much of a coward. He could tell when the dragon was honest, and Jon had a habit of radiating complete, genuine honesty when telling the changeling horrific things. Who dies at a wedding? Why was it a ‘Red’ Wedding? That word implied things that Thorax wasn’t prepared to go into. It was clear that he hasn’t been raised by dragons, and the word bastard was unfamiliar, but Jon also implied his siblings didn’t share his mother. Whoever or whatever adopted him, they clearly didn’t know much or tell him anything.

Surely, he’s been around for a while, Thorax countered his line of thought. The changeling sat under the tree and gingerly touched around his head. The old, cracked chitin had begun to flake off over the past few weeks of traveling, but his wing still throbbed with pain. He couldn’t transform in that condition, and the pair skirted around the northern villages and towns of Equestria, keeping to the forests.

Thorax had spent virtually all of his twenty-three years in the lower levels of the Hive, cleaning the muck out of the communal chambers and caring for the nymphs. Nymphs required a great deal of care and attention. They couldn’t transform or shut out emotions after being hatched, so one had to be careful and kind. Chrysalis never bothered. She hated laying eggs; every changeling could feel her disdain for the young.

Because she’s not weak, brother, Pharynx whispered. You and the young play nursemaid and coddled them. We are predators.

“No, we’re not,” Thorax whispered and checked the saddlebags again. They were as empty as before. Really? Pharynx laughed. Tell your dragon friend how you’ve been getting better. Thorax flinched at his imagined brother’s smirk. He fed off the dragon every night, until the dreams of love swirled with despair and guilt. Jon always woke up tired, but seemed to regard that as normal. Thorax didn’t ask.

Always the coward, Pharynx chuckled. Add it to your list, brother. Thorax kept a mental list of things not to ask about, and it was getting distressingly large: Family, Home, White Walkers, Weddings, Others, Killing.

Jon returned quietly from around the side of the tree, pushing a low branch aside with the sword. Thorax jumped. “Apologies,” the dragon said softly, then slung down two rabbits caught in pilfered wires. Jon had taken a great deal from the luggage car before the two jumped into a ditch along the tracks. Thorax had tasted disgust at the act of thievery, but Jon forced it down, clutched Longclaw, then disappeared into the woods. That had been weeks ago.

In the present, the black dragon sat down with a curled tail, grabbed one of the bodies between his claws, and began to skin the rabbit with a sharp talon, quietly radiating a vague interest. Thorax knew the routine well by now, and gathered the sticks he scavenged this morning into a bundle to build a fire. Don’t ask. Don’t ask how he knows how to make snares, how to skin animals, how to cook flesh. That last one probably had an easy explanation of dragon, but Jon always used rock and flint to start a fire.

Except once, Thorax reminded himself. That day it had rained, and the branches and leaves were still too soggy. Jon had gotten frustrated with the rock and flint, then growled and spat a small flame that landed in the leaves and ignited. He was more surprised than Thorax. Do. Not. Ask. You are not going to like the answers.

If Jon had not been raised by other dragons, that would easily explain his behavior, but his knowledge was concerningly broad. He knew how to survive in the forests, build a shelter out of branches to block rain and wind, set traps and track animals. Thorax continually revised his age higher and higher. “It’s far better than doing it in the snow,” the dragon had offered two days ago to start a conversation, and Thorax just nodded weakly and let it drop. They traveled more in silence than conversation.

The mismatched pair were slowly moving towards the old Griffon Kingdom. From there, they would need to fly through the mountain ranges and cross over to the Dragon Lands. Jon’s sense of direction was better than Thorax’s, and the dragon usually took the lead, unless they were near a town. Thorax would extend his senses and move around any Ponies searching the forests. A few times, the pair would slide under a tree to hide from a wandering Pegasus. Jon accepted the situation readily, for a dragon that confessed with utter honesty that he had never seen a Pegasus before. Don’t ask.

Jon started the fire with a harsh strike of the flint, then gently built it up with leaves and twigs. It was nearly dusk. “We should sleep off the ground again,” the dragon said. “Climb into the branches to avoid bears and predators.” He slung the saddlebags on a low branch, then filled them with the wires and canteens.

“A-alright,” Thorax nodded. He couldn’t transform and his hooves weren’t very good for climbing wood, so Jon would usually hoist the changeling up and help him onto a high branch.

Jon returned to the rabbits, running the skinned bodies through with a sharpened stick and holding them over the fire. The flames bronzed the flesh. “Game was scarce north of the Wall,” the dragon said. “Worse in winter. The animals practically stumble into snares here.”

Thorax said nothing.

Jon pulled the rabbits from the fire and held one stick out to Thorax. “I do not know if changelings eat meat, but this one is yours, if you wish.” It had been a recurring offer.

“O-oh, I ate,” Thorax said quickly. “B-berries,” he lied.

Jon frowned. “I’ve seen some strange berries about, but I do not know which ones are safe. Do you?”

“Safe for changelings!” Thorax added desperately. “I d-don’t know about dragons!”

Jon hummed and his tail swished, then brought the rabbit up to his mouth and tore into the flesh. Thorax watched as the dragon’s fangs sliced through the meat and muscle, and the claws pulled a haunch free with a crack. Jon never ate the bones; he tossed them aside. Dragon eat gems, right?

They ate Ponies once, Pharynx added. You probably taste like chicken.

Jon pulled the second corpse over to him, still visibly hungry, but paused and looked over to Thorax. The changeling had pressed his back to the tree, as he usually did during meals, and simply watched. “Changelings do not eat meat,” Jon guessed.

“N-no,” Thorax said. We eat emotions. We eat love and kindness and joy.

“I am sorry if this disturbs you,” Jon said with a bitter chuckle. “My table manners degraded with the Wildlings. I would like a knife and fork as well, but sneaking into a village is far too dangerous.”

Don’t ask. “Griffons eat meat,” Thorax said.

“And they like gold,” Jon repeated, “so you said, and we have no gold. Do you know anything else?”

“No,” Thorax said honestly. Griffons were too stubborn and hardhearted, like dragons, to be of any worth. It took far too much effort to deal with them for a changeling. Thorax’s best bet to survive was to stick with the dragon.

“Can you skin-change yet?” Jon asked, referring to the changeling’s shapeshifting abilities.

Thorax tried to move his wing, and winced. “It’s still too busted.”

Jon looked over Thorax’s head, and the changeling sensed the concern and mild fascination. Thorax reached up and scratched; another damaged flake of chitin came loose and he pulled it away.

“I suppose that’s a good sign?” Jon said dryly.

Thorax flung the loose piece into the forest. “Yeah. It’ll t-take a few days to harden.”

Jon sat in silence and stared at the fire as the sun slowly lowered in the sky. “When your wing is healed, you should leave,” he said bluntly, turning the other rabbit over.

Thorax blinked his blue eyes. “W-what?”

“You should go to the Ponies and hide, move south.”

“I-I d-don’t—”

Jon set the rabbit down. “You don’t know how to fight. You don’t know how to hunt. You stumble through the forest worse than I do. I do not know anything about changelings, but I question their abilities at war if you sacked a city, killed no one, and failed every objective.”

Thorax felt a rare sense of defensiveness. “We b-blend in. We don’t n-need to do any of that. The Queen r-ruined the w-wedding. She brought every ‘ling out in the open.”

“You have told me nothing of your kind,” Jon said, after a brief burst of anger at the word wedding yet again.

“You h-haven’t asked,” Thorax challenged softly, and immediately winced. Despite his heritage, he was a poor liar.

“You are afraid of me,” Jon sighed.

“T-that’s not why I’m staying.” You're the only friend I have.

Pharynx laughed.

“You did not deny it,” Jon pointed out. “Who is your Queen?”

“Chrysalis,” Thorax answered. “S-she is cruel and hateful. She only s-sees others as…” Food, he might have said, but instead settled on, “beneath us.”

“And she thought to make war on the Princesses?” Jon asked.

“War isn’t…” Thorax trailed off again. “It’s not war. There hasn’t been a war in a very long time.”

“What else would you call attacking a city in force?” Jon snorted.

Thorax didn’t have an answer, and didn’t like to consider that his species was at war with the Ponies. War was a very old word, mostly used ironically. Changelings did not make war; they blended into the shadows. Until now.

“Why did she attack?” Jon continued.

“S-she hated the Princesses. She always has.” It was an easy answer.

“There’s more than one?”

“Three, I think,” Thorax guessed.

“Who is the King of the Ponies?” Jon asked. “Or Queen?” he added after a moment’s thought.

“There isn’t one,” Thorax said, again confused. Don’t ask.

“Like Dorne,” Jon mumbled to himself and picked up the skewered rabbit. He tore into it like the other while the changeling queasily watched. “I imagine you wish to leave once you are healed, but I also imagine deserters are treated unkindly. You should not stay with me out of fear.”

Thorax imagined going back to the Hive, far south in the Badlands, crawling through the empty flats to beg forgiveness. He then imagined walking into a Pony village, undisguised and pleading for mercy. His head throbbed and he shook the thought away. “I-I have nowhere to go,” he admitted for the first time. “Chrysalis will probably k-kill me.”

“I nearly killed you,” Jon replied. “I do not know how it is with changelings, but a Black Brother’s life is forfeit in the entire Seven Kingdoms should they abandon their post. Deserters are executed.”

“A-all of them?” Thorax asked on reflex, then immediately braced for the brutal, honest reply.

Instead, Jon chuckled and tossed the last of the bones into the forest. “Not me, I suppose.” His eyes darkened and he looked off into the trees. “Not until later,” he said, and rubbed his white-scaled chest. Jon shook his head and looked regretful. “I suppose if the Queen is truly evil, then the honorable course of action is desertion, if nothing else. I have broken oaths I swore never to break. I should not judge you for imagined actions.”

“T-thanks?” Thorax said uncertainly. Don’t ask.

“Is there another claimant?” Jon said and patted down the fire. Thorax tasted the brief wonderment from the dragon as he watched the flames caress his claws before being snuffed out.

“What do you mean?”

“Is there another that could wear the crown?” Jon repeated. “Another changeling?”

“Chrysalis is the only Queen,” Thorax answered with a frown.

“What about her mother? Or the previous Queen?”

“Chrysalis is the only Queen,” Thorax said again. “Ever. She’s always r-ruled over us.”

Jon sat back on his haunches. “For how long?”

“Forever?” Thorax guessed. The one topic that every changeling learned was Chrysalis’ great and glorious history. “She’s been our ruler from before the Princesses. B-before the Nightmare, at least. Thousands of years.”

Jon stared at him blankly. His tail swished. “Thousands of years?” he echoed, clearly disbelieving.

“Yes,” Thorax said clearly. “She’s very old.”

“What about the Princesses?”

“The Sun Princess has ruled for over a thousand years.” That was common information.

Jon looked appraisingly at Thorax, then stared up at the setting sun through the canopy. “I guessed we were the same age, but I am clearly wrong. How old are you?”

“O-oh, normal changelings don’t live that long,” Thorax waved a hoof. “Not as long as dragons. I-I’m only twenty-three. Chrysalis is special.”

“Balerion the Black Dread lived through the fall of Valyria, and a century after,” Jon responded dryly and examined his scales. “What about your brother? And family, if you wish to speak of it.”

“M-my brother’s just a little older than me,” Thorax said readily, “and Chrysalis is, uh, Chrysalis.”

Jon stared at him blankly. “Chrysalis is your mother?”

Thorax kneaded his hooves. “Y-yes? She’s every ‘ling’s mother.”

“How does that—” Jon pinched his muzzle and hissed. “I do not wish to know.” Thorax chuckled for a moment, then Jon added, “You are older than me, at the very least.”

Don’t. Ask. Thorax inhaled, tasted honesty, and couldn't resist. “H-how old are you?”

Jon blinked as he thought. “Six and ten, mayhaps,” he admitted. “We count by moons. I do not know how you count the time.”

Thorax choked on his reply. He did not know much about Ponies, and far less about dragons, but the changeling knew that was far too young to have already lost count of the dead. He got stabbed, the thought slipped through. How cruel are dragons? Despite his lack of pupils, Jon noticed the stare and open-fanged look of horror. “Did you think I was older?” Jon asked in his light, young voice. Thorax stared over the dragon again, recognizing the lean frame as an adolescent with youthful, tired eyes that had already seen too much. He didn’t even blink when he ran that unicorn through.

“W-where are you from?” Thorax asked.

“Westeros,” Jon answered. “Far, far from here, I expect. I am the son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

“T-they taught you how to use a s-sword? How to k-kill?”

“I learned swordsmanship from Rodrick Cassel in Winterfell,” Jon answered with a frown. “Beside my brothers. My father insisted on it, though he didn’t need to. Most bastards are cast aside, but Lord Stark made sure I learned my letters, numbers, and history.”

Thorax felt the fondness and bitter sense of loss underneath the dragon’s words. “Your father,” the changeling began, “and your family…are they dragons?”

“No,” Jon’s lips quirked with amusement. “Wolves. The Starks of Winterfell took the direwolf as their symbol thousands of years ago. They are men, descendants of the First Men, if that means anything to you.”

It did not. Thorax tried to imagine how a wolf and a dragon would work, and failed. He added it to the list of questions not to ask about. I don’t want to know anymore. The changeling felt like crying out of shame. Feeding off a foal, Pharynx whispered. No wonder it’s so delicious, brother.

Jon took the changeling’s silence as hesitation. “I am sorry,” he apologized again. “I lost my temper on the train.” He pronounced the last word awkwardly. Jon had apologized several times over the past few days, each time as genuine and remorseful as the last. Thorax always accepted it, and didn’t have the courage to ask him for more details about his brother.

He clearly loved him more than you love me, Pharynx spat. That’s not true, Thorax retorted, but his chest felt tight. “I-it’s f-fine,” Thorax choked out. “I g-get it.”

Jon looked dubious, but stood and stretched his arms and legs. His tail swung idly behind him, but his wings required more stiff adjustments with rough claws to fold them against his back again. After several moments of annoyed growling, Jon walked over and offered Thorax a claw. “The time is late. Let’s get settled.”

Thorax accepted the claw mutely, and the dragon hefted the changeling up onto a low branch. Thorax scrambled and used his holed hooves to find purchase and pull himself higher, settling on a long, thick branch. Jon grabbed Longclaw and balanced the blade on forked branch before climbing up the trunk. His claws tore through the bark, and the dragon balanced himself on the opposite side of the trunk, along another branch. His tail wrapped around Longclaw’s pommel and pulled it up to him, and it was the first time Thorax felt the dragon exude any sense of happiness all day. “Bran would’ve loved this,” he said to himself, then the frown returned with a deep sense of melancholy.

Thorax settled against the trunk and closed his eyes. Don’t ask, he reminded himself. The answer will only hurt more. After the sun set, he waited quietly for Jon to fall asleep. Coward, Pharynx whispered, and Thorax agreed with his brother. The dragon dreamed of love that night, and Thorax fed off it with tears in his eyes.

Luna: Dreamscape

Luna floated above an ocean of doors against the night sky. Each one glowed, as if a star had come down to the world and lingered. The alicorn wore no regalia for this duty. Her wings did not flap, though she drifted among the doors without any true movement. Her eyes stared beyond them, searching.

In the waking world, the Princess of the Night laid atop her bed, wearing her tiara and silver necklace. Her loyal Night Guards stood beside the bed, struggling not to fall asleep and appear as another door. She did not begrudge them this failing; every guard faltered once. Once, and never again. Her mere appearance in their dreams would frighten them awake for the rest of the night.

Luna could smell the strong, bitter coffee Nightshade quietly sipped and passed around the room, even as removed as she was. It served as a tenuous connection to the waking world, her sister’s world. For all of Celestia’s magic and might, she could never rule the Dreamscape. An unkind Pony would say she lacked the imagination, Luna thought. The thought was cruel, but honest. Celestia had always been the stronger sister, but never the cleverest.

Luna’s teeth clenched as she searched. There were nightmares; there were always nightmares, and it tore at her heart to neglect them, but there was a greater duty tonight. She had spent weeks scouring the Dreamscape for the missing, tearing across continents and cleaving the sky from the safety of her bed.

Luna had found a cartographer team stranded in the Yakyakistan mountains, near freezing and dreaming of warmth. She risked a war with Prince Rutherford by appearing in his dreams of smashing apart furniture to have a rescue party dispatched. He only did so once she bested him in a bout of wrestling.

She had also found a shipwrecked mare off a far northern coast, having lived off seaweed and dribbles of freshwater for nearly a year. Her dreams were dark, dreaming on an endless deep where songs called under the sea. A nearby trawler was directed to her rocky island, and Luna spent that night stewing in self-hatred for not finding the mare sooner.

Contrary to her sister’s beliefs, the Dreamscape was not some map that could be charted. It ebbed and flowed like the tide. It could be predictable, but there was always a risk of turning around and not finding one’s way back. Some nights, Luna did nothing but stem nightmares, and some nights she did little but reassure one pony that they still had worth in the world.

She had found nothing in the north.

That was not quite true. The incident with the changeling and dragon had caused a riot and flood of nightmares that ruined her search for weeks, but the Princess Cadance had calmed her subjects enough for it to resume. Luna brushed a hoof against a passing door and felt her sister’s dream. It was a worried dream, carrying far too much weight and grief. Luna extended her hoof to go through the doorway, but hesitated at the last moment.

Celestia had been near inconsolable the day news arrived about the Crystal Empire. She sobbed and stuffed her muzzle with cake, and Luna feared that some great tragedy had occurred. The news was dire to the castle, but not to Luna. Two guards had been slain, and several dozen injured in the resulting panic.

Sister mine, the Flame of the Sun, laid low by two deaths, Luna could not prevent the snort. A dragon had caused the deaths, wielding a strange sword that repelled magic. A changeling stood at his side. They fled together on the southbound train to Rainbow Falls, and from there the trail disappeared. Luna searched for dreams, but found nothing but panicked nightmares of a gargantuan black dragon with a snarling monstrosity atop it. The incident, as it was called in the vaguest possible terms to prevent panic, was unusual.

The dragon’s stature was short and young, and according to the surviving guard he was truly a dragon and not a disguised changeling. Furthermore, he had used a sword instead of flames and claws. The guard, Flash Sentry, admitted that the situation escalated beyond control in his dream. Luna made sure he forgot her questioning; it was no use dwelling on guilt.

The situation sat poorly with Luna. The changelings did not kill their enemies, and the dragon killed far too few if he was truly enraged. A question for Torch, should he still be Dragon Lord. Luna would need to speak with her sister on the matter, once Celestia had ended her binge.

The far more troubling matter was Celestia’s grief, and it cemented that Luna no longer belonged in this Equestria. The guards’ deaths were tragedies, undeniably, and Luna comforted the dreams of their parents. But Luna could not feel the grief as deeply. She remembered comforting many families and losing many guards to wild beasts and warbands. Far too many, and far more than two. Her sister’s expeditions would lose twice that number, and Celestia would weep, toast their memories, then move on. A thousand years, Luna reckoned, and she felt the weight crush her back. My sister is not my sister.

Luna was so occupied in her musings that the raven landed on her back without issue.

She whinnied and flared out her wings, summoning a powerful display of thunder and flash. The raven’s claws dug into her fur and it cawed into her ears, swirling through her starry mane and flapping its own wings to stay attached. Luna tumbled through the Dreamscape, falling past doorways and portals like a shooting star. Atop her bed in Canterlot, Luna snorted and tossed her head. The guards looked over, then resumed sipping their coffee cups.

Although time and gravity had no meaning in the Dreamscape, Luna quickly righted herself and craned her neck around to glare at the intruder. “Thou—” she cut herself off at the sight of the small bedraggled bird. A charlatan might call it a crow, but Luna knew better. The raven was young, with sleek black feathers and two red eyes. It turned its small beak up to her and cawed. Luna felt the magic swirling off it; the raven had a strange sheen in its feathers. The magic was old and powerful, but the caster was young.

“Fair raven,” Luna began, calmer. “This is no place for thee.”

The raven cawed and flapped its wings. Unlike Luna, it—he—seemed to need the assistance. The raven inspected the floating portals and flew around the floating alicorn, eyeing the doorways warily. Luna frowned and studied him. Things were not as they seemed in the Dreamscape, but the raven moved deftly and naturally with swift wings.

“What art thou?” Luna queried.

The raven cawed again in response, still circling her head.

Of course, Luna snorted. Too easy. Luna folded her forelegs and huffed. “Mine duties are many, fair raven, and my time grows short.” She began to float past more dreams. The raven followed her, then abruptly stopped before a silvery portal. Luna extended her senses. The edges of the doorway rippled strangely, leaking liquid silver into the Dreamscape to dissipate. The magic that held the dream together was foreign and strange.

Not the dream of a pony, Luna concluded, but she could gather nothing else without entering it. “Doth thou expect me to enter?” the alicorn chuckled. The raven shrugged his wings and vanished, diving into the silver like it was water. Ripples spread across the surface.

Luna floated before the portal, scowling. The raven extended his head through the portal and cawed at her, high and mocking, then vanished again. Luna’s horn sparked and she gathered herself before leaping through.

There were very few forces in the known world that could breach the Dreamscape and attack her, but Luna was wary about the unknown forces. The young raven certainly qualified. She extended a tether beyond the dream, back into the waking world, like a diver might attach a lifeline. Wispy blue thread spooled from her horn as the dream solidified around her.

Luna found herself diving through clouds and the brief pull of gravity forced her to flap her wings. The raven circled below, cawing rapidly and flapping in a wide arc. Luna descended warily, extending her senses of the dreamer. The raven glowed blood red in her mind’s eye.

“You are the dreamer?” Luna asked, taken aback. The raven settled on one of her outstretched hooves and bobbed his head. To dream implied permanence, far beyond a creature of magic. It implied an existence in reality. The raven is real.

Luna’s wariness abruptly crashed into pure excitement. “Oh, most joyous occasion!” she belted out and clapped her hooves together. The raven was forced to flap its wings and squawk. “Tell me, dear raven, what is thy name?” Luna asked, giddy. “I believed the Dreamscape was a lost art!”

The raven cawed again.

Luna frowned. “Can you speak?”

Another caw, slightly higher.

“Yet you understand me?”

The raven curved a wing through the dream. Luna squinted and saw faint wisps of magic brushing between the feathers. The alicorn tapped a hoof to her chin. Understanding the intent of the words, but not the words themselves. He does not know our language. “You must be far beyond Equestria.”

The raven bobbed his head in a nod.

“At least we have that in common,” Luna chuckled. “Why am I here, fair raven? I am delighted to see another dreamer, true, but my duties keep me busy.”

The raven abruptly dove through the clouds. Luna followed, more sedate, letting the wind blow through her feathers and following the downdraft. She tasted salt on her lips and smelled the sea before the clouds broke. A talented dreamer to remember such details. The raven spun towards a castle set upon the rocks in a large bay. A vast continent spiraled out to the west, stretching as far as the alicorn could see.

Luna paused for a moment. The world was still uncharted, true, but not everything was a mystery. A landmass of this size would have been spotted long ago. A dream, she reminded herself and pursued the descending raven. “Fair raven, I am much to busy for flights of fancy,” Luna reminded her young companion. “I confess that your skill is impeccable.”

The raven cawed again. Despite the distance between them, it sounded right between her ears and radiated annoyance. Luna suppressed a smile and decided that it did not harm to indulge for a moment. Her horn still spiraled blue thread to the outside. The raven had clearly seen the thread, but not taken any action against it.

The raven circled the great stone mount in the bay. Black water lapped against the shoreline, and the castle stood tall against the waves, rearing up out of the sea. At first, Luna thought dragons laid upon the fortress, but soon realized that the fortress itself was carved from black rock in the shapes of laying dragons. The raven flew straight and true, diving into the maw of a stone dragon and out of sight. Luna followed.

A period of blackness abruptly ended in a large round room. Windows extended from every wall, allowing the sound of crashing waves to pour through the light. A long, intricately carved painted table took up most of the space in the room, roughly in the shape of the continent Luna saw from above. A high seat was placed in the center, where the fortress stood in the bay.

The raven landed on the table in the north and cawed at Luna. He shuffled his feet atop rivers and ridges. Luna landed beside the table and looked around the room. “A volcanic mountain,” she spoke aloud. “I assume dormant. Art thou a dragon?”

The stone doors at the end of the chamber opened. Luna spun around as three armored black dragons entered, deep in some argument. They were short and young, for dragons, and still walked on two legs. Their claws rested on the pommels of swords sheathed by their sides. Luna stepped to the side and lowered her horn, but the dragons did not register her presence.

The one in the middle, a male with strong, fiery red eyes and horns, flung a piece of parchment onto the table, growling deeply. The two on either side, females in black cuirasses, swung their tails and flapped their wings with added agitation. The one of the left was golden-horned and her scales shone brightly; the one on the right was white-horned with a scowl on her muzzle. Despite their physical differences, it was obvious they were of the same clutch.

“Siblings,” Luna spoke aloud, testing to see if the dragons looked at her. They did not, but the raven bobbed his head and scurried across the table towards the alicorn. The brother snarled something down at the parchment, only for the golden-horned sister to cup his muzzle with a claw and kiss him deeply. The white-horned one sighed jealously, but ran a claw down his red spines.

Luna looked down at the raven with a raised brow. “Siblings?” she said dryly.

The raven flapped his wings, as if shrugging.

“Art thou old enough to be dreaming of this?”

The dragons broke their engagements and drew their blades. Luna stepped back on reflex, but the siblings only crossed their swords over the table, speaking in unison. Something about the blades sparked her memory; the metal rippled with color. The brother swept his blade up and down the entire continent with a wide, smiling snarl. The white-horned sister laughed. Luna knew that laugh; it reminded the alicorn of her own sister in times past.

“War,” Luna said aloud.

The raven cawed in agreement.

The room melted away, and Luna stood on a battlefield. Scores of armored deer rushed through a torrential downpour and thunder crashed in the distance. The raven flapped his wings and landed on her back, shielding himself with a wing. Luna summoned a shield to keep the stinging rain out.

“What am I meant to see?” Luna asked.

A long, low roar came without the accompanying flash of lightning, and a great shape swirled over the charging deer. The largest dragon that Luna had ever seen breathed fire down on the army, and the stags died in one great scream. Luna felt the heat roil over her shield and she flinched away. The surviving stags bowed before the great black dragon, and the dragon shifted to resemble the brother from the painted table. He smiled and embraced one stag amidst the carnage, lifting him back to his hooves.

The raven cawed, and the scene vanished in the flames. Another battlefield greeted her when the fires dissipated. Seaponies clashed on land with hippogriffs, striking them down with wicked tridents and axes. Luna turned her head back to the raven. “Seaponies cannot fight on land,” she said bluntly. “Why do you show me this grisly sight?”

A great stone castle rose up on the banks of a lake, far larger than any palace should be. A seapony stood on the tallest tower, mocking the hippogriffs working below. Metaphor, Luna snorted. They stand in for something else, but what? The roar of a dragon sounded from the clouds, and the castle melted in a jet of flame that was closer to a solar flare than dragon’s breath.

The brother and sisters descended from the sky, and the hippogriffs knelt before them in thanks. The few surviving seaponies threw down their axes in anger, but made no sudden movements. Not that they could. Luna eyed their fins and tails, then the mangled and melted corpses with a queasy grimace. “A grisly sight, fair raven.”

The dream blurred, and a great army of earth ponies marched through a low valley, joined by a host of armored lions. “Griffons?” Luna asked the raven on her back. The raven cawed lowly and shook his head. A lion in golden armor stood beside a broad earth pony, watching the army progress. Luna counted the numbers idly beside them. A mighty army. The sky above them roared and flames descended. But not enough to match a dragon. The sky opened with two more pillars of fire. All three, it seems.

Luna shut her eyes as the earth ponies were blasted into ash, but the golden lion leapt through the flames with a pained roar. When the fires receded, the burnt and ash-covered lion laid a golden sword before the black dragon in submission. The dragon beckoned the lion to rise with a claw as he stood proud beside his sisters. “That is exactly why earth ponies do not fight dragons,” Luna commented. She grinded her teeth. “My patience thins.”

The raven flapped his wings, and the falling ashes became snow. Luna watched as an army of wolves emerged from a snowbank. A great grey wolf stood bipedally, closer to a diamond dog, and clasped a two-handed sword in his paws. The wolf wore an iron crown, heavy and unadorned. He narrowed flinty eyes, staring behind Luna. She turned and witnessed an army of hippogriffs and deer headed by the black, red-horned dragon. The dragon drew his own dappled blade and approached. The raven circled around the wolf, cawing wildly, then landed atop his head. The wolf did not notice, only watching the dragon with a muzzle that turned white at the end.

The dragon is younger than thee, Luna thought, and commands twice the army. Folly, fair wolf. As if hearing her opinion, the wolf knelt in the snow. He laid his iron crown before the dragon. The black dragon smiled and beckoned the wolf to stand again.

The raven cawed, and the scene changed to a fretting griffon on a high mountaintop, kneeling before the golden-horned sister. The sister laughed and smiled, bouncing a young griffon cub on her tail. Her sword remained sheathed, but a claw rested near the pommel.

The mountains abruptly collapsed into sand before Luna could respond, and naga swirled their tails through the desert, burrowing away from the heat and the fire of flying dragons. The alicorn scowled and spun rapidly, forcing the raven to take flight. She pointed a hoof at nearest naga, an orange scaled mare with red diamonds. “You are using my memories!” she accused the raven. “The naga have been gone for centuries. Do you claim to know them?”

The raven landed in the sand, then lowered his head and wings in submission. Trying to make it familiar to me, but why? Luna checked the blue thread. It still spun from her horn and grounded her in the waking world. A roar of pain from behind made the alicorn turn back around. The golden-horned dragon fell from the sky, trailing a bloody wing. She plowed heavily into the sand, and did not rise again. The naga moved towards her, swirling through the sand with knives in their hooves. Luna closed her eyes. “I do not wish to see this.”

The raven cawed sadly, and Luna felt the dream shift. Her hooves landed on a stone floor. Luna opened her eyes, finding herself standing in a crowd of hippogriffs, ponies, deer, lions, griffons, and wolves. A high hall of pillars and red brick surrounded the crowd. They stood before a twisted heap of swords and axes, adding their own to the pile. The raven flew above her and landed atop her head. The brother stood beside the surviving sister with hard red eyes, then turned his muzzle to the pile of weapons. He inhaled and fire poured forth, burning and melting and mangling the metal until a great, hideous shape emerged.

Luna craned her neck to look up at a throne made of swords, robust and monstrous. The steps were made of melted blades, but the dragon strode up them and sat down without discomfort. The swords radiated out from the throne, projecting power and menace. A steel crown was nestled under his horns. The crowd knelt, leaving Luna and the raven the only creatures standing in the great hall. The dragon and his sister stared past them, frozen in time.

Luna surveyed the crowd. “Six peoples,” she observed. “Seven, counting the seaponies. Eight with the naga. A tale of war and woe. A brutal story, young raven. If you were a pony, I would have words with your parents.” The raven cawed angrily and dug his talons into her fur. He leaned down atop her head, scowling upside down at the alicorn. Luna met his red-eyed stare evenly with her own cyan eyes. “What do you wish to tell me?” she snorted. “Your skills in dreamcrafting are impeccable, but violent.”

The raven cocked his head, and a third eye opened on his brow. “Snow.”

Luna was so stunned that she tugged on the thread by reflex.

In her bedroom, the Princess of the Night snorted awake and kicked a mug of coffee out of Nightshade’s hooves with a flailing rear leg. The Night Guards snapped to attention and fanned out, scattering their drinks across the carpeting. They leveled their spears and drew their hoofblades. “Princess!” Nightshade recovered and approached the side of the bed. “Are you okay?”

Luna sputtered her mouth. Her tiara was askew and her horn sparked. She glanced around her bedroom with wild eyes. In her moment of panic, a modern swear came to the alicorn. “What the fuck was that!?”

“Princess!” Nightshade whinnied, horrified.

Luna caught herself and stilled her breathing. “We apologize,” she said on reflex. “We wert most surprised by a dream.” The alicorn adjusted her tiara back to the center of her head and kneaded a pillow between her forelegs.

“I…see,” Nightshade offered with pinned ears and a blush.

Luna blinked and gathered her thoughts. Why show me such violence? A warning? She frowned and thought of the dragons. Young, black-scaled dragons waging conquest, yet the raven did not fear them. She levitated over a parchment, ink pot, and quill from her desk. It would be dawn soon, and her sister would wake to raise the sun. Luna needed to get her thoughts in order.

“Princess?” Nightshade asked.

Luna looked up to the worried guards. She opened her mouth to reassure them, then reconsidered her words. “Something is wrong,” she said instead. “I scoured the Dreamscape for answers, and have only found more questions. Inform me the moment my sister awakens.” Two of her guards saluted and left the room.

Luna grinded her teeth. She was missing something and wracked her memories. Ink dripped from the quill onto her parchment and she levitated a scrap of paper over from her desk, accidentally knocking over several folders. The case file from the Crystal Empire fell open onto the floor, and the realization hit Luna like a blast of dragonflame.

The dragon called himself Snow.

Author's Note

If you have no idea what the dream was about, check the blog:

The Abridged History of Westeros, Part One!

Melisandre: City of Slaves

Melisandre walked—trotted—smoothly along the cobblestones, flanked by the escort of armored knights. Free from ropes and bindings, the red priestess took long, confident strides on red-furred legs and cloven hooves. The swelling around her eye had gone down enough for her to see again, and so she studied the land where R’hllor had sent her, along with its inhabitants.

It had been several long days of travel by hoof from the small mining village. Melisandre had refused to be carried in a cart, regardless of her bruises and injuries. One of the horned horses was able to mend her worst wounds with a wave of her gray horn; Melisandre swallowed down her awe at the casual display of magic. Only the most ancient tomes that spoke of the height of Old Valyria implied such things were possible.

The prince was also capable of great deeds. A pink shield staved off the worst of the snowstorms during their trek, clearly emanating from his horn as well. They camped at night, and Melisandre was given a tent to herself in the center of the camp, as well as an ointment from one of the normal horses to apply to her swollen eye. The winged horses patrolled in easy patterns, flying on feathers too small to allow flight.

The entire land was saturated with magic; Melisandre thought of the great Wall, and how her powers had only grown in the North. But here, it was like a candle to an inferno. Her own curled, twisted horn blazed with fire when she recalled her prayers during the night, and she would stand unbothered by the cold, or lay on a hay-filled bedroll and watch the shadows on the canvas.

Melisandre did not sleep; sleep was the little death, and the whispering of the Great Other that surely lay in wait. R’hllor sent her here for a purpose, and she would not miss the signs. She had also refused the offered oats on an early morning, and the mare that had offered them nervously eyed her fangs for the rest of the travels.

She saw how the horses watched her warily, even with the prince’s blessing that she was safe. They had no fangs, no cloven hooves, and their manes did not wrap around their heads as hers did. Her eyes were a deeper velvet compared to her fur and mane, and she bore no mark on her flank as the others did. She was different from them, and men were always frightened of the unknown. Horses as well.

The prince seemed completely disarmed by her oddities and polite demeanor, but was far more in control of his knights. He had clearly risen to his title through warfare or marriage, or perhaps both. Shining Armor was a strange name, but appropriate, as was the names of all the horses. They struggled with her own; several called her ‘Miss Melody,’ which she graciously accepted.

By the time they reached a large pink shield and a city underneath it, Melisandre had told them nothing of value, despite their attempts at probing questions. R’hllor had still not given her a sign of his will, and she knew the value of mystery in a foreign land. Men may fear the unknown, but the known can given them confidence. Her muzzle was still swollen on one side, and the spears and crossbows were not for show.

The prince had called it his crystal city, and Melisandre contained her awe at the literalness of the title. The buildings were made of pure, shining crystal, contained underneath a stunning display of magical power that eclipsed Old Valyria. Power thrummed from the centerpiece, a great crystal tower and palace in the center of the city. Not even the Dragonlords were capable of such feats of magic, not even with blood sacrifice of their slaves.

But underneath the shine, it was still a city. Cobblestone covered the streets, vendors hawked their wares, sewage spilled down the gutters, and the odor of tightly packed bodies tickled her more sensitive nose. The most common inhabitants were normal horses, in the sense that they lacked the wings or horn, but their coats glittered in the light, like some of the villagers that attacked her. And they also feared her greatly, watching her horn and fangs with wide, unfocused eyes as she passed them.

No worse than Westeros, Melisandre concluded with a self-contained snort. One of the horned guards shifted an eye to look at her, but quickly averted his gaze when she flashed him a fanged smile.

“I am sorry for your reception,” the prince said for the fourth time since they entered the city.

“I am used to it, your grace,” Melisandre answered.

“The Crystal City still has a long way to go before it is a truly modern place,” Prince Shining offered. He wrinkled his muzzle at a crystal horse emptying a bucket into a groove in the cobblestones. “Modern plumbing, first and foremost.”

“Your grace has one of the cleanest cities I’ve ever seen,” Melisandre said honestly.

“Have you seen many?”

“More than most, your grace.”

The prince puffed his lips at the vague reply, but let it go. Melisandre knew she played a dangerous game. He may not be confident in his royal bearing, but she was more prisoner than a guest. She followed the escort deep into the city; the prince’s subjects greeted him with happy smiles that faded upon seeing her.

Several younger horses—fillies—looked at her in fear and shuffled their hooves, forgetting about the ball they bounced between them. Melisandre paid them no mind until the fillies began to walk away with the same awkward, shuffling gait. The Red Priestess abruptly stopped in the street and stared after them. One light blue filly noticed and shuffled faster.

The knights stopped with her. One casually reached back with a spear to prod her forward, but was deterred by her partner and a look from the prince. “Is something wrong?” Prince Shining asked, fully twisting back to face Melisandre.

Melisandre watched the fillies walk in a manner far too familiar to her. Fetters. They move as if their legs are chained. She had seen that walk in Volantis, in Asshai, and in her childhood. She replayed her trot through the city, realizing that the crystal adults walked with the same shuffle, well-ingrained by years of movement. Most would never notice.

Melony…lot seven…

“Miss Melody?” one of the guards asked. “Please, we must move on. Your presence…frightens the Crystal Ponies.” Melisandre resumed her trot. She did not ask why she frightened them. After several steps, she shook her legs and resumed her long, confident strides. Neither the prince nor his guards reacted to her slip into a similar, stuttering walk, if they even noticed.

Knights guarded every street and every corner. Their presence seemed to scare the smallfolk as much as comfort them, but activity increased around the palace. It was no true defensible keep, with wide balconies and a welcoming front entrance and large crystal doors. Melisandre eyed the horn and wings on her escorts. Mayhaps a moat and drawbridge are not much of a deterrent.

The knights at the doors stomped their forelegs and saluted their prince with raised spears. The heavy crystal doors were pushed open ahead of the marching group. The white prince nodded to his guards as they entered. The interior of the crystal keep matched the exterior; glittering blue crystal walls shone with light and energy, eclipsing any throne room Melisandre had ever seen. Her hooves impacted the floor with a faint chime that made her ears twitch. Upon a high dais, a sharp throne of solid crystal jutted from the floor, occupied by a startling pink horse.

Melisandre first registered that the horse was as naked as herself, then spotted the horn and wings. The pink pony only wore a golden tiara, hardly a crown of any countenance with only a single purple gem. She was involved in a serious discussion with another horned horse, an orange stallion wearing a blue cape. She turned at the sound of the crystal doors squealing shut behind the escort.

Melisandre bowed low, pressing her muzzle to the floor and closing her eyes.

“Shiny!” a voice boomed in the Common Tongue. Melisandre opened an eye to watch incredulously. The pink horse launched herself off the throne with her wings, gliding across the hall and tackling the prince from above. Despite her lean legs, she easily scooped him up and peppered his blushing muzzle with frantic kisses. “I missed you so much! So has Flurry!”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” the prince protested and pulled himself away.

“Too long!” the other nickered. Her violet, rose, and gold mane swirled delicately under the tiara, matched by a bouncy tail.

One of the guards coughed next to the prone Melisandre. She paid it no mind and remained in a submissive bow. Her ears twitched at the movement between the obvious royal couple and their lack of courtly decorum. Gilded hooves clacked along the crystal floor; the guards parted, but remained close to Melisandre and the royals.

“Did you get my message?” the prince whispered.

“I did,” the pink one answered. “Please,” she said down to Melisandre. “Rise.”

Melisandre pushed herself up, but averted her eyes from the royals. She kept her horn titled away from them, uncertain if that would be taken as an offensive gesture. The crowned horse openly flinched at the bruising around Melisandre’s right eye and muzzle, scuffing a hoof on the floor with folded ears. Her purple eyes swam with tears and open pity.

Neither of them were raised royalty, Melisandre assumed. Coupled with the demeanor of the horses outside, she could draw several conclusions about this new kingdom. A slave rebellion, or a usurpation. There had been rumors of the last Targaryen lighting Slaver’s Bay aflame, but the Red Priestess was far from those shores.

“I am so sorry,” the pink horse apologized. She moved towards Melisandre, but the prince held out a hoof and shook his head. He mouthed something to her, and her stance shifted. “I am sure you have heard many apologies already.”

“I have endured worse, your grace,” Melisandre said lightly.

The pink horse flared out her wings and held her head and horn straight. “I am Mi Amore Cadenza, Princess of the Crystal Empire,” she recited. “May I know your name, Kirin?”

“Should it please your grace, I am Melisandre of Asshai,” she bowed again. “Red Priestess of the Lord of Light.”

The princess was clearly off-put by the titles. She blinked, visibly trying to remember if she had heard any of them before. She clearly failed and offered a brittle smile. “Please, Princess Cadenza is fine.”

“If it pleases your grace,” Melisandre stood. “I thank you for your hospitality, Princess.”

The princess’ eyes flicked to the faded bruises along Melisandre’s muzzle.

“She’s like that,” her prince whispered. Melisandre pretended not to hear.

“You are very far from Kirin lands,” the princess stated.

“She doesn’t know about the Crystal Empire,” Prince Shining said to the princess.

“Well, that’s hardly unusual,” Princess Cadenza shrugged her wings. “It’s been gone a long time.” She turned her head back to the throne. “Sunburst? Please let Twilight and her friends know Shiny’s back.” The orange stallion walked down from the dais, looking at the ‘Kirin’ through strange orbed pieces of glass before leaving through a side door.

“Are you hungry?” Princess Cadenza asked Melisandre. She shared a quick glance at the white stallion beside her. “I was told you haven’t eaten.”

“I am fine, your grace,” Melisandre replied automatically. The Princess’ horn glowed with pale blue light and Melisandre felt an energy flow down her fur. Whatever the magic was meant to do, it clearly did nothing. Princess Cadenza shared another look with the prince and shrugged her wings.

“We have more than hay and oats,” Prince Shining offered. “I am sorry about our trail rations being…lacking,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Do you eat meat?”

“If I must,” Melisandre answered noncommittally, nudging a fang with her tongue. "I shall eat whatever it pleases your grace to serve me."

The side door that the orange stallion left from opened again. Six horses and a small lizard spilled forth into the throne room, led by a purple horse with horn and wings. All six wore jewelry as lackluster as the princess’ own crown.

The purple one shouted some stream of syllables and pulled the prince into a crushing hug with a glowing purple horn. The others were more reserved, except for the pink one that brushed past the guards with a springy hop and shoved her muzzle against Melisandre’s.

“Hello!” the pink horse chirped with disturbing blue eyes. “You’re very red. I’m very pink. I’m Pinkie Pie!”

Melisandre was reminded of the jester Patchface and took an involuntary step back.

“Woah,” a normal orange pony yanked the pink one back. “Easy, Pinkie. She’s never seen ponies before, remember?”

“Well,” the pink one snorted, “now she has! This is Applejack. We’re earth ponies!” She jabbed a hoof at a blue winged pony with a rainbow mane who squinted suspiciously at Melisandre. A yellow winged pony cringed and hid her muzzle behind a flowing pink mane. “That’s Rainbow and Fluttershy! They’re pegasi!”

The pink one dropped her voice to a whisper. “They can fly,” she hissed conspiratorially. The hoof wiggled towards a white horned horse with a coiffed purple mane. She was critically inspecting Melisandre’s ruby broach from afar. “That’s Rarity! She’s a unicorn!”

The hoof vibrated towards the prince and the purple pony, deep in some conversation with Princess Cadenza. “And that’s Twilight. She was a unicorn, but now she’s an alicorn, all fancy and schmancy.” She turned back to Melisandre with a wide smile.

There is madness in her eyes. “Lord of Light, give me strength,” Melisandre whispered in High Valyrian.

“I’ve never heard that language before!” the pink one laughed.

“Girls!” the so-called Twilight whinnied in the Common Tongue. “Enough!” Her horn glowed and the pink one was dragged away, encased in a purple aura. “I’m so sorry,” Twilight apologized to Melisandre.

Melisandre looked down and twisted a cloven hoof to inspect it. This is an unfair test. “No apologies are needed…your grace?” she guessed. Her ruby eyes flicked to the others, who all wore necklaces in contrast to Twilight’s golden tiara.

“Ah,” Twilight laughed awkwardly. “I am Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Equestria.”

Melisandre bowed.

“Please,” Princesss Twilight waved her wings in clear discomfort. “Stand. That’s not necessary.”

“This is my sister I mentioned,” Prince Shining said. “She’s had her share of magical accidents.”

Prince Twilight slapped the back of his head with a wing, clanging against his helmet.

None of them were born royalty. The horses in the village had been deathly afraid of Sombra and the demeanor of the smallfolk suggested that their freedom was a new thing. Melisandre pursed her lips and held her tongue. She noticed the purple and green lizard had sat down on the lowest step to the throne, either exceptionally well-trained or somehow intelligent. If horses are to speak, why not lizards?

Princess Cadenza and Prince Shining ascended the steps to the throne. The princess sat down while the prince stood, which suggested a clear power dynamic was tied to the horn and wings. The other six horses stood casually together in a group below the throne. A dozen guards lined the walls on either side; spears leaned upright against their sides.

Melisandre thought of young Robert Baratheon and his easy smile, hiding the crushing warhammer and strength. Despite their attitudes, this was not a casual affair. She titled her head, still avoiding direct eye contact with the royals. I do not fear death. R’hllor watches over me.

“Do you mind answering some questions?” Princess Cadenza asked lightly. “I know it’s been a long journey. If you’d like to rest first, please let us know.”

Melisandre dipped her head, but did not reply verbally.

The throned princess frowned slightly. “How well do you know Equestrian?”

“I am fluent in the Common Tongue,” Melisandre answered. “I learned it to travel.”

“But that’s not your native language,” Princess Twilight observed. “We haven’t had contact with the Kirin in three centuries, and even then, it was sparse.”

“It is not.” There was a long silence as the royals waited for an elaboration that did not come.

“What happened wasn’t acceptable,” Prince Shining started with a long, apologetic sigh, “but we would like to understand what occurred before you arrived. You said something about a ritual?”

“It did not work as I intended it to,” Melisandre answered.

“Right,” the blue winged one snorted from the base of the throne. “What were you tryin’ to do, huh?”

“Rainbow,” the yellow one beside her chastised softly. “Please, be nice.”

“I was trying to save a fool,” Melisandre said. “I could not allow him to die.”

Several of the guards shifted slightly. The prince’s eyes narrowed marginally, but he affected a casual demeanor. “Would you please explain?”

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Melisandre provided. “R’hllor had shown me he was essential to victory over the Long Night.”

"The Long Night?" the yellow winged one whispered uncertainly.

“Uh, who’s Rally?” the pink one asked with a frown. "They sound fun!"

“R’hllor,” Melisandre enunciated sharply. “Do not test me,” she added with a low growl in her native Asshai. A flame burst from her horn.

The pink one’s bouncy mane deflated with a squeak.

“Are you confessing to Necromancy?” Princess Twilight asked in a low voice.

The flame around her horn died. “I do not know that word.”

“Raising the dead,” Princess Twilight explained further with a more severe frown. “Dark Magic like that is illegal in Equestria.”

“I was not in your lands,” Melisandre answered, “nor was he truly dead. Magic is always feared by those who cannot understand it.”

“Darling,” the white horse tittered like a courtier. “Don’t you know who you’re speaking to?”

“No.”

The white mare blinked. “We’re the Elements of Harmony.”

“The Kirin may live in an area claimed by Equestria,” Princess Cadenza stated in a conciliatory tone from the throne, “but I doubt they are aware of our laws.”

“She didn’t even know what we called ourselves,” Prince Shining added.

Princess Twilight looked momentarily regretful. “True. What went wrong? The spell-matrix? Did you interrupt a leyline or use focusing crystals?”

Melisandre blinked. “I called upon R’hllor and awoke in the snow.” She suppressed a mild chuckle at the thought of trying to save Snow and ending up in snow. I never considered if the Lord of Light had a sense of humor, but he surely does after this.

“I mean, did you use something that would lead to long-distance teleportation?”

“Candles,” Melisandre deadpanned, unfamiliar with another word. Best not to mention the direwolf. “The Lord of Light provided the rest.”

“Oh, this first contact is going just great,” the lavender princess nickered to herself. “I have one page on the Kirin,” she ranted. “We don’t even know who’s the current princess or queen.” A map levitated from a saddlebag on her side. “Do you know where you are? Where you live?”

The parchment was the highest quality she had ever seen. Melisandre glanced at the unfamiliar landmasses. “I recognize nothing on this map.”

“Great,” Princess Twilight huffed. The map folded itself back up and drifted back into the saddlebag. “Who is the princess? Or the queen?” It seemed to be a genuine question and not a trap.

“I do not serve them, whoever they may be,” Melisandre provided. That was one issue she would not be vague about, no matter the apparent danger.

“You mean that Rallor?” the blue one tried. “What kinda name is that?”

“No,” Melisandre answered. “I serve only one king. The true and rightful king.”

The entire throne room tensed; the guards lowered their spears. The self-named Princess Cadenza’s kind eyes collapsed into a fearful glare. “Do you?” she asked in a harder tone. The prince beside the throne lowered his white horn and it began to glow with rosy light.

“I do,” Melisandre confirmed. She stood straight on her four, unfamiliar legs and looked up at the crystal throne. She met the Princess’ purple eyes fearlessly. “The Prince that was Promised, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm…”

The six horses at the base of the throne pawed at the floor, even the timid yellow one. Their necklaces shined with light, glowing like the ruby around her neck. Even without armor, the six looked prepared for war. The small purple and green lizard stepped up beside the other princess with a fanged snarl.

If this is to be a test of faith, I shall not fail. “Stannis Baratheon,” Melisandre declared proudly with her muzzle raised high. “Azor Ahai come again, the warrior of fire, prophesized to banish the Long Night. The crowned stag within a flaming heart.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Uh, a deer?” the prince asked in a confused whicker. His horn dimmed. The armored horses along the sides held their spears uneasily, sharing awkward looks. The six ponies at the base of the throne glanced at each other, and the glow faded from their jewelry.

Melisandre took only a moment to consider her next course of action. “Yes,” she said confidently. It was true enough, in a sense.

Princess Cadenza licked her lips. “Have you heard of King Sombra?”

“Only that I am apparently his whore,” Melisandre responded dryly.

The winged purple horse clamped her hooves over the tiny lizard’s ears. “Watch your language!”

“She’s only repeating what they shouted at her, Twily,” the prince sighed. The purple princess’ ears pinned back in guilt as she shifted her glare from Melisandre to the throne behind her. “Copperhill is mostly earth ponies and crystal ponies,” he continued. “After the disappearances and what happened in the city…things are tense.”

“When did your spell fail?” Princess Twilight asked, looking back at Melisandre with regretful eyes.

Melisandre brushed her mane back with a hoof, fully exposing the swelling along her muzzle. The bruising had somewhat faded along the darker scales on her back, but some were dented from the shovel strikes. The yellow one gasped and struggled not to cry. All the others winced. Princess Twilight turned the lizard around and had him face the throne. “I do not know how you count the time,” Melisandre answered. “No more than a moon ago, mayhaps. I found the village after several days.”

“Just after the changeling attack,” Princess Cadenza huffed. She rubbed a hoof against her muzzle, squeezing her eyes shut. “Sweet Celestia…”

“So what’s this ‘Lord of Light’ pony? You talkin’ about Princess Celestia?” the orange pony asked. Out of all of them, she was the only one able to look at the bruising without any hesitation.

Melisandre took a moment to parse her heavy, unfamiliar accent. “I do not know of a Celestia. R’hllor is the Lord of Light. The guardian of life and light, and the only hope against the Long Night.”

As Melisandre spoke, her ruby pulsed in time with a faint flame from the tip of her horn. “R'hllor speaks to his chosen ones through blessed fire, in a language of ash and cinder and twisting flame that only a god could truly grasp. He offers glimpses of the future in the flames.”

“Precognition,” Princess Twilight snorted uncertainly. “That’s...that's not possible.”

“I have heard that before,” Melisandre laughed in a warm soprano. “The flames are never wrong, though mortals may err, mistaking this must come for this may come.”

“And what do you have against the night?” the orange one questioned again.

Melisandre smirked. “The night is dark and full of terrors. We burn fires to keep the darkness at bay.”

“That’s cruel to Luna!” the princess Twilight insisted with a hard stomp. “She works hard on the night!”

Melisandre’s smirk collapsed into a frown. “I know not of who you speak.”

“Do you know Nightmare Moon?” the blue one snorted. “You know, the mare that tried to plunge the world into eternal ni—” the normal, orange horse shoved her hoof into the mouth of the winged one beside her.

Above them, Princess Cadenza sagged against her crystal throne. “What is the Long Night?” she asked in a resigned voice as her eyes stared somewhere far beyond the throne room.

“The war,” Melisandre smiled through her short fangs. “The war between darkness and light.” The throne room was silent, so she continued. “Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends. I speak of the war for the dawn, and it will require true courage to defeat the Other and banish the darkness. Ours is a war for life itself, and should we fail the world dies with us.”

The three royals slowly brought a forehoof to their muzzles in unison.

Melisandre watched with open amusement. Nonbelievers. It was hardly a surprise to her, but she had never delivered sermons to horses before. Well, the horses weren’t the intended audience. Perhaps that is why I have been sent here. She longed to return and aid Azor Ahai against his enemies, but R’hllor had sent her here for a purpose, and she needed to discover it.

“Do the Deer speak with the Kirin?” Princess Cadenza whispered to her prince. He shook his head slowly and rubbed a blue eye with an elbow. The stallion looked very tired.

“This, uh, King Stannis,” Prince Shining started. “Does he…believe in this?”

“Not as much as I wish,” Melisandre answered honestly, “but many of his knights believe, as does his wife. Belief does not change the truth. The Long Night will come again.”

"Yeah, you missed it," the rainbow-maned one chuckled. She scuffed a hoof on her necklace.

Melisandre shifted her severe ruby stare to her. Her own broach glowed against her throat. "What do you mean?"

Rainbow swallowed and fluttered her wings.

“We, uh,” Princess Cadance stumbled around her words. “We can’t let you leave. You’re not a prisoner, but, uh—”

“I do not fear death,” Melisandre replied evenly. “I am a Red Priestess for R’hllor. I swore long ago to spread his light.”

“No!” Prince Shining shouted in ragged voice. “No, we aren’t…” he swallowed. “Look, there’s a lot wrong about, uh, about this. It’s been a long time, a thousand years. Luna’s not—"

“She’s not evil,” Princess Twilight finished for her brother with open concern.

“Not anymore,” the rainbow-maned one added with a snort. The orange one kicked her with a hind leg.

The princess on the throne stared at the ceiling with bloodshot purple eyes. Her wings twitched against the sharp edges of the throne. “For your own safety,” she finally managed in an uncertain voice, “we need to keep you here in the Crystal Palace. We…we need to contact the Kirin and explain this. Somehow...”

“As you wish, your grace,” Melisandre bowed again.

The pony flinched on the throne. “Just…uh, the guest chambers, please.” Two guards approached, folding their spears against their sides with practiced ease. Melisandre watched the hafts unlock with a raised brow. Doesn’t seem very practical. The two guards were both winged, and they seemed very nervous.

“This way, Miss Melody, uh, Melisandy?” the one on the left offered. He pointed a wing to a side door.

“By your leave, sweet sers,” Melisandre said graciously. She was taller than both of them, not including her burgundy horn. She tried another smile, this time keeping her fangs hidden behind her upper lip. The stallion openly ogled her before turning around, and Melisandre revised her opinion on her changed beauty.

She revised it yet again when the stallion’s crystal plate did not cover his half-exposed sheath. Atrocious design. That would be the first place to stab. The horses appeared to prefer to be naked, like the stories about Summer Islanders, and took pride in the myriad marks on their flanks. Their armor clanked as they briskly trotted out of the throne room. Melisandre followed languidly; one ear rotated back to the gathered ponies at the base of the throne.

“They built an entire religion around Nightmare Moon,” Princess Twilight muttered in despair to the lizard by her side. She was out the door before she heard if the lizard could reply. They led her up a flight of stairs, not down towards the presumed dungeons.

Melisandre swished her tongue around her short fangs. She was far from Westeros and Asshai, west and east, but many cultures had stories about an everlasting night. Scholarly fools declared that it was some sort of ‘monomyth’ that all religions sprang from, denying the obvious truth. The North was foolish to worship trees, but even they accepted the cold winds.

A Nightmare, Melisandre rolled her eyes at the pun as her ruby pulsed. Something to look into.