A Wraith in Winter

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.