A Wraith in Winter

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.