A Wraith in Winter

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.