He tried to open his eyes, but they felt leaden. When he finally forced them open, the world was painfully sharp. The green of the moss was blindingly bright, and the murmur of a distant stream thundered in his ears like a roar.
He tried to stand, but his legs refused to cooperate. Looking down, he didn't see skin; he saw dark, matte scales.
"Whhaaaaa—" He tried to speak, but only a raspy hiss escaped his throat.
What is going on? he wondered, struggling to command his own limbs. It took several agonizing minutes of trial and error before he finally figured out how to move.
I remember going to sleep... did I fall asleep so hard that the dream became real? But how could he know he was dreaming? Was this lucid dreaming? It felt too vivid.
Slowly, he took in his surroundings. Snow drifted lazily through the towering trees. It looks freezing, but I don't feel the cold at all, he realized. Spotting a pond nearby, he stumbled toward it. His movements were awkward on these strange new limbs, but he managed to reach the water's edge, gasping for air.
He looked at the reflection, and what stared back was a monster.
It wasn't a man's face. It was a head armored in heavy, obsidian scales. He had a long snout, rows of serrated teeth, and eyes that glowed like smoldering coals. Two horns curved back from his skull, sweeping toward a thick, powerful neck.
He jerked back in shock. The reflection mimicked the movement instantly.
I'm a dragon, he thought, the realization hitting him like a heavy blow. I am a literal dragon.
He instinctively flexed his back, and two enormous, leathery wings unfurled, snapping against the nearby trees and sending a shower of snow onto his scales.
He sat there, paralyzed, staring at his claws until his ears twitched. A twig snapped. Then came the unmistakable crunch of boots on frozen snow.
His heart hammered against his ribs—a heavy, rhythmic thrum. Every instinct screamed at him to run or to incinerate whatever was approaching. He scrambled away from the pond, his clumsy wings dragging through the brush, until he found a thicket of pines. He squeezed his massive body into the shadows, holding his breath as the footsteps drew closer.
Two men walked into the clearing. They wore thick, stinking furs and carried longbows. One had a dead rabbit hanging from his belt. They looked like hunters, their faces red from the cold.
"Keep your eyes open," the older one said, spitting into the snow. "The Great Hall needs more than a few hares if we're to feed the King's whole lot."
"The King," the younger one grumbled, adjusting his bow. "Why's he coming all this way? The North is no place for a man with a golden crown. Should've stayed in the South."
"Hush, boy. Lord Stark wouldn't like that talk. If Robert Baratheon wants to ride North to see his old friend, he does it. And we'll be the ones filling the pots for the feast."
The dragon quietly hiding in the shadows suddenly had an memory flashback.
Robert Baratheon? Lord Stark?
He knew those names. He'd read them, watched them, heard people argue about them. But this wasn't a screen. He could smell the sweat on the men. He could see the steam rising from their breath.
"Think the Queen is as beautiful as they say?" the younger hunter asked. "A Lannister of Casterly Rock."
"She probably looks down her nose at the likes of us," the older man replied. "Come on. There's a deer trail further up. If we don't get a buck, the Master of Horse will have our heads."
They kept walking, their voices fading into the trees.
He stayed perfectly still until the sound of their boots died away. His mind was racing. Stark. Baratheon. Lannister. One name was a coincidence. Three was a map.
He stayed frozen until the forest was silent again. Then, the panic finally boiled over. He didn't scream—he couldn't—but he threw himself onto his side, rolling through the snow and dead leaves. His heavy tail smashed into a tree trunk, sending a shower of ice down onto his scales.
What do I do? What the hell am I supposed to do? The thoughts were screaming in his head, even if his throat only made a low, vibrating growl. He rolled onto his back, his four legs kicking uselessly at the air like a flipped turtle. The snow felt wet against his belly, but he wasn't shivering. He was hot. There was a furnace behind his ribs that made the freezing North feel like a mild summer evening.
He stopped rolling and forced himself over. He dug his claws into the dirt and pushed. His legs felt heavy, but strong. When he finally stood, he didn't wobble as much.
He looked at his new body. He was about the size of a pony.
Dragons had been dead for a long time here. If the Northmen found him, they wouldn't try to pet him. They would bring spears. They would bring nets. And if King Robert was already on his way to Winterfell, the woods were going to be crawling with soldiers.
He couldn't stay here. He was too small to fight an army and too big to hide in a bush.
He tested his wings. They felt like massive weights hanging off his shoulders. He tried to flap them, but they just smacked against a tree, knocking a pile of snow onto his head.
"Damn it," he tried to say, but it came out as a sharp, vibrating growl.
He couldn't fly yet. He had to walk.
He turned away from the path the hunters had taken and started moving deeper into the trees. He kept his head low, trying to stay in the shadows. His tail dragged behind him, leaving a long groove in the snow. He stopped every few steps, his ears twitching, listening for the sound of more boots or the bark of a hunting dog.
He had to get far away from Winterfell, and he had to do it before the sun went down.