Work Text:
The Temple of the Lord of Light cast a shadow on all those who were brave enough to step onto either of the two ancient footbridges that led towards its great red arched doors, and if the uneasy feeling of the unknown didn’t deter those from making the journey forward then the deep waters below the bridges did. Waves from the Summer Sea crashed against the concrete pillars that kept the bridges intact, and gazing down for too long into the white foam was known to make men hallucinate and see beautiful faces of women peering up at them from the seabed, lulling their nerves and beckoning them to jump. And some did.
“I am surprised you decided to travel East, there are many people in this city who want you dead for what you did.” The guide quickly caught the bag of gold in his hand before it dropped through a crack in the bridge, blinking up at Jon Snow whose expression never changed. His eyes were hard and dark, his brow permanently furrowed and his jaw tight. “Two hundred gold coins, yes?”
“We agreed on one hundred.” Jon said, his gaze lifting to the fire pyre that stood atop the temple. A large red flame burned bright, blowing with the breeze but never fading.
“One hundred for travelling from Braavos to Volantis, another hundred for keeping it a secret that you are here.” The guide’s smile widened, but it didn’t last.
Slamming his fist into the small round man’s chest, Jon twisted at the material of his cloak and yanked him forward onto the bridge. The man cried out desperately as a hand forced his neck down, and he was gazing down fearfully into the waves. He tried to push himself back but wasn’t strong enough to fight back against a battle-hardened warrior.
“A hundred! I will not tell a soul, I am sorry! Please! Please!” He cried out and squeezed his eyes shut. “I am sorry!”
Jon felt nothing for the man as he struggled, and his eyes darkened as he toyed with the idea of tossing him to the rocks below. Maybe it would be a quick death, maybe not. Seeing a flash of red from the corner of his eye, the former King looked towards the temple and saw a priestess staring back at him. For a moment he thought it was Melisandre, but she pushed her hood down and revealed herself beneath the setting sun. A face he didn’t recognise, yet she knew who he was.
Letting go of the man, Jon stood his ground as the guide stumbled past him and ran from the bridge as fast as his legs would carry him.
Raising her chin, the priestess turned and walked back into the temple. Jon wasted no time in following her. Voices seemed to whisper to him from the waves below.
Come down here, my love. There is no pain down here, only warmth.
He pushed the voices aside and carried on, and the waves seemed to calm with every step he took until he made it to the temple itself. Pushing his way through one of the arched doors, Jon stepped within the building where Daenerys had been laid to rest. He felt regret swell within his chest and throat, but clinched his jaw until his teeth ached. He couldn’t give into his weakness now, he came here for a reason and he wouldn’t leave until he got it. Moving through the darkened corridors that would’ve been impossible to navigate through without the dim candlelight, he looked around with unease and felt as if he was being followed by shadows as he entered a great hall that was twice the size of the one in Winterfell.
He swept his dark gaze through it warily, so quiet he could hear the dull thump of his own pulse in his ears. Noticing a path of candles that outlined a path towards two large double-doors at the opposite end of the hall, Jon noticed one of the doors ajar. Instinctively dropping his hand to the sheath where his sword was kept, the troubled King made his way down the path that seemed to be lit for him. Red priestesses possessed powers he didn’t understand, Melisandre had given him a glimpse into what was possible for those who served the Lord of Light before her sacrifice at the Battle of Winterfell. Maybe this priestess knew he was coming, he prepared himself for any possibility.
Nearing the door, he pulled at his sword just enough so that Valyrian steel shimmered in the dark. Trying to peer through the gap, he saw nothing. Shouldering his way into the unknown, he was on full alert, ready to fight his way through an army – but his adrenaline was thrust from his throat in a breath as if he had been punched in the chest.
Standing on either side of a stone table were six red priestesses, they decorated the stone with different flowers, some of which Jon had never seen before. But it wasn’t the flowers that made his knees weaken, but the body that the flowers surrounded.
The breath never returned to him and sorrow replaced the caution in his eyes.
Dressed in a red silk dress with tiny flowers positioned gracefully in silver hair that cascaded down her shoulders was Daenerys Targaryen, her once rosy lips as white as her pale complexion. The priestesses had positioned her hands over one another against her belly. She was the most beautiful creation the Gods had ever made, even in death.
The priestess he had seen on the bridge finally met his gaze again.
“You cannot bargain with the Lord of Light, Jon Snow. What is done is done.” She told him, knowing why he had come all this way. “We all tried to revive her, twelve times we repeated the spell and twelve times we failed to do so – the Lord has chosen to let her rest.”
The broken King was speechless, and as he tried to form a sentence it was lost on his tongue when he gazed at her face again. Stumbling forward, he felt tears slide down his cheeks and into his unkempt beard.
If there was a hell, this was it.
“Take my life, take it from me and give it to her.” He muttered, getting close enough to her that he could see now her cheeks had begun to sink in. “Please.” Reaching a hand towards the Queen he had slain, Jon couldn’t allow himself to touch her.
Instead he took a step back and pulled his sword free from its sheath, tossing it on the ground with a loud clatter towards Kinvara. The high priestess looked down at the Valyrian steel then up at the shadow of a King that once was.
Ripping open his tunic to reveal a scarred chest and abdomen, Jon spread his arms wide and fell to his knees.
“Kill me.” He ground out through clinched teeth, unable to look at Daenerys again. “Drive it through my heart, your God gave me this life – he can take it back.”
“That is not how it works.” Kinvara shook her head. “Sacrificing yourself would not bring Daenerys back, spilling blood when we are preparing her for her final journey into the afterlife would only do more damage and I think enough damage has been done.”
“There must be a way.” He glared at her. “I’ll try anything, I will do anything, I will travel anywhere to do what needs to be done to bring her back.”
“The Unknown Priest.” One of the red priestesses spoke out of turn and Kinvara shot her a glance that silenced her immediately.
Jon looked at the other priestess who lowered her head.
“The Unknown Priest – who is that?”
Kinvara sighed.
“They are priests who serve another God, The Stranger. They practice dark magic in the shadowlands beyond Asshai.”
“Can they revive the dead?”
“Yes, but for a price.” She told him. “It may seem tempting to find an Unknown priest to resurrect Daenerys, but trust me Jon Snow – the Stranger will not just take your life, you will owe him your soul for an eternity. Is an eternity of darkness worth it?”
“Yes.” He said without hesitation and pulled himself up to stand once again. “If it means Dany gets a chance at the happiness I stole from her, then yes – I would die a thousand deaths just to let her breathe again.”
“Very well, find your priest and you may just get what you came for – if the Lord of Light permits it.”
Jon grasped his sword and nodded, glancing one more time at Daenerys before moving to leave.