#i like to think so had planned to be a priest of the valar but then meet turgon and was like hell no this my man now

[thelien-art]

Walking through the streets of Tirion~

Turgon is talking about architecture and Elenwe just found him and ran up to him, because they love each other

[delicrieux]

-- valar dohaeris

                                          + all men must serve +                                                        chapter 1

pairing: jon snow x reader x various

summary: (Name) and The Red Woman bring back Jon Snow to the land of the living.

warnings: mentions of death

words: 1.2k

author’s note: posting it here because i am so angry abt GOT ending that im continuing this story just so i could change almost everything lol. this story features multiple POVs!:)

feedback is always appreciated xoxo

masterlist | ch.2 | v. d. masterlist | buy me coffee☕

                             THE RED PRIESTESS FROM ASSHAI

A new day has risen; snowflakes lazily dance outside the small window of the cold room. The Red Woman takes a step back, her ringed fingers now hidden within her sleeves as she intently watches the man, bare chested and unbreathing, laying on the wooden carved table. Flames lick the inside of the fireplace in a desperate attempt to keep warm. The pale body twitches ever so slightly, and the few people occupying the room hold their breath in anticipation.

You stand behind Melisandre as if a red shadow, lingering by the entrance with a mask of indifference shrouding your face. She turns to you gently, as if for support, as if to make sure you had not left, and you take a quiet step to her, your dress kissing the ground as you do. All eyes return to the dead again. The blues of his lips bloom with blood and in an instant he snaps his eyes open inhaling deep, rasp breath. Melisandre visibly eases, a small, grateful whisper falling from her lips addressed to her God, and you bow your head in his greatness as well. The companions of the man who came into this world twice rush to his side as he sits, confused and terribly disoriented. You and she allow them to welcome him back into the land of the living once more.

A few bewildered celebratory shouts and the room falls silent again, the Watchmen now more intrigued by the two witches dressed in gowns of deep red satin. Melisandre’s lips quirk upwards into a pleased smile, her eyes holding the authority of necromancer magic. You beside her appear no different in their eyes, or so you assume as the warmth of the fire heats your side and the freezing cold of the North burns the other.

“The Lord of Light has many plans for you, Jon Snow.” Melisandre addresses the dead man, now named. Jon, you think, Jon suits him. But Snow…Your eyes wander to the outside world again – the morning is crystal clear and icy – and wonder that perhaps that suits him, too. Pale, cold, with the stench of death still ebbing out of him, mysterious, yet undoubtedly beautiful. You catch his gaze and your heart spurs in your chest as if a caged bird – there is fire within those sad, brown eyes, traces of ancient magic that is potent, yet dormant. Not for long, though. Could this be why Melisandre had taken you with her? Had requested your presence out of the all Red Priests in Asshai? She was insistent, and on the long trip to Westeros you had mulled and nearly bitten your lips off from curiosity.

You are the youngest of them, after all. And he, Jon, is now freshly birthed into his second life.

Melisandre calls your name, drawing each syllable with grace and power, “…I leave you in charge of our Lord’s miracle.” Her sly gaze rests on you before she addresses Jon again, “Rest and be ready by the next dawn. The Lord of Light brought you back for a reason.” With that she exits the chamber, and you give his men a modest nod that they may leave, too. Uncertain if it is a smart idea to leave Jon with another witch – and, with all due respect, you understand their hesitance – they leave and, with a friendly “Yell if you need somethin’” thrown at Jon, shut the door behind them,

“Welcome back.” You say, finally, after a thoughtful pause. He looks around awkwardly, his bones cracking as he does, “How does it feel?”

“It feels uh…” His voice is hoarse and harsh, and he clears his throat. Immediately you go to the pitcher, fill him a glass of water and offer it, which he takes, “Thank you…” He mutters, taking a sip, “It feels…strange.”

“And to die?”

“Terrifying.” He admits. You poke the fire.

“There are worse things.”

“As?”

“Not coming back” You turn to him, “-is one. Betrayal, though, hurts the most, does it not?” He gazes you up and down, deeply conflicted.  A frown graces his features, one mostly out of habit, as he regards you with suspicion.

“..Who…Who are you, exactly? And who was…The Red Woman? The other one?”

“Well you already know my name. And she is Melisandre.” You smile at him tenderly, “You needn’t fear, however. You are not in her debt. Our God is who brought you back. Some call us the Red Priestesses. Others…witches. But we are simply servants, tasked with making sure the prophecy comes true.”

“What prophecy?”

“You already know, do you not?”

“I am just a man.”

You note a small red dot crawling on his shoulder and walk over. Leaning in, you extend your hand for the ladybug to climb on; it does so eagerly, jumping on one of your heavy rings. You grin, gazing into his eyes once more, “A ladybug in the North appears on your skin. You tell me if you are just a man, Jon Snow.”

                                                JON SNOW

He is still too ill to move around carelessly, and with great difficulty, after rejecting Ladybug’s – it is what he decided to call her, her very own personal nickname – quite uninterested offer to help, he put on his robes and moved to stand by the window. The Courtyard, dyed in morning sunrays, glisters. The news of his revival had surely spread by now, and he expects to be disturbed any given moment, yet while there is no one pounding on his door and he has a moment to himself, he tries to steady his hands yet they do not stop shivering. It is overwhelming. One moment there was nothing but a long, cold night, and the next the whole world was crashing down onto him, pulling him out of endless slumber. While Ladybug was with him – her presence, albeit strange and somewhat disheartening, was mildly comforting and her intentions seemed pure – he had to contain his breathing and his hammering heart. He had not been so frightened since he fought the Wright. And so heartbroken since Olly thrusted his blade into his back. It is as if he feels these emotions for the first time, needs to learn to deal with them all over again. She had left a while ago. The insect crawled in circles on her hand, before it faded into nothing. Perhaps it was just an illusion and she was trying to cheer him up.

He spots her in the yard, her hood shielding her hair from the falling snowflakes. There is a small ruby bird chirping on her finger, and her expression betrays the upmost concentration. Could she be listening to it? Men work beside her as if she was not even there. Jon deems it strange that she, gifted with the exotic beauty of Essos, clad in all red, would not stand out to them against the pure white snow.

Alas, the bird flaps its wing joyfully and springs into the air, flying away, leaving but a single feather behind. She lifts her head and catches him ogling. He gulps. A knock on the door startles him and he turns to it, yelling an awkward “Come in!” before he gazes back through the window. She is gone.

thank you for reading and tbc! if you like the story, share it! if you wanna be tagged, message me! xoxo

[keefechambers]

i wrote a fic for @jeynegrey

Melisandre traveled south. Thoros traveled North. It was sort of inevitable, meeting in the middle. (pre-s7, show canon only, it’s kinda sad I’m sorry)

“My lady. What brings you so far south? Last I heard, you were at Castle Black.” Melisandre never thought she’d get used to hearing herself referred to as ‘my lady’, not in all her years. Especially not from a fellow priest.

“Stannis is dead,” she said, though the words hurt her more than she’d admit. The long ride south had given her time to contemplate it all – Stannis and Selyse and Shireen and Davos and Jon Snow, most of all – but she was no closer to any answers. “Jon Snow was dead too.”

“Was?”

“Betrayed by the Night’s Watch, stabbed in the heart.”

“And now?”

“Rules Winterfell. The Boltons have been defeated.”

Thoros of Myr smiled, but not at her. It was as though he was looking past her, and she understood the expression. The face of someone who was no longer alone. “I take it you had some part in it.”

She nodded.

“Come sit with me. Unless you’re in a rush?”

She was only in a rush to find a safe place for her horse to rest for the night. She didn’t need sleep. She didn’t want sleep. But her mare did. She allowed one of the men who had followed Thoros up the hill to greet her to take the reins from her as she stepped away, walking down to where a few fires were burning, a small camp in the darkness.

“What has brought you so far north?”

“The enemy.”

There was no need to ask which enemy he meant. Over his shoulder she saw Lord Beric speaking to a tall burned man, mildly bickering over food or something mundane.

“Has he --?”

“Since the last time we spoke, no. He is being cautious,” he said. “Or as cautious as his nature allows, I suppose.” There was a fond sort of chuckle, but it died a quick death. “If he dies again I suspect the attempt to bring him back would kill me too. A fitting end.”

Melisandre tilted her head a little. So the hollowness she’d felt inside of her after. The chill that had passed through her had not been unique to her.

“It gets harder every time,” he confirmed when he noticed her look.

“I thought when I brought him back – I thought that…” Abruptly, Melisandre wasn’t sure what she had thought. She hated the feeling. The insecurity. “He exiled me.”

“Did you deserve it?”

She stared at the fire and didn’t see any messages from the Lord. She just saw the flicker of light and remembered Davos’s face. The feel of that damned ruined toy in her hands. Davos had kept her safe from the mutineers. Davos had believed – not in the Lord, but in her – and he’d pushed her to do what she’d thought impossible.

And then he’d sent her away.

Whatever pride Melisandre had left had kept her from telling him sooner. Risking that odd, steady loyalty that she had briefly held and taken for granted. Begging forgiveness had not been an option. Lady Melisandre of Asshai did not beg forgiveness.

Maybe she should have. She didn’t know.

“I did. But I thought since I had helped him…brought him back…” She couldn’t help but look back at where Beric was sitting among his men, watching them curiously, but not listening to their conversation.

“I think he’d send me away if I had anywhere to go,” Thoros said, the light tone decidedly fake, as it often was. She remembered what the High Priestess had said about him, long ago. ‘If Thoros devoted as much time to the Lord as he did to pretending he didn’t care about anything, he would be the greatest of us all’.

Maybe he was the greatest of them all now. But he still sat here, pretending not to care.

“But you saved him.”

“Did I?”

She remembered Jon’s words before he had ridden off to fight Ramsay Bolton.

Don’t bring me back. He had tried pleading. Tried demanding. She was unmoved.

Had she been wrong?

“Jon Snow asked me not to bring him back a second time. He told me he saw the same darkness that your Lord Beric saw and he asked me to leave him be.” She had told Davos that, too. Leave him be.

“Beric gave up asking after three or four times.”

One of the men shuffled up to offer Melisandre food and she declined. She was sure these men needed it more than she did, and the provisions in her bag were sufficient.

“You’re safe to sleep among us,” Thoros told her. “You need your rest, I’m sure. None of the men would act untowardly, I’m sure.”

She believed him, and knew she wasn’t getting farther tonight in the pitch blackness of winter.

“You’ve been quite generous,” she said, trying to regain some of her natural coolness, but just sounding thin and hoarse to her own ears. The week of riding had been unkind to her, even with her Lord’s strength and protection around her.

“Can I ask you a question, my lady?” he said, as he stood up.

She knew the question before he asked it, not for any supernatural reason, simply because it was a question she was surprised he hadn’t asked yet.

“Robert’s boy?”

He had known what the boy was the whole time. It made sense, he had been a great friend to King Robert. She remembered Stannis griping about it at length once or twice. “Alive, last I knew. Ser Davos made sure of that.”

Something like relief crossed his face. “Right.”

The men all fell asleep around the camp and Melisandre remained by the dying fire. The only one not sleeping was Lord Beric, who eventually got up and sat down next to her, offering her a skin of wine silently.

“I don’t sleep much, anymore,” he explained quietly.

“Nor do I.” She felt as though she didn’t really need to tell him why. Ancient, powerful, and frightened of the darkness? She still had some of her dignity.

“You spoke with Thoros for a while,” he said. “Most he’s talked in days.”

“Thoros of Myr is capable of silence?” she retorted, and his smile was strained, but fond.

“I was surprised too,” Beric said. He adjusted the leather that covered his empty socket, apparently self-conscious of it. As she looked at him, she wondered if he had been handsomer when he was alive. He must have been. What had a whole Beric Dondarrion even looked like?

“When the High Priestess sent me to Westeros she said that Thoros of Myr could be a great priest if he devoted himself to the Lord half as much as he devoted himself to forced apathy.”

“And booze.”

“And booze,” she repeated. “And here he is, a great priest, I suppose.”

“Odd how those things happen.”

“Indeed.”

Melisandre could have kept him there all night with questions that had no answers. Questions that would never matter, because Jon Snow was lost to her now. So she settled on something simpler. “You ride north, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Jon Snow has much in common with you. If you meet him –” What was it she intended to say? “I am not there to discern his purpose in our Lord’s plans. Maybe you two can.”

“Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t believe it. She wondered what he believed. 

The night passed in comfort and silence, and as she checked on her horse the following morning, dawn creeping over frost-laden trees, the leaders of the Brotherhood Without Banners approached her.

“Where will you go from here, my lady?” Thoros asked.

“Daenerys Targaryen is sailing west,” she said. “I will return to Dragonstone and take a look at this dragon queen. I believe that would be wise. Perhaps then I will return to Kinvara.”

“Safe travels, my lady,” Beric said.

“I don’t think we’ll see each other again, Lady Melisandre,” Thoros said, with a touch of sadness to his voice.

She didn’t want to think it, but she said her goodbyes anyway. “Valar Morghulis.”

“Valar Dohaeris,” Thoros responded.

Melisandre rode, oddly wishing she could go back north with them, but knowing that her purpose was ahead. Her purpose had been on Dragonstone and when she’d left Dragonstone, she’d found nothing but death and pain. It was time to return.