TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI
"What do you see?"
Murmured words within the temple. They came from nowhere and everywhere, circling the room where Daenerys stood, copying themselves over and over until they were nothing but a blur. It was the same with Truth. A hundred years rolled into rumour, a thousand left a flicker struggling in the dark. Some called it hope. It was madness.
A wall of smoked glass vaulted above Daenerys. It had a look of ice about it, melted over an obsidian skeleton, reforging and cooling in immeasurable grotesque ridges. Arching around her on both sides, it enclosed the temple room and its vile, stone floor. The black tiles were greasy against her bare feet. She recognised their make from the jungle city. Asshai was built from the same wretched material. It soured the air, leeching magic into the cursed ground.
She could not make out the domed roof or its fresco. The forgotten race that built Asshai's sprawling city left stories on the walls but they were hidden by the shadow that suffocated everything between the mountains and the sea.
"Nothing." Daenerys replied. "A wall. Same as you. Only a burned wall..."
Light was scarce. Quaithe burned an assortment of candles on the floor. There was no method to their design. Tall, fat, tapers and lantern lights – they all burned directly on the tiles leaving puddles of wax. In all, it amounted to a faint glow that scarcely lit the two figures dwarfed by their surrounds. Traditional charcoal robes replaced Daenerys' ruined clothes. They dragged around her, rustling whenever she moved. Quaithe kept her face hidden by a curious hexagonal-plated mask, embossed with gold and illegible runes. Her robes mimicked the red god, R'hllor and was belted with a cluster of rubies.
The queen's hair was braided with silver beads which adorned her plaits like pearls. They shifted as Daenerys looked over her shoulder. "I do not understand what you wish me to see?" she added, unnerved by silence.
"It is not what I wish you to see..." Quaithe lit another cluster of candles, cupping her hands protectively around the weak flames. They died if left unattended. "The Wall has not spoken for many years and even then, only whispers. The priests come and kneel before it and mutter their devotion but what god favours a cowering man?"
"Did it speak to you – your gods?"
"Once. Go on – you may touch it."
Daenerys frowned and turned to face the blackened glass. Daenerys was no cowering sheep, she was a dragon. As she reached out the oversized robes slid down her arm, exposing cloth bindings which were partially bled through. There were more around her waist, her leg – the side of her neck. Her delicate fingers met the stone...
Stale air rushed over the room, extinguishing the candles.
Darkness. A hiss in the dark. Green fire stirred inside the wall, rising from the ground but locked behind its glass prison. It rushed out from the place her fingertips met the wall, using Daenerys as a bridge to the world. It burned without heat, encasing Quaithe and Daenerys in a terrifying vision of hell. Quaithe ducked as the flames spread over the ceiling and burned down toward them with no glass to hold them back. They were twenty-foot monsters hungry to escape, lashing out at the darkness.
Daenerys did not move.
Wildfire skipping from mast to mast. Green flames, setting the water alight. A thousand screams. Men throwing themselves into the waves. The crack of masts. King's Landing in the shadow of the moon. Tyrion backing away from a castle wall – horror in his eyes and the reflection of the sea.
She withdrew her hand and the vision vanished. The flames remained, retreating to the ceiling where they continued to burn with the rest. They had no use of candles now. The walls were awake.
"That was not a vision of the future," Daenerys said. "Jorah told me stories about the Blackwater and the savagery of kings – it was exactly as he said. I don't understand."
"No one said that the flames showed the future," Quaithe left the candles and approached the dragon queen.
Daenerys was wary of visions. "What did the flames show you?"
Quaithe paused. She unfurled her arms at the scene. "A dragon queen and a burning wall. This, I saw. You standing as you are now. The gods asked for this."
"Which god?' Daenerys replied coolly. "Every city I have been through has its own pantheon. Horse gods, sea gods, winged gods. Some are dead, others keep silent while men kill in their stead. A million swords lay in the sands beyond this city, for a god's will? My Queensguard used to say that the old gods play with the realms of man to pass the time on a Summer's afternoon."
The shadow binder smiled. "Your knight was wise."
Was. The word stuck in Daenerys' heart. "There is something beneath the glass..." she added, noticing veins below the surface of the dragonglass. They were white, moving and twitching. It repulsed her. Were the buildings alive?
"Weirwood roots. This temple is built on the corpse of an ancient tree, larger than any in the seven kingdoms – though I hear a few in the frozen realm are larger. It lives still, within the walls, feeding off the cold. They prefer snow. The roots seed the fire with visions, if you have the gift. They bind them into the flames."
"I think I've seen the tree," Daenerys replied, her features softening. She lifted her hand back toward the wall, not quite touching it. "In a dream. It was alone and dead in the Shadowlands. Much smaller than you describe. Perhaps it was not dead at all."
Quaithe was unnerved by the dragon's words. "That is further back than any have seen... Before Asshai – impossible. Not even the Greenseers of the North glimpse such things." A pause, then, "What – what was it like?" the woman lowered her voice, afraid the gods might be listening.
"Darkness..." Daenerys breathed. "And -" her eyes closed, "-fire. The city was already there but it was alive. There was something in its flames – flames like these..." Daenerys touched the wall again. This time, the green flames snapped free from their glass prison and dragged her into the centre of the room. They lifted her off the ground, churning furiously around her body.
Sun mingled with smoke. It twisted in through the shattered windows of the great hall, sinking to the floor until it became a shivering sea. The Iron Throne sat above. An old, skeletal creature draped over its burned swords. The Mad King, with his twisted nails, pale face and silver beard laid over his knees in knots – choked on the destruction. He was a ghoul of a creature, contorted with malice and, as the stories went, mad.
Father.
Screams crescendoed as the enormous door at the other end of the hall parted and the Hand of the King slipped through. Jamie Lannister closed it behind him, resting against the sturdy surface for a moment, unable to wash the visions from his mind. Melted flesh and the bones of children. He never wanted to see that for as long as he lived. His eyes lifted to the cause of all the horror in his world, cradled by a butcher's throne.
"Your Grace, it is done," Jamie announced, crossing the hall. His footsteps were loud enough to shake the fragile reverie. Metal. Stone. Smoke. "My father's army approach the city gate. Do we open it?"
The vision shifted. Daenerys found herself looking into the King's sunken eyes. He was forty going on one-thousand. A maester stooped to his right and a young Varys waited on his left. It was the spider who spoke first.
"You cannot..." he whispered. "Tywin means to take the city, not defend it. My birds-"
"Nonsense!" The maester interrupted. He leaned over to mutter filthy things in the ear of the king until Aerys curled his shrivelled lip and nodded. "The King says to open the gate."
Lannisters swarmed the city. Their soldiers spilled through the streets like a golden river, rushing up to the castle walls. It was nearly sunset. Her father slouched further in his chair. He was muttering about dragons – of being reborn into their flesh. Aerys believed himself to be one. If he had laid eyes on one, thought Daenerys, he'd know the difference between beast and man.
Varys languished in the corner, staring out one of the stone windows to the wreckage of the city below. There was no escape from the palace – or Tywin's wroth.
Sensing defeat, the mad king pried himself free of the bloodied throne and, on shaking legs, stepped down to meet Jamie. "Do it. Burn the city. Show your father what betrayal looks like and we will rise from the ashes. First – bring me his head and set it at my feet. That traitor. The liar. Treacherous coward – Lannister dog!"
"Your Grace – he is my father..." Jamie pleaded. "And even so – you cannot burn your own city. Half a million will die in the flames. There will be no city-"
"And they will be reborn."
"They will not!" Jamie insisted. "They will die with the empire."
Daenerys stood between the kingslayer and her father. She could feel the fear, it hung in the room like drapes before the sun. The screams outside grew louder. Tywin reached the palace doors and pounded against them. Varys caught the young Lannister's eye and nodded. Her father turned away, intent on ascending the throne. Jamie silently removed his sword. He shifted his weight, tears in his eyes as he lifted it above his head. There was a moment, where the room said nothing, offering no warning to the king. The smoky air whistled around the sword. Aerys hesitated. The blade came down, slicing through the Targaryen flesh.
Blood sprayed over Daenerys. She gasped. The last thing she heard as the vision faded was her father muttering, "Burn them! Burn them! Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds. All of them! The babes and women too. Burn it!"
"Daenerys?"
The silver queen lay on the floor, thrown from above with a surge of green and an almighty crack! The eerie flames raged brighter than before, invigorated by the dragon's touch. Undoubtedly there was magic in a Targaryen. Daenerys was wildfire to the pale creatures lurking in the city. They'd crawl from every filthy crack to seek her out.
Daenerys groaned, rolling onto her side and touched the bruise on her face. She was leaving tears of blood over the ground from a torn bandage. "What happened? I saw..."
Quaithe stalked closer to the dragon. Beneath the golden mask, a pair of eyes sharpened – longing – desperate. "Yes?" she led.
"My father."
The putrid wreak of the tent mixed with smoke. A fire burned in its heart. Canvas and animal skin formed the walls while ghastly skeletal decorations hung from its many pillars, bumping together with a morbid tune. Frightened women, barely clothed, cowered around the edges watching the old man closest to the fire as he worried the coals with a poker. Dozens of ratty crows, men of the Night's Watch, collected near the entrance. They were frozen, half starved and nursing evidence of a fight. Their Lord Commander sensed the unrest between the men and their host. He shouted words at the crows to draw them back but the vision had no sound save the howling wind outside the tent. The restless breath of Winter.
Crows converged on Craster. Craster lunged from his place, shouting viscously as swords were brandished. The Commander tried to break the fight apart, urging the men to leave. One in particular, he gripped by the chest and tossed out of the tent. A commotion behind. Another crow, knife in hand, plunged it through Craster's jaw and out his mouth. The man fell dead. The Lord Commander drew his sword on his man, horrified at their betrayal. The crow had one of the frightened girls by the hair, dragging her towards the table. A sword from behind, through the bear's back. Mormont whirled and took the crow by his black cloth, pushing him against a wooden pillar in surprised rage. Blood welled up into his throat. He felt death. It gripped his bones. The Commander fell to the dirt floor, staring at the bone-things twisting in the smoke.
The treacherous crow descended on him, thrusting his knife into the dying flesh. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Air rushed into Jorah's throat. He inhaled it greedily, stretching his lungs and lurching off the black slab in shock. Life. His body burned, every inch of it aflame from within. The bear grimaced, holding up his arms only to find them patterned with intricate networks of maroon tattoos. He'd seen that sort of rubbish in the brothels of Mereen and it suited him less than on those over-tanned, drunken sell swords.
Jorah was naked. His body was covered in the same blood magic making him appear like a strange, mythical creature rather than a man. Jorah tried to rub it off but it was beneath his skin. He curled his lip in a growl as he lifted his injured leg. A phantom pain lingered even though the hideous tear in the flesh was gone – as were the cuts from the basalt cliffs. Jorah frowned, quickly performing a check of known scars to find them equally gone. Even his childhood marks. He stopped, swallowing hard. Whatever had happened to him, if it involved magic, it couldn't be good.
Daenerys...
The Mormont knight had to will his body to move. It was stiff and unobliging as he shuffled off the stone slab (which boasted alarming similarities to a butcher's block) to stand in the centre of the room. It was a hideous place, small but claimed high domed ceilings and a single white door. The rest was black, like living in the abyss above the world.
Robes had been left on a small table along with the ice-sword and an array of his leather straps, rescued from his clothes. Jorah dressed and set about wrapping the ties around his arms and hands until he was satisfied. It gave the robes an odd appearance but it was nothing compared to the furious eyes of the creature wearing them.
Last, Jorah slid the sword into his belt and moved over to the door. He lay against it, listening for movement outside. Silence, as if this place was eating light as well as life. I am in Asshai, he thought, though he had no memory of how he had come to be here. Were they prisoners of the armed men on the mountain? Had they been sold for a ransom to priests in some forsaken temple? There were no good options when it came to a place like this. It was death. A ship. Find her and then find one.
Jorah tried the handle. Locked. He pushed against it, had a go undoing the bolts that held the hinges but everything he tried was fused into the ghost-wood surface.
"It is tiresome to watch a bear swat at birds."
Jorah turned sharply to find a familiar figure on the far side of the room. Quaithe stepped out of the shadows with a smile. He did not match it. "How long have you been there?"
"Three days. Tread gently," she advised, when it appeared he would have another go at the door, "your injuries are healed however the poison remains. You may find that it has lasting effects."
"Queen Daenerys?"
"Sit down," Quaithe commanded, dragging a white-wood chair toward him. Everything in the temple was styled with either black stone or pale wood.
"No. Where is the queen?" he asked again, firmly.
"Mormont, if you do not sit, you will fall. I do not mind which. Some lessons must be learned the long way."
"I have no time for your twisted words-" Jorah faltered as his head started to spin. Darkness closed in on the edges of his sight. Sounds faded. The vision of Quaithe blurred until he could not pick her out from the wall behind or the candle on the table.
"Visions are common, for those tainted with The Tears. Priests of the old religion experimented with the sap. Admittedly most died. Not you, Mormont." She watched as Jorah crumbled to his knees. "We'll try this again later, after you have rested." She added, as he fell face first onto the stone.
The shadow of a beast flew above Blackwater Bay. On the tips of its wings were curved horns. They dipped into the water, creating a wash as it banked right and circled in front of the approaching fleet of black sails. As the creature lifted, a rage of fire was revealed. King's Landing burned while the silver queen watched, atop her dragon.
"Khaleesi..." he whispered, then startled as the ground also shifted beneath him. His dragon followed, climbing through smoke until they rose above it and caught the sun setting on the battle and night folding in over the hills.
Jorah woke calmly. He lay on the floor in front of the door with Quaithe standing over him, offering her hand. He accepted and allowed the sorceress to lead him to the table where he sat obediently and took of the offered wine. If she had wanted him dead, he would already be so.
"Are they real?" he asked, holding the white goblet. "The visions."
"Are any visions real?" she replied cryptically. "The flames show us possibilities. The Tears – who knows if it is madness, desire or a back door into fate?"
Quaithe was about as helpful as he remembered magic-folk to be. "You know, I met a woman like you once," he said, "long time ago – in the Northern lands. She had about as much sense as a bag of barley. Always talking in circles. None of it amounted to anything. Nothing to say?"
"I do not disagree."
He rubbed his arm, irritated by the fading patterns. "Was I dead? I do not remember anything – only darkness and then I was dreaming – or remembering things that were not mine to remember."
"No. Close... Believe me, you would have a very different look about you had a necromancer been involved. Their corpses walk the streets, aimless and soulless, mere puppets. Nobody comes back from death unscathed. It takes a part of you and binds itself to what is left. Better not to come back at all. Healing is different."
"Is that what-" he pulled at his sleeves and Quaithe nodded. "I told you once, Mormont, to take a little caution. It was reckless to sail off the edges of the map."
"Says the witch in the city on the fringes of the world. Besides, it were the Storm Gods that tossed us off course. We should have been in Braavos by now."
"I followed you here," Quaithe defended, "and good thing too or you would be dead."
"Where is the queen?"
"Sit. Back. Down."
Jorah stumbled into the chair. "Where is she..." he asked, softly this time as his body struggled to deal with the poison rushing through it. His vision blurred. Green flame appeared from nowhere, surrounding them for a moment before they vanished. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You have let your fingers dip into the darkness on the other side and like the oily stone that built Asshai, some of it has stuck with you."
"Answer me."
"Drink the wine."
"Where is she?" Jorah felt a panic rise as Quaithe avoided the question. He repeated it, shouting until Quaithe said nothing at all in reply. He fumbled for the ice-sword and turned it on the sorceress, resting it at the edge of her mask.
Quaithe did not flinch. "Are you going to kill me? I am your only friend."
"Friend?" he questioned, standing with one hand on the chair's back. The other held the sword steady. "Who are you?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters to me. You follow me, you follow her. Even in the queen's dreams you are there. She told me about them – the whispered words you brought in the dark. I want to know why someone on the far edge of the world gives a shit about the iron throne."
Quaithe was disappointed. "The throne is not important," she replied, pressing herself against the blade. The gold mask protected her from the enchanted ice. "A throne is a only a seat for power. Power needs no place to rest when it has wings."
"Who. Are. You?"
"I am no one..." she trailed off softly.
He did not accept that. "No. No..." he insisted, fighting against the poison in his blood. "I have met many without names. You are not one of them. Tell me, or I swear..." He wasn't sure what he swore but he'd do something on that oath.
"My name was lost a long time ago."
"Do not lie to me." Jorah was fearsome, sliding the blade down until it found Quaithe's throat. He noticed that the skin where the mask met the flesh was burned smooth. He frowned. She met his eyes. The blade lifted the mask, raising it over her head until it fell away, clattering to the floor. Jorah was shocked. He dropped the weapon and stepped backwards in apology, bowing his head.
"Your queen is not the only dragon in these waters."
