For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The first light of morning in Qarth was not a gentle dawn. It was a sharp, chemical explosion of saffron and gold, slicing through the high, barred windows of the gilded cage Xaro called a guest chamber.
I woke to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth.
My Asgardian physiology, a gift from my Frost Giant heritage, meant my skin was always cool to the touch. But now, I was anything but cold. Daenerys was asleep on my chest, one hand splayed over my heart, her small body a furnace against mine. Her silver-fuzzed head was tucked under my chin, and her slow, even breaths were a soft vibration against my skin.
We were tangled in a rumpled sea of Qartheen silks, the scent of sex—a sharp, musky, incredible aroma—clinging to the air, mingling with the jasmine from the garden. David's 20-year-old mind was a blur of what-the-hell-just-happened, a pounding, frantic joy that left no room for analysis.
Loki, however, was already calculating.
This was not just pleasure. Last night was a binding. It was a strategic, political, and—most of all—primal act of allegiance. I had claimed her, and in doing so, she had claimed me. Her "monster." Her "god." The thought sent a jolt of possessive, cold fire through my veins. The girl who had nothing was now bound to the god who'd lost everything. The irony was delicious.
My thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the climax of our night, the burning release, the consequences I had briefly considered. A child. A being of fire and frost, of Targaryen blood and Asgardian magic. The idea was a sledgehammer to David's sensibilities, terrifying and abstract. But to Loki, it was an explosion of pure, intoxicating potential. A new dynasty. A true god-king for this pathetic, broken world.
Daenerys stirred, her lashes fluttering. She made a soft, sated sound, nuzzling her face against my chest before her lilac eyes opened.
They were blurry with sleep for a moment, then focused on me. There was no shame. No regret. Only a slow, spreading smile that lit her face from within. It was a look of pure, shameless ownership.
"Good morning... my Vizier," she whispered, her voice husky from sleep and her exertions last night.
"Good morning... my Queen," I murmured, my hand coming up to trace the curve of her cheek. Her skin was so soft.
She leaned into my touch, her eyes closing for a brief second. "Last night..." she began, her voice a little shy, the first crack in her queenly facade.
"Was... inevitable," I finished for her, my voice deeper than I intended.
"Was it?" She looked up at me, curious. "Did you plan it, Loki? Was it a strategic move? Another use of 'leverage'?"
The question was a test. David wanted to deny it, to profess his awe and desire. Loki knew that was the wrong answer.
"I am a god of mischief," I whispered, my lips brushing her forehead. "I rarely plan. I simply... act when opportunity presents itself. And you, Daenerys Stormborn, are an opportunity unlike any this world has ever seen."
She smiled, seeming to accept the half-truth. "My monster," she said again, the words a soft caress. She pushed herself up on one elbow, the silk sheet falling away to her waist.
My breath hitched. Her soft boobs, full and pale in the morning light, were faintly bruised, a testament to the hunger of my mouth. Her light nipples were pebbled, sensitive. The sight was a jolt, a desperate craving to pull her back down, to feel her warm skin against mine again.
She saw my gaze, the burning in my eyes. She didn't cover herself. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine in a soft, tantalizing kiss that was a universe away from the frantic, pounding hunger of the night before. This was slow. Possessive. This was intimacy.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound was a thunderclap, a brutal, abrasive scrape against the perfect, sensual silence.
We sprang apart. The spell was shattered. David's heart exploded into a frantic rhythm. Daenerys cursed, a sharp, un-queenly word in Dothraki as she lunged for the silk robe, pulling it around her bare shoulders.
I was already on my feet, grabbing my black tunic. The intimacy was gone, replaced by the cold, harsh reality.
"Khaleesi!" Jorah Mormont's voice called from outside the heavy door, tight with worry. "Daenerys! Are you harmed?"
Daenerys, clutching the robe at her throat, looked at me in a panic. "He must not... he can't..."
"He will," I said, my voice hard. I finished buckling the last of my Asgardian armor. Hiding was not an option. It would look like shame. Loki was never ashamed. "Let him in."
"Loki, no, he won't understand-"
"He is your sworn sword, is he not? Then let him see who his Queen chooses. It is better he learns now."
She hesitated, her face a mask of conflict, before she straightened her shoulders. The Queen returned. "Enter, Jorah."
The heavy door swung open. Ser Jorah Mormont stood there, his hand on his sword, his face etched with a night's worth of worry. His eyes darted around the room, frantic, searching for a threat.
And then he saw.
He saw his Khaleesi, his silver queen, in a rumpled silk robe, her hair a wild, sleep-tousled mess, her lips swollen and bruised. He saw the vast, rumpled bed, a chaotic sea of sheets that told a clear, undeniable story. And then he saw me. Standing by the window, fully dressed in my "demon's" armor, my face a mask of calm, possessive arrogance.
Jorah's world, his entire purpose, shattered in that one, agonizing second.
The blood drained from his face, replaced by a wave of such profound fury and betrayal that it was a physical force in the room. His eyes, when they met mine, were not just angry. They were broken.
"You," he breathed, the word a venomous hiss. He took a step into the room, his hand trembling on his sword hilt. "You... animal. What have you done?"
"Jorah!" Daenerys commanded, stepping forward, but her voice trembled.
"He... defiled you," Jorah choked out, his gaze locked on me. He wasn't seeing a man. He was seeing the rakh, the monster, the sorcerer who had taken advantage of his innocent queen. "I should have killed you in the Waste."
"He did nothing I did not wish," Daenerys said, her voice gaining strength, though a deep blush stained her cheeks.
"Wish?" Jorah wheeled on her, his agony erupting. "Khaleesi, he is a thing! A sorcerer, a demon! He has 'bewitched' you! He 'forced' you!"
"He did not!" Her voice was a whip-crack. The Mother of Dragons, Unburnt, stared down her oldest friend. "Do you think me so weak, Ser? That I can be 'forced'? After all I have endured?"
Jorah flinched, the words a physical blow. "No, Khaleesi, but... he is... he is not human."
"Neither am I," she said, her voice dropping, suddenly cold. "I am the blood of the dragon. He is a god. Perhaps we are the only two beings in this world who truly understand one another."
The arrogance in her statement, the truth of it, stunned Jorah into silence. He looked from her cold, resolute face to my smug, self-satisfied one. And he broke.
"I have... I have served you," he stammered, his voice thick with a pain that was deeper than jealousy. It was the pain of a father, of a protector, who felt he had failed. "I have... loved you."
The admission hung in the air, pathetic and raw. David felt a sharp pang of guilt. I had taken more than just her body; I had taken her faith from this man.
Daenerys's expression softened, but only for a moment. "I know your service, Jorah. And I value it. But you will not question my choices. Loki is my Vizier. He... he is mine. As I am his. You will accept this."
Jorah's eyes closed. He looked like a man who had been mortally wounded. He gave a single, stiff nod. "As... my Queen commands." His eyes opened, and he looked at me one last time. It was a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. A look that promised death, should he ever get the chance.
"The Dothraki are at the gates," he said, his voice now a dead, empty monotone. "Xaro Xhoan Daxos has granted them entry. They await their Khaleesi."
He bowed, stiffly, and walked out, leaving a chasm of broken trust behind him.
The silence in the room was pounding.
Daenerys's shoulders slumped, the fury draining away, leaving aching vulnerability. "He... he hates me," she whispered.
"He hates me," I corrected, walking to her. I placed my hands on her shoulders, my touch a reassurance. "He loves you. In his own, sad, paternal way. He will not betray you. His honor won't allow it. But he will never trust me."
"I don't care," she said, leaning her head against my chest, just for a moment. "I needed him. But I need you, Loki."
I stroked her silver hair, the frantic pounding in my chest slowing. This was good. Jorah's devotion was useful, but his worship was a weakness. My presence would burn that away, leaving only the loyal soldier. It would make her stronger.
"Come," I said, tilting her chin up. "Go to your handmaidens. Dress. Be the Queen. Your people are waiting."
She nodded, a new resolve in her eyes. The vulnerability faded, replaced by fire.
We met the Dothraki in the grand courtyard. It was a clash of worlds. Her people, fewer than a hundred now, were skeletons dressed in filthy horse-leathers, their hair matted, their faces burnt and gaunt. They stared at the impossible luxury of Xaro's palace—the perfumed fountains, the silk banners, the fat men in gaudy robes—with a mixture of awe and suspicion.
Qotho was among them. His hateful gaze found me instantly, standing beside Daenerys on the palace steps. He saw me, not as an outcast, but as an insider, and his hatred deepened.
Daenerys addressed them, her voice ringing with a power I had not heard before. She did not promise them comfort. She promised them vengeance. She promised them the world. Xaro, standing nearby, clapped politely, as if watching a play.
Later that day, Jorah approached me. I was alone, analyzing a strange map of the world in Xaro's library.
"She may trust you," the old knight growled, his voice low and dangerous. "But I do not. You are a sorcerer. A trickster. Your magic is a poison. If you harm her... if you turn her from her path... I will find a way to kill you."
I turned, a slow, amused smile on my face. Loki relished the confrontation.
"Brave words, old man," I purred. "You love her, so you see her as a child to be protected. I desire her, so I see her as a weapon to be forged. Which of us do you think she needs more to take a throne?"
Jorah had no answer. He just glared at me, his hand white-knuckled on his sword.
"She is my Queen, demon," he spat.
"No," I replied, turning back to the map, dismissing him. "She is my Queen. You... are just her dog. Now heel."
I heard him draw a sharp breath, the sound of steel whispering from a scabbard. But he stopped. He knew he couldn't win. Not against me, and not against her will.
He turned and stormed from the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The confrontation pleased Loki. But David felt a pang of unease. Jorah was right to be suspicious.
My thoughts returned to Daenerys. To the night before. To the consequences.
What if?
A child. A son. A prince born of magic and fire, of frost and blood. A creature this world was not ready for.
Loki's ambition ignited, burning hotter than any pyre. This was no longer just a game of survival.
This was about legacy.