For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The grand hall of Xaro Xhoan Daxos was a sensory assault. It was a chemical reaction of conflicting, cloying perfumes, the air so thick with the scent of jasmine, saffron, and spiced wine it was almost hard to breathe. Strange, high-pitched music drifted from musicians with painted faces, and the Qartheen elite—men and women alike draped in silks so fine they were almost transparent—drifted through the marble halls like pale, beautiful ghosts.
David's mind, the college kid, was overwhelmed. This wasn't a party; it was a sensory assault. The wealth on display in this one room could have funded a war. Loki's mind, however, was a block of ice, analyzing, dissecting. He saw the rot under the gold. He saw the hungry, empty eyes of the elite, the desperate craving for novelty, for something new to alleviate their crushing boredom.
And we were the newest, most exotic items in their collection.
"Presenting," Xaro's voice boomed, oily and self-satisfied, "the Mother of Dragons, Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen!"
A wave of hissing whispers passed through the crowd as Daenerys made her entrance on my arm. She was a vision of stark, powerful contrast. Her Dothraki leathers, visible beneath the open blue robe, were a brutal scrape against the softness of the Qartheen silks. She was a warrior queen in a den of fops, and it was magnificent. Drogon, perched on her shoulder, seemed to sense the mood, unfurling his black wings in a threatening display and hissing at a woman who drifted too close. The crowd gasped and recoiled, a frantic, shimmering wave.
"And her loyal Vizier," Xaro added, gesturing to me, "the Lord Loki."
My entrance caused a different reaction. Not awe. Fear.
I walked at her side, my newly-repaired Asgardian armor gleaming a sinister green-gold under the torchlight, a predator in a room of prey. My eyes, Loki's eyes, swept the room, and I let them see the monster. I let them see the god. The whispers died instantly. The air grew cold.
David's heart was a pounding sledgehammer of pure stage fright. Loki relished the electric, pounding silence.
"They are terrified of you," Daenerys whispered, her voice a low vibration against my arm, which she held tightly.
"Good," I murmured back, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, a gesture that was half-advice, half-caress. "Let them be. Fear is a currency here, and we are bankrupt in all others."
Xaro, ecstatic at being the center of attention, led us through the throng. He was a peacock, preening and displaying his new prizes. He never missed an opportunity to touch Daenerys—a hand on her arm, a guiding palm on the small of her back. Each time he did, I felt a burning, irrational spike of fury. David's jealousy was a hot, simple thing. Loki's possessiveness was a cold, lethal calculation.
I inserted myself, a subtle but unyielding physical barrier. My hand found the small of her back, resting there, claiming her. The gesture was not lost on Xaro. His smile tightened, his dark, greedy eyes flickered to my hand, and then to my face. He saw the challenge.
"You are bold, 'Vizier,'" he whispered, his voice too low for Daenerys to hear as she was momentarily distracted by a merchant offering a casket of jewels. "To lay hands on a queen. Especially one who has been offered marriage."
"I do not lay hands," I replied, my voice equally low, my smile all teeth. "I am simply steadying my Queen. She finds the air in Qarth... cloying. It reeks of desperation."
Xaro's eyes narrowed. Before he could retort, the music in the hall seemed to wither. The chatter died. The temperature dropped.
A new figure detached itself from the shadows.
Pyat Pree.
The warlock moved with an unnatural, gliding grace that made my skin crawl. The crowd parted for him, a wave of revulsion and genuine fear. His blue-stained lips were stretched in that ghastly smile, but his eyes, pale and dead, were fixed only on me. He ignored Xaro. He ignored Daenerys.
"The Lord Loki," he hissed, the sound like dry leaves skittering on marble. "You have graced this dull party with your presence. I was beginning to think you were a phantom."
"I am... selective," I replied, my body instinctively shielding Daenerys from his presence. The magic rolling off him was a stench, a perversion of the Seidr I knew. It was the cold of the grave, not the cold of Asgardian frost.
"You gave my colleagues on the Thirteen quite a fright," Pyat Pree continued, his gaze unwavering, his voice carrying in the sudden silence. "Such a... loud display. A surge of power, and then... nothing." He tilted his head, his smile widening. "Like a sputtering candle."
It was a public execution. He was calling my bluff. David's blood ran cold. The crowd was listening, their eyes wide.
Loki, however, thrived on this. He laughed, a low, dismissive sound. "A sputtering candle?" I purred. "My dear warlock, I was merely dimming the lights. One must be careful not to burn the entire house down when one is merely trying to get the owner's attention. A lesson, I am sure, the masters of the House of the Undying appreciate."
I saw a flicker of surprise in Pyat Pree's dead eyes. He had expected fear, not mockery.
"You are arrogant, 'godling,'" he hissed. "Your magic... it tastes... different. It is not of this world. We are desperate for new flavors in Qarth. The House of the Undying invites you. Both of you." He finally glanced at Daenerys, his gaze lingering on Drogon. "Your dragons will be... most welcome."
"The Khaleesi goes nowhere she does not wish," Jorah's voice, rough as gravel, suddenly cut in. He had moved to Daenerys's other side, a block of iron and disapproval, his hand on his sword.
Pyat Pree simply laughed, that dry, rattling sound. "The knight protects the body. But who protects the soul, I wonder?" His pale eyes snapped back to me, the smile gone. "Come. See the true heart of Qarth. Or must I come and collect your little pets myself?"
The threat was naked. A declaration of war.
Daenerys, sensing the sudden, lethal tension, placed her hand on Drogon's back. The dragon hissed, sensing her fury, a plume of black smoke erupting from his nostrils. The crowd gasped and fell back.
"Pyat Pree," Xaro said, his voice trembling, "this is a celebration, not a... confrontation."
"Our city is dying of politeness, Xaro," Pyat Pree snapped, never taking his eyes off me. "This... creature... is an anomaly. And the House of the Undying will have its answers."
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that only he and Daenerys could hear. "Then come and take them, if you dare. But know this, little warlock: the last creature who tried to 'collect' me was a god-eater. Your insides are far too soft to hold a being like me."
David had no idea what a 'god-eater' was, but it sounded impressive as hell, and Loki said it with such chilling conviction that even I believed it.
Pyat Pree's blue-lipped smile returned, but it was a mask of rage. He saw the challenge. He saw that I would not be intimidated. "Your time will come, shadow-walker. Your... queen... will beg us for help. And we will be waiting."
He turned and glided away, dissolving back into the crowd, which parted for him like the sea.
The crisis was over, but the air was poisoned. Xaro looked pale, his party ruined. The elite were whispering, their eyes now holding genuine fear.
Daenerys was trembling, though whether from fear or fury, I couldn't tell. "I want to leave," she said, her voice tight.
"Xaro," I said, my voice hardening, "the Queen is weary. Your hospitality has been... noted. We are returning to our chambers."
Xaro, eager to be rid of the tension, nodded quickly. "Of course, of course. Rest, my Queen. We shall speak of our... proposal... on the morrow."
We walked from the hall, a silent, tense procession. Jorah flanked Daenerys's other side, his face a mask of stone. We were a portrait of power: the Queen, the Knight, and the Monster.
The moment the heavy door of our chamber shut, Daenerys's facade crumbled. She tore Drogon from her shoulder, setting him in his basket with a shaking hand, and rounded on me.
"You bluffed," she whispered, her voice a frantic accusation. "He knew you were bluffing! 'Sputtering candle'! He knew you were weak!"
"Yes," I said, pulling off my helmet, my own hands unsteady from the adrenaline. The confrontation had taken more out of me than I'd expected.
"He threatened my children!" she cried, her voice rising. "He wants them! And Xaro... he did nothing! He's a coward, a fool!"
"He is," I agreed, unbuckling my armor, the metal heavy and constricting. "They all are. But they are dangerous, like cornered rats."
I sank onto the edge of the bed, the "Loki" mask fading, leaving David's exhaustion behind. My head was pounding. The sheer effort of maintaining that god-like arrogance while being magically dissected by that creature had drained me.
Daenerys paced, a frantic, caged animal. "What do we do? We are trapped here. Xaro will not give us ships, not without... not without me. And that thing wants to steal my dragons. We are surrounded by enemies."
She stopped pacing and looked at me. I was just sitting there, my head in my hands, my armor half-off. I probably looked... pathetic. Mortal.
Her expression softened. The frantic terror in her eyes faded, replaced by that now-familiar, aching vulnerability. She walked to me, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. She didn't speak. She just laid her small, warm hand on the back of my neck.
Her touch was a jolt, an unexpected comfort that shattered my tension. "Loki?" she whispered.
I looked up at her. She was so close, her lilac eyes searching mine, her face pale.
"You were afraid," she stated, not as an accusation, but as a realization.
"He... is not like Qotho," I admitted, my voice rough. "He is old, Daenerys. And his magic is wrong. It's... hungry. Dead."
"But you faced him," she said. "You did not back down. You protected us."
She was no longer just a queen seeking a weapon. She was a woman, seeing the man behind the monster, the David behind the Loki. This was a new, more dangerous intimacy.
"I will always protect you," I said, the words a raw promise, more David than Loki.
She leaned in, her lips brushing my forehead, a soft, chaste kiss that felt more intimate than anything we had shared. "I am not afraid," she whispered, "not while you are with me."
That simple trust, that profound faith... it was a heavier burden than any crown. It was also... intoxicating.
My hand came up, cupping the back of her head, my fingers tangling in her silver-fuzz. I pulled her down, my mouth meeting hers. The kiss was not the controlled, possessive claim of the garden, nor the frantic, hungry explosion of our first night. This was something else. This was a desperate, mutual grounding. This was us against the world, and this room was the only sane place in it.
Her lips parted, her tongue meeting mine, and a low moan rumbled in my chest. I pulled her onto my lap, my arms wrapping around her waist, crushing her to me. Her Dothraki leathers were rough against my tunic.
"They will not have you," I growled against her mouth. "They will not have your children."
"I know," she breathed, her hands frantic, tearing at the buckles of my armor, needing to feel the skin beneath. "Show me. Show me the man, Loki. Not the god. Not the monster. Show me... you."
I ripped the Dothraki leathers from her, tore the Qartheen robe, my own control shattering. The world outside was filled with liars, warlocks, and cowards. In here, there was only this. Only the pounding, frantic, honest truth of our bodies.
I laid her back on the rumpled silks, my mouth finding her breast, suckling, drawing a sharp, aching cry from her lips. Her soft boobs were heaven on earth, her light nipples hard pebbles under my tongue. She arched against me, her hands in my hair, pulling me closer, her hips rising from the bed in a shameless, desperate craving.
"Please," she begged, "Loki, inside me. Now."
I entered her with a single, deep thrust, burying myself to the hilt. She cried out, her nails scoring my back, her body pulsing around me, so tight, so wet. It was a climax of sensation, a perfect, blinding relief from the tension of the night.
"You are mine," I grunted, my rhythm fast, frantic, pounding into her.
"I am yours," she sobbed, her voice breaking, her legs wrapped around my waist. "I am yours. I am yours."
We moved together, a frantic, crazy movement, two exiles clinging to each other in a hostile world. It wasn't just pleasure; it was a defiant roar against the darkness, a chemical reaction that burned away the fear and the doubt, leaving only the raw, undeniable us. I felt her climax build, her body tightening around me. I roared, my own release exploding, a burning seed of life and magic, a final, definitive claim in the heart of the gilded cage.
We lay in the darkness, slick with sweat, our breathing harsh in the silence. Her head was on my chest, her hand tracing the faint, glowing lines of the Seidr that still patterned my skin.
"They will come for us," she whispered.
I kissed the top of her head, my arms a steel barrier around her. "I know."
And for the first time, I felt a surge of my true power, not from Loki's memory, but from David's desperation. It was the primal, protective fury of a man with something to lose.
"Let them come," I whispered.