For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
I was awake long before the Qartheen sun, a chemical explosion of unwanted light, spilled into the room. I watched her sleep. Daenerys. My Queen.
Her face, so fierce in the firelight and in the throes of passion, was heartbreakingly young in repose. Her silver-fuzzed hair was soft against the silk pillows, her lips, still swollen from my kisses, were parted slightly. My hand rested on her stomach, a possessive, protective gesture that had become instinctive.
The night had been a frantic, desperate reaffirmation. A pounding, mutual claiming. But now, in the cold light of day, the high of that intimacy was fading, replaced by the abrasive scrape of our reality.
I was no longer two minds warring in one skull. The battle was over. The college kid, David, and the Asgardian prince, Loki, were gone. I was simply… I. I held both sets of memories, the trauma of a truck colliding with my body, the millennia-long arrogance of a prince of Asgard. They were all mine. And that unified consciousness was screaming one, clear, cold fact: I was weak, and we were in terrible danger.
My Seidr, my magic, was a low, aching thrum in my veins. The display at the gala, followed by the… exertions of the night, had left me drained. Pyat Pree had sensed it. He had tasted my bluff. And Quaithe… Quaithe had seen everything.
Her words echoed in my head. His seed will remake the world, or unmake it.
Daenerys stirred, her hand covering mine on her stomach. Her lilac eyes opened, finding me in the dimness. There was no sated, sleepy smile this time. There was only fear.
"She knew," Daenerys whispered, her voice rough.
"Yes," I said.
"The witch, Mirri Maz Duur," she continued, her voice trembling, "she told me I would never bear a living child. That I was barren." She pushed herself up on one elbow, the silk sheet falling away, revealing the soft, pale curves of her breasts, marked with the faint, dark bruises of my hunger. She didn't seem to notice. "She said, 'When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. Then you will bear a living child, and not before.'"
"Prophecies," I said, my voice harsher than I intended. "Words designed to trap, to limit."
"But I believed her," she insisted, her eyes wide, frantic. "I am barren. I cannot..." Her hand tightened on mine, her nails digging into my skin. "Loki. Can I?"
The desperation, the raw, terrified hope in her voice, was a sledgehammer to my heart. This wasn't about a throne. This was about the one thing that had been stolen from her.
I sat up, pulling her against me. Her skin was hot, feverish. "I am not a mortal man, Daenerys," I said, my voice a low, serious rumble. "I am of Asgard. I am the blood of Frost Giants. You are the Blood of the Dragon, Unburnt. We are creatures of fire and ice, magic and chaos. The rules of your world... the curses of witches... they do not apply to us. They cannot."
Her breath hitched. It was not a confirmation, but it was enough. The possibility, a tiny, impossible spark, was lit. A child. Our child. A legacy. My legacy.
A sharp, pounding knock echoed through the chamber. Jorah.
"Enter," Daenerys called, her voice clear, the Queen returning in an instant. She pulled the sheet up to cover herself, her eyes hardening.
Jorah entered, his face a mask of stone. He did not look at the bed. He did not look at me. He bowed stiffly to Daenerys.
"Khaleesi," he said, his voice a dead, emotionless monotone. "The Khalasar is restless. Xaro has fed them, but they are warriors, not pets. They feel the eyes of the Qartheen on them, and they do not like it. Qotho speaks of leaving."
"Let him," Daenerys said, her voice cold. "The weak can return to the Waste and die. My people will stay with me."
Jorah nodded grimly. "As you say." His eyes finally, reluctantly, flickered to me. "The warlock, Pyat Pree. He is not the only one. There are whispers from the shadows. Quaithe. She is known here. A shadow-binder. Dangerous."
"I am aware," I said, rising from the bed. I was unconcerned with my own nakedness, but Jorah flinched, his gaze dropping to the floor, his face darkening with a mixture of shame and fury.
I enjoyed his discomfort. I walked past him, taking my time to retrieve my tunic and armor. "Quaithe gave us a warning. Xaro is a liar. His vaults are empty."
Jorah looked up at that, his shock overriding his disgust. "What? He promised ships..."
"He promised a marriage he thought she would be too desperate to refuse," I corrected, pulling the black tunic over my head. "He is a paper tiger. We will get no ships from him."
"Then we are trapped," Jorah said, the reality of our situation crashing down on him.
"No," Daenerys said, rising from the bed, the sheet wrapped around her. "We are not. We have the dragons. They are all the currency we need. But not with Xaro." She looked at Jorah, her gaze softening. "Jorah, I... I value your counsel. We need to leave this city."
Jorah looked at her, his heart in his eyes. He was a man drowning, desperate for a kind word. "Khaleesi, the Thirteen will never give you a ship. Not after... not after the gala."
"Then we must find one ourselves," she insisted.
"I will go to the docks," Jorah said immediately, the soldier, the provider, taking over. "I will see what can be bought. With what little we have."
"No," I said, my voice sharp.
Both of them turned to me. I was buckling my armor, the green-gold metal sliding into place, the monster returning.
"You must not be seen to beg, Daenerys," I said. "And you," I looked at Jorah, "must not be seen to haggle. It makes us weak. It makes us prey."
"Then what do we do, Vizier?" Jorah spat, the title an insult.
"We do nothing," I said, my voice calm. "We wait. Pyat Pree made a threat. He called my bluff, and I called his. He will act. He cannot let his challenge go unanswered, or he will lose face. He will come for the dragons."
Daenerys's face went pale. "You want to... use them as bait?"
"I want to use me as bait," I corrected. "He thinks I am weak. He thinks I am a sputtering candle. Let him come. He will find a fire he did not expect." My Seidr was low, yes, but my rage was a fuel all its own.
"It is too dangerous," Jorah protested. "We must guard the dragons."
"We will," Daenerys said, her voice hardening as she understood my plan. "Jorah, go to our people. Tell them to be ready. That I will call for them soon. Irri, Doreah," she called to her handmaidens in the outer room. "Attend me. We will wait."
The day was an agony of tension. Jorah left, his disapproval a heavy cloak. The handmaidens, Irri and Doreah, entered, their eyes skittering away from me, from the state of the bed, as they helped Daenerys dress.
The dragons—Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon—were in a large, gilded cage near the balcony, chirping and hissing, sensing the anxiety in the room.
Daenerys sat, a portrait of queenly calm, but her hands were clenched white in her lap. I stood near the balcony, my arms crossed, watching the shadows in the room, my senses stretched to their limit. Every flicker of a candle, every whisper of wind, was a potential threat. My magic, though drained, was a live wire under my skin, waiting, craving a target.
Doreah, the blonde handmaiden, was visibly trembling. "My lady," she whispered, "the city... they speak of the warlocks. They say they are not men. They say they have no hearts..."
"Silence," Daenerys commanded, though her voice was strained.
It happened at dusk.
The light in the room began to fail, the setting sun's rays bending at unnatural angles, as if the light itself was afraid. The shadows in the corners of the room deepened, thickening, becoming... wrong.
"Loki," Daenerys breathed, her hand going to the dragon cage.
"Stay back from them!" I commanded.
Irri, the Dothraki handmaiden, drew a small knife, her eyes wide with terror.
A figure emerged from the deepest shadow near the door. It was me.
My duplicate. A perfect illusion, down to the last buckle on my armor. It smiled my smile—Loki's smile.
"Doreah, Irri," the illusion said, its voice a perfect mimic of my own. "The Khaleesi has asked me to take the dragons to a safer location. Lord Xaro fears for them."
Irri looked confused, her eyes darting between me and the copy. "My lord?"
"It's a lie!" I roared, lunging forward. "Get away from it!"
But the illusion was faster. It raised its hand, and a bolt of green Seidr—my magic—shot out, striking Irri in the chest. She crumpled to the ground, her knife clattering on the marble.
"No!" I bellowed, a wave of cold fury washing over me. He was using my own image, my own power, against me.
I gathered my own depleted Seidr and unleashed a blast. The green energy tore through the air and passed directly through the illusion, shattering the wall behind it. It wasn't real. It was a distraction.
"Doreah!" Daenerys screamed.
I spun around.
Doreah was on the ground, her throat slit from ear to ear, a river of blood pooling on the white marble. The gilded cage was open. And standing over it, his blue lips pulled back in a triumphant snarl, was Pyat Pree.
He was holding Rhaegal and Viserion, the small dragons hissing and snapping, their wings beating frantically.
"He... he came from the shadow," Daenerys choked out, frozen in horror.
"A parlor trick," I snarled, my magic flaring again.
"Ah, ah," Pyat Pree hissed. He had Drogon in his other hand, the black dragon's neck held tight in his grasp. Drogon let out a choked, smoky cry.
"You let him go," I said, my voice a low, lethal promise. My heart was a sledgehammer, my rage a blinding, chemical fire.
"He has tasted your magic," Pyat Pree said, his dead eyes glittering. "He knows you are a bluff, godling. But your blood... it is strong. The House of the Undying craves it." He looked at Daenerys. "And the Mother of Dragons. You, too, are invited."
"Where are they?" I demanded, taking a step.
"You will come to me," the warlock hissed. "You will come to the House of the Undying. Or the dragons will die. And then... I will come for your Queen."
He stepped back, not towards the door, but into the deep shadow of the balcony. It folded around him, swallowing him and the screaming dragons whole.
He was gone.
The room was silent, save for the gurgling, dying breath of Doreah.
I had failed. I, a god, had been out-tricked, outmaneuvered. My arrogance had cost her everything.
I turned to Daenerys. She was not crying. She was not screaming.
She was standing over Irri's still body, her face a mask of such profound, cold, unadulterated fury that it terrified me more than any warlock. Her lilac eyes, when they met mine, were not the eyes of a girl. They were the eyes of a dragon.
"You said..." she whispered, her voice a low, abrasive scrape. "You promised."
The accusation was a physical blow, heavier than any truck.
I walked to her, my own rage a cold, contained singularity. This was not Loki's anger. This was not David's fear. This was something new. It was the possessive, primal fury of a being who had just had his future—his child, his queen, his legacy—threatened.
I looked down at the dead handmaiden, at the empty cage, and then at her.
"He took them," I said, my voice a low, chilling growl that was neither Asgardian nor mortal. "And I am going to tear his entire black-magic world apart, stone by stone, until I get them back."
This was no longer a game. This was a war.
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