For Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The silence of the warehouse was a heavy, dusty blanket, broken only by the sound of our breathing and the distant, rhythmic tolling of the city bells. The alarm had spread. Qarth was waking up to the realization that its greatest treasure—and its most prominent citizen—had been stolen.
I adjusted my armor, the leather straps groaning in the quiet. My body was a map of aches. The magical exhaustion from the House of the Undying was a deep, cold hollow in my chest, and the physical exertion of the chase and the frantic, violent claiming on the floor had left my muscles trembling. But my mind was clear. Crystal clear.
There was no more David. No more Loki. There was only the singular, cold purpose of a god who had secured his prize.
Daenerys stood by the barred door, peering through a crack in the rotting wood. She had pulled her torn Dothraki leathers back together, cinching them tight, but she couldn't hide the marks. The bruises on her neck from Xaro's arm. The smear of his blood on her cheek. The bite mark I had left on her collarbone, already darkening to a possessive purple.
She looked like a ruin. She looked magnificent.
"They are searching the lower quarters," she said, her voice low and steady. The tremble was gone. The girl who had wept for her dragons was gone. In her place was a queen who had tasted blood and found she didn't mind the flavor.
"They're looking for a thief," I said, walking to her. I reached out, my thumb brushing the smear of blood on her cheek. It flaked away, dry and dark. "They aren't looking for a conqueror. Not yet."
"We have the gold," she said, turning her face into my palm, a brief, feline gesture of affection before her eyes hardened again. "We have the dragons. Now we need the sea."
"Jorah will be at the spice docks," I said. "It's the smuggling hub. Chaos is the natural state there. It's the only place we can buy a ship without questions."
We slipped out of the warehouse, two shadows merging with the pre-dawn gloom. The city was in an uproar, torches flaring in the distance, shouts echoing from the palace district. But the docks were a different world. Here, the air smelled of salt, tar, and rotting fish, not perfume. The people were rougher, louder, their faces hidden by hoods and indifference.
We moved with a predator's grace, avoiding the pools of torchlight. My Seidr was too low for invisibility, so I relied on simpler tricks—a subtle misdirection of attention, a silent step, the ability to blend into the negative space of a crowd.
We found them in a secluded alcove near the water's edge, hidden behind a stack of crates smelling of saffron. Jorah stood guard, his hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the crowd with a frantic intensity. Rakharo and Irri were huddled by the heavy cart, which was covered with a rough canvas tarp.
When Jorah saw us, the tension drained out of him so fast he almost staggered. "Khaleesi," he breathed, stepping forward.
Then he stopped.
He saw the blood on her. He saw the torn leathers. He saw the wild, tangled mess of her silver hair and the dark mark on her neck.
His eyes snapped to me. The accusation was silent, screaming, and full of a profound, wounded horror. He thought I had failed her. Or worse, that I had broken her.
"It is Xaro's blood," Daenerys said, her voice cutting through his assumption like a knife. "And the mark... is a reminder. We are alive, Jorah. And we are leaving."
Jorah swallowed hard, his jaw working. He looked at the cart. "It is all here. Enough gold to buy a kingdom."
"A ship will do for now," I said, stepping past him. "Where is the captain you found?"
"Groleo," Jorah said, gesturing to a weathered Pentoshi man standing by a sleek, double-masted cog rocking gently in the dark water. "He is a smuggler. He cares for coin, not politics."
I walked up to the captain. He was a big man with a beard like a hedgerow and eyes that had seen everything and been impressed by nothing. He looked me up and down, noting the strange, fine armor, the pale skin, the dangerous air.
"You the one with the cargo?" Groleo grunted.
"I am," I said, my voice smooth. "And the passengers."
"I don't ask names," Groleo said, spitting into the water. "I ask for payment. Up front. Gold or gems."
I gestured to Jorah. The knight lifted the corner of the canvas. The torchlight caught the glitter of gold ingots and rubies the size of eggs.
Groleo's eyes widened. He whistled, a low, appreciative sound. "That'll buy you the ship, the crew, and my silence until the end of days."
"We don't want the ship," I said. "We want passage. To Astapor."
"Astapor?" Groleo frowned. "Slaver's Bay? It's a hellhole. Red dust and screaming men."
"It's a market," I corrected. "And we are in the market for soldiers."
Groleo shrugged. "Your coin, your funeral. Get on board. Tides are turning."
We loaded the gold. It was heavy, the physical weight of our freedom. The dragons, sensing the open water, chirped from their baskets, their anxiety fading.
As the ship cast off, drifting away from the stone quay, I stood at the stern, watching Qarth recede. The city was awake now, a glittering jewel of panic. Smoke was rising from the direction of the House of the Undying, a black smear against the lightening sky.
We had burned their gods. We had stolen their wealth. We had killed their king.
It was a good start.
Daenerys came to stand beside me. She had washed her face in a bucket of seawater, but the grime of the fight still clung to her. She looked exhausted, hollowed out, but her eyes were fixed on the horizon.
"Goodbye, Xaro," she whispered, her voice carried away by the salt wind.
"He died a richer man than he lived," I said dryly. "He died touching a queen."
She looked at me, a flicker of a smile touching her lips. "He died screaming."
"That too."
We stood in silence as the sails caught the wind, the ship heeling over, cutting through the dark waves. The rhythm of the sea was a soothing balm after the stillness of the desert and the suffocating perfume of the city.
"Go below," I said, touching her arm. "The captain has given us his cabin. You need to rest."
"And you?"
"I will watch a little longer. To make sure we are not followed."
She nodded and went below decks. I stayed, letting the cold sea spray wash over my face, letting the vast, empty ocean soothe the pounding ache in my head. I was a god of the void, of the spaces between stars. The sea felt... close enough.
When I finally went down to the cabin, the sun was cresting the horizon. The room was small, smelling of polished wood and oil lamps. It was simple, cramped, and infinitely better than the gilded cage we had left.
Daenerys was there. She had found a copper tub—likely the captain's luxury—and had filled it with heated water from the galley. Steam filled the small space, softening the harsh lines of the room.
She was standing in the center of the cabin, naked. Her torn leathers lay in a pile on the floor.
She turned as I entered. The bruises on her body were stark against her pale skin—the purple mark on her neck, the scrapes on her knees, the red abrasions on her back from the rough floor of the warehouse. She looked battered. She looked holy.
"I waited," she said simply.
I locked the door. The sound of the bolt sliding home was the final seal on our escape.
"You didn't have to," I said, walking to her. I began to unbuckle my armor, the pieces clattering to the floor, heavy and useless now.
"I wanted to," she whispered. "I can't... I can't be clean without you."
I stripped off my tunic, my breeches. I was as marked as she was. Scratches on my chest from her nails, a bruise on my hip from the fight with the guards. We were a matching set of damaged goods.
I walked to her and lifted her into the tub. The water was hot, scaldingly so, but she didn't flinch. She sank into it with a sigh that seemed to deflate her entire body.
I climbed in behind her. It was a tight fit. I sat, pulling her back against my chest, her legs resting on top of mine. The water rose to our waists.
For a long time, we didn't speak. I took a cloth and a bar of rough, sea-salt soap. I began to wash her.
This was not the frantic, animalistic coupling of the warehouse. This was something deeper. It was a ritual.
I washed the soot from her shoulders, the cloth moving in slow, circular motions. I washed the dried blood from her neck, my touch feather-light over the bruise Xaro had left. I washed her arms, her hands, scrubbing away the grime of the city that had tried to eat her alive.
She leaned her head back against my shoulder, her eyes closing. "It hurts," she murmured, her voice thick.
"I know," I whispered against her wet hair. "Pain is proof of life, Daenerys. The dead don't hurt."
My hands moved lower, over the soft swell of her breasts. They were buoyant in the water, pale islands in the steam. I washed them gently, my thumbs brushing her nipples, not with lust, but with reverence. She shivered, a ripple of sensation that traveled through her back and into my chest.
"You saved me," she whispered.
"We saved each other," I corrected. "I was a prisoner too. Of my own past. Of my own arrogance."
I moved the cloth down her stomach, over the curve of her hips. The water was slick, the soap creating a slippery barrier between our skins. I washed between her legs, a slow, intimate cleansing that made her breath hitch.
"Loki," she breathed, her hand covering mine, stopping me. She turned in the tub, splashing water, maneuvering until she was straddling my lap, facing me.
Her eyes were open now, dark and searching. The steam curled around us, a private fog.
"I don't want to be just clean," she whispered. "I want to be... yours."
"You are," I said, my hands resting on her waist, the water lapping at my wrists. "You have been mine since the fire."
"Then show me," she said. She took the soap from my hand and dropped it. She took my face in her hands. "Make me forget the city. Make me forget the warlock. Make me feel only you."
She kissed me. It was a slow, tasting kiss, flavored with steam and salt. Her body was slippery, warm, and incredibly soft against my harder, cooler frame.
I didn't need to be asked twice.
I gripped her hips and lifted her slightly. She gasped as she settled onto me, taking me in by slow, agonizing inches. The water made it effortless, a smooth, sliding connection that felt like coming home.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, burying her face in the crook of my shoulder. I wrapped my legs around hers, anchoring us.
We moved slowly, the water sloshing rhythmically against the copper sides of the tub. It wasn't about friction; it was about fullness. It was about the pressure of her body on mine, the way her inner muscles clenched around me, the way her heart beat against my chest.
It was a quiet, intense, and deeply emotional coupling. Every thrust was a reassurance. I am here. You are safe. We are powerful.
"Astapor," she whispered into my skin, her breath hot. "Why Astapor?"
I held her tight, moving deep inside her, feeling the answering shudder run through her frame. "Because, my Queen," I murmured, "gold can buy ships. It can buy swords. But it cannot buy loyalty. It cannot buy discipline."
She pulled back to look at me, her hips still moving in a slow, grinding rhythm that made my vision blur. "And Astapor has this?"
"Astapor has the Unsullied," I said, my voice rough with pleasure and ambition. "Warrior-eunuchs. Men trained from birth to feel no pain, no fear, no desire. They are the greatest infantry in the world."
Her eyes widened. "Slaves."
"Yes," I agreed, my hands sliding up her wet back, pressing her closer. "Slaves. But imagine, Daenerys... imagine what happens when a breaker of chains... buys the chains."
Understanding dawned in her eyes, a bright, fierce light. She gasped, her body tightening around me as the idea took hold. "I could... free them."
"You could," I whispered, thrusting up into her, hard. "You could turn them from slaves into sons. And with an army of sons... you could burn the world."
The thought, combined with the sensation, pushed her over the edge. She cried out, a muffled sound against my mouth as I kissed her, swallowing her pleasure. She shook in my arms, her climax a series of powerful, rhythmic contractions that milked me, dragging me down into the darkness with her.
I poured myself into her, a final, silent offering to the future we were building.
We stayed like that for a long time, the water cooling around us, our bodies intertwined in the small tub. The ship rocked gently, carrying us away from the past, towards a future of fire and blood.
"Astapor," she murmured sleepily, her head resting on my shoulder.
"Astapor," I agreed, stroking her wet hair.
I looked out the small porthole at the dark sea. The game had changed. We weren't just surviving anymore. We were conquering. And the world had no idea what was coming for it.