For Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The voyage to Astapor was a blur of salt spray, creaking timber, and a confined, intense intimacy that bordered on obsession. The ship, a fat-bellied merchant cog named the Balerion—Daenerys had insisted on renaming it the moment the gold changed hands—was a floating kingdom of two.
Jorah kept his distance, nursing his wounded pride and organizing the Dothraki into something resembling a ship's crew. Rakharo and Irri were shadows, serving silently.
But in the captain's cabin, there was only us.
We spent days plotting, nights tangling. Daenerys was a voracious student. She wanted to know everything about Asgard, about magic, about the nature of power. I told her edited truths—stories of a golden realm, of a brother who wielded lightning, of a father who saw all. I left out the failures, the falls, the Void. She didn't need to know her god was broken; she only needed to know he was hers.
And in return, she taught me the map of this world. The Free Cities. The Dothraki Sea. The politics of Westeros. We were building a shared mind, a single strategy.
But beneath the planning, the physical reality of our situation was changing.
It started subtly. A morning sickness that Daenerys dismissed as seasickness, though the sea was calm as glass. A tenderness in her breasts that made her wince when I touched them too roughly. A strange, new heat radiating from her skin, even when she was at rest.
I knew. My Seidr, slowly replenishing in the salt air, could taste the change in her. It was a faint, dual-natured spark. Fire and Frost. A heartbeat that was not entirely human.
I didn't tell her. Not yet. We were sailing toward a city of slavers to buy an army of eunuchs. Distraction was a luxury we couldn't afford.
Astapor appeared on the horizon like a scab on the skin of the world. It was built of red brick, the color of dried blood, crumbling and ancient under a punishing sun. The air smelled of sulfur, dung, and human misery.
"The Red City," Jorah murmured as we stood on the deck, the heat shimmering off the bricks. "A harsh place for a harsh trade."
"It smells like a grave," I noted, wrinkling my nose. The magic here was thick, oily, and stagnant. It was the magic of oppression, of thousands of souls crushed underfoot. It tasted foul.
Daenerys stood at the rail, her face set in stone. She wore her Dothraki leathers, cleaned and mended, but her posture was pure Targaryen. "They sell men here," she said, her voice flat.
"They sell weapons," I corrected. "We are here to buy a sword, Daenerys. Do not mourn the steel before you wield it."
We docked in a harbor choked with galleys and pleasure barges. The moment we stepped onto the pier, we were assaulted by the noise—shouts in Low Valyrian, the crack of whips, the rattle of chains.
A man was waiting for us. Kraznys mo Nakloz. He was a caricature of a slaver—fat, oiled, his beard shaped into a ridiculous fork, his eyes glistening with greed and contempt. He was flanked by a slave girl, a scribe, who translated his guttural Valyrian into the Common Tongue.
"He says," the girl whispered, keeping her eyes on the ground, "that the Good Master Kraznys welcomes the Westerosi savage and her... pale shadow."
I smiled. It was a cold, sharp expression. "Tell the Good Master," I said, my voice smooth, "that the 'pale shadow' has gold. And gold speaks a language even swine can understand."
The slave girl flinched, terrified to translate, but Daenerys stepped forward. She spoke perfect, high Valyrian, a shock that made Kraznys blink. "My Vizier speaks plainly. We are here for the Unsullied. Show us."
Kraznys sneered, recovering his arrogance. He led us from the docks to the Plaza of Pride. It was a vast, sun-baked square, dominated by a massive bronze harpy grasping a chain in its talons.
And there they were.
Eight thousand men. They stood in perfect, silent ranks, statues carved from obsidian and bronze. They wore spiked helmets and carried short spears and round shields. They did not move. They did not sweat. They did not blink.
"The Unsullied," Kraznys boasted, gesturing with a whip handle. "They feel no pain. They know no fear. You could cut the nipples off one, and he would not cry out." To demonstrate, he walked up to a soldier in the front rank and slashed his whip across the man's face.
The skin split. Blood welled. The soldier did not flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the middle distance, empty and dead.
Daenerys made a small, choked sound. I put a hand on her shoulder, a silent warning. Control.
"Impressive," I said, my voice bored. "But can they fight?"
"Fight?" Kraznys laughed. "They are not men. They are the death of men. They have no lust, no greed, no ambition. They obey. That is all they do."
"And the price?" Daenerys asked, her voice tight.
"For all of them?" Kraznys's eyes glittered. "For eight thousand? Plus the boys in training? All the gold in your ship would not buy half."
"Then what?" I asked.
Kraznys looked at Daenerys. His gaze was lewd, dissecting. Then he looked at the basket on Irri's back, where Drogon was sleeping.
"A dragon," he said. "One dragon. For the entire army."
Jorah stepped forward, his hand on his sword. "Khaleesi, no. You cannot trade a dragon. They are your children. Your power."
"The army is the power, Ser Jorah," I countered smoothly. "A dragon is a beast. An army is a kingdom."
Daenerys looked at me. She saw the calculation in my eyes. She saw the plan. We had discussed this in the dark of the cabin. The "offer." The "trade."
"Done," she said.
Jorah gasped. Kraznys looked like he had just been handed the keys to the universe.
"But," Daenerys added, her voice hard, "I will not trade here. Not in the dust. Tomorrow. In the plaza. With the army assembled. I want the whip. The symbol of command. I hand over the dragon, you hand over the whip. A clean exchange."
"Agreed!" Kraznys practically shouted. "Tomorrow!"
We returned to the ship in silence. Jorah was furious, pacing the deck like a caged bear.
"You are making a mistake," he growled at me. "You are selling her birthright for a pack of eunuchs."
"I am buying her a throne, old man," I said, leaning against the rail, watching the sun set over the red city. "Trust the plan. Or don't. It matters little."
That night, the cabin was hot, stifling. Daenerys was restless. She paced the small space, her hands touching her stomach, her neck, her hair.
"He will hurt him," she whispered. "Kraznys. He will try to chain Drogon."
"He can try," I said, sitting on the edge of the bunk, watching her. "But a dragon is not a slave. And neither are the Unsullied. Not anymore."
She stopped pacing and looked at me. "Will it work? The command? Will they listen to me?"
"They are trained to obey the holder of the whip," I said. "Once you hold it, they are yours. And once they are yours... the rules change."
She walked to me, stepping between my knees. She pushed my tunic up, her hands cool against my skin. "Make me forget him," she commanded, her voice fierce. "Make me forget the whip. The blood."
I pulled her down.
The sex was not slow. It was a frantic, humid collision of anxiety and anticipation. We moved together in the heat of the cabin, slick with sweat, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. It was a reaffirmation of life before a day of death.
I entered her from behind, her hands braced against the wall, my hips slapping against hers. It was a primal, conquering rhythm. I needed to feel her strength, her reality.
"My Queen," I grunted, biting her shoulder.
"My God," she gasped, pushing back against me.
We climaxed together, a shuddering, exhausting release that left us both breathless and tangled on the floor.
As we lay there, the ship rocking gently, I placed my hand on her flat stomach. The spark was stronger now. Distinct.
"Daenerys," I said quietly.
"Mm?" She was half-asleep.
"We are not just fighting for a throne anymore."
She opened her eyes, looking at me. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I whispered, my hand not moving, "that the witch lied. Or perhaps... perhaps she just didn't account for a god."
Her eyes went wide. Her hand covered mine. She felt it. Or maybe she just felt me feeling it. But she knew.
"Loki," she breathed, tears filling her eyes. "Are you... are you sure?"
"I am never wrong about magic," I lied. "There is life here. Fire and Ice."
She buried her face in my neck and wept. Not from sadness. From a joy so profound it was terrifying.
"Tomorrow," she whispered fiercely into my skin. "Tomorrow we burn this city to the ground. For him. For them."
The Plaza of Pride was blindingly bright the next morning. The sun beat down on the red bricks, on the bronze harpy, on the eight thousand statues of the Unsullied.
Kraznys mo Nakloz stood waiting, surrounded by his fellow Good Masters. He held the golden whip, the scourge, the symbol of absolute ownership. He was practically vibrating with greed.
Daenerys stood opposite him. She wore her blue Qartheen silk over her leathers, a visual reminder of the wealth she commanded. Drogon was on a chain leash held by Irri. Rhaegal and Viserion were in their cages on the cart, guarded by Jorah and Rakharo.
I stood at her right hand, my armor gleaming, my face a mask of bored indifference. But inside, my Seidr was coiled, ready. I had spent the night meditating, drawing every scrap of ambient magic from the air, however foul. I was ready.
"The dragon," Kraznys demanded, extending a greedy hand.
Irri brought Drogon forward. The dragon hissed, snapping at Kraznys, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"He is wild," Daenerys warned.
"I will break him," Kraznys sneered. "Give me the chain."
"The whip first," Daenerys said.
Kraznys hesitated, then shrugged. He handed her the golden scourge. "Done. The business is concluded." He grabbed Drogon's chain, yanking the beast toward him.
Daenerys held the whip. She looked at the army. Eight thousand pairs of dead eyes stared back.
"Unsullied!" she shouted in High Valyrian. Her voice rang across the plaza, clear and commanding. "Forward march!"
Kraznys froze. The slave girl gasped. The Unsullied moved. Eight thousand right feet hit the ground in a single, thunderous thud. They took a single step forward.
"You... you speak Valyrian?" Kraznys stammered, the color draining from his face.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," she said, her voice cold as the grave. "Of the blood of Old Valyria. Valyrian is my mother tongue."
She turned to the Unsullied. "Halt!"
Use the thud of their boots was a hammer blow.
"Slay the Good Masters," she commanded, her voice rising, echoing off the walls. "Slay the soldiers. Slay every man who holds a whip. But harm no child. Strike the chains off every slave you see!"
"What is this?" Kraznys shrieked, tugging on Drogon's chain. "Stop! I command you! Dragon, fire!"
Drogon looked at Kraznys. He looked at Daenerys.
"Dracarys," she whispered.
Drogon opened his mouth. A jet of black and red fire engulfed the Good Master. Kraznys didn't even have time to scream. He was ash in a heartbeat, the golden chain melting in his hand.
Chaos erupted.
The Unsullied turned. Their spears lowered. They moved through the plaza like a scythe through wheat. The slaver guards, fat and lazy, didn't stand a chance. It was a slaughter. A precise, disciplined, mechanical slaughter.
I didn't just watch. I moved.
My magic flared. I didn't need subtlety anymore. I threw out a hand, and a wave of concussive force blasted a group of guards charging toward us. I drew the glowing dagger I had conjured, a blade of pure green light, and waded into the fray.
It was a dance. A brutal, beautiful dance of magic and steel. I was faster, stronger, and infinitely more dangerous than these mortal slavers. I cut them down with contemptuous ease, my laughter echoing in the chaos.
Daenerys was a storm. She rode her silver mare through the madness, shouting commands, her whip cracking not to strike, but to direct. She was the eye of the hurricane, untouched, glorious.
Jorah fought like a man possessed, protecting the cart, protecting the other dragons.
Within an hour, the plaza was red with blood. The Good Masters were dead. The chains were broken.
Daenerys rode to the center of the square. The Unsullied stood amidst the carnage, silent, waiting.
"You are free!" she shouted to them. "I have bought you, but I do not own you! You are men! You are free to go! Or... you are free to fight for me. As free men."
There was a long silence. The Unsullied looked at each other. They looked at their broken chains. They looked at the woman who had burned their masters.
One man, Grey Worm, stepped forward. He slammed the butt of his spear into the ground.
Then another. And another.
Eight thousand spears hit the stone. A rhythmic, pounding beat of loyalty.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was the heartbeat of an army.
I walked to Daenerys's horse. She looked down at me, her face flushed with victory, her eyes shining.
"We have an army," she said.
"We have a start," I corrected, wiping a splash of blood from my cheek. "Now... we sack the city. We take their gold, their food, their ships. We leave nothing but ash."
She looked at the burning city, at the slaves rising up in the streets. "Yes," she said. "Fire and blood."
We rode through the gates of Astapor as conquerors. We left a ruin behind us.
That night, on the deck of the flagship of our new fleet, surrounded by eighty ships filled with Unsullied and freed slaves, we stood together.
Daenerys placed her hand on her stomach. "They will fear us," she whispered.
"They should," I said, wrapping my arm around her. "We are the end of their world."
I looked out at the dark sea, toward Westeros. Toward the future.
We were coming. And we were bringing hell with us.