For Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The fleet cut through the Slaver's Bay, a jagged armada of liberated galleys and merchant cogs under the banner of the three-headed dragon. Eighty ships. Eight thousand Unsullied. A horde of freedmen. And three dragons that grew larger with every passing week, their appetites mirroring the growing ambition of their mother.
Daenerys stood at the prow of the flagship, the wind whipping her silver hair into a halo. She was no longer the girl who had been sold. She was a conqueror. She wore the spoils of Astapor not as jewelry, but as armor—bracers of gold, a torque of heavy electrum, and a gown of deep crimson silk that looked like spilled blood.
I stood beside her, my hand resting possessively on the small of her back. My Seidr was humming, fed by the raw, chaotic magic of conquest. We were a power couple in the truest, most terrifying sense. A god and a queen, bound by blood, magic, and a child growing in secret.
"Yunkai lies ahead," Jorah Mormont said, approaching us. He looked older, wearier. The sack of Astapor had shaken him. He had fought, yes, but he had seen the brutality of Daenerys's justice, and it frightened him. He looked at me with a mixture of hatred and resignation. "The Yellow City. They will know we are coming. They will be ready."
"Let them be ready," Daenerys said, not turning. "Let them tremble."
"They have sellswords," Jorah warned. " The Second Sons. The Stormcrows. Men who fight for gold, not loyalty. They are dangerous."
"Men who fight for gold can be bought," I said, my voice bored. "Or broken."
Jorah ignored me, addressing only her. "Khaleesi, we have an army, yes. But we need allies. Real allies. Westeros is a world away. We need to secure the Bay before we move west."
"We will take Yunkai," she said firmly. "And then Meereen. I will not leave a trail of slavery behind me. I will break every chain in this bay."
Jorah bowed and retreated. He was a good dog, but he didn't understand the scale of the hunt.
That night, the sea was rough, the ship groaning against the swells. In the captain's cabin, the air was thick with tension.
"He doubts us," Daenerys said, pacing the small room. She was naked, having discarded her silks the moment the door was bolted. Her body was changing. Subtly, but I saw it. A fullness to her breasts, a slight softening of her belly. She was radiant.
"He doubts me," I corrected, sitting in the heavy chair, watching her. "He fears you are becoming me. A monster."
She stopped pacing and looked at me. "I am a monster," she whispered, walking to me. She straddled my lap, her arms winding around my neck. "I burned a city, Loki. I burned men alive. And I felt... nothing but rightness."
"That is power, my Queen," I murmured, my hands sliding up her thighs, her skin hot and smooth. "It is not cruelty. It is clarity."
She kissed me, hard. It was a hungry kiss, tasting of salt and ambition. "Make me feel it," she breathed against my mouth. "Make me feel... us."
I stood, lifting her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed. The ship pitched, throwing us together, a tangle of limbs. I entered her deeply, a slow, claiming thrust that drew a gasp from her lips. We moved with the rhythm of the sea, a slow, grinding friction. It wasn't frantic. It was heavy, deliberate, and incredibly intense.
"The child," she whispered, her hand between us, resting on her womb as I moved inside her. "He is strong. I can feel him... burning."
"He is a god," I growled, biting her neck, marking her again. "He will burn the world for you."
We fell asleep tangled together, a knot of limbs and shared power.
The next day, the scouts reported. Yunkai had indeed hired sellswords. The Second Sons.
"Their captains wish to parley," Jorah reported, his face grim. "They are arrogant men. They think they can intimidate a girl."
"Let them come," I said. "I enjoy arrogant men. They break so beautifully."
The parley was held in a tent erected on the dry plains outside Yunkai's yellow brick walls. The captains of the Second Sons arrived—Titan's Bastard, a brute of a man; and two others, forgotten faces. But the third... the third was different.
Daario Naharis.
He was flamboyant, with blue-dyed hair and a gold tooth, but his eyes were sharp, intelligent, and dangerous. He looked at Daenerys not as a queen, and not as a conquest, but as a challenge.
And then he looked at me.
He paused. His swagger faltered for a fraction of a second. He saw the green-gold armor. He saw the eyes that were older than his civilization. He saw the way I stood, not behind her, but with her.
"A queen with a pet god," Daario drawled, recovering his smirk. "Interesting."
"Careful, sellsword," I said softly. "Gods bite."
The parley was a farce. The Titan's Bastard was crude, insulting Daenerys, making lewd gestures. He demanded wine, gold, and her hand.
Daenerys sat frozen, her face a mask of icy rage. Jorah's hand was on his sword.
I didn't wait for a command. I didn't use magic. I used speed.
I moved. Before the Titan's Bastard could blink, I was across the table. I grabbed his head in one hand and slammed it down onto the heavy oak table. The sound was a sickening crack.
He slumped to the floor, unconscious or dead. It didn't matter.
The other two captains jumped up, drawing swords.
"Sit," I commanded. My voice was layered with a subtle magical compulsion, a weight of authority that hit them like a physical blow.
They sat.
Daario didn't move. He just watched, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. "Well," he said. "That simplifies the voting process."
"You have a choice," Daenerys said, her voice calm, ignoring the body on the floor. "Fight for Yunkai and die. Or fight for me and live. I have no gold for you. My gold is for my children. But I offer you glory. I offer you the chance to be part of the new world."
Daario looked at her. He looked at me. He looked at the dead captain.
"I like a woman who knows what she wants," he said. He drew his arakh. Jorah tensed.
Daario swung.
The heads of the other two captains rolled onto the floor.
"The Second Sons are yours, my Queen," Daario said, bowing low, a flourish of blue hair and blood.
Jorah looked sick. I laughed. A cold, amused sound. "I like him," I said to Daenerys. "He's useful."
With the Second Sons turned and the Unsullied marching, Yunkai fell in a night. It was less a battle and more a riot. The slaves opened the gates. The masters were dragged from their beds.
But the victory felt... hollow. Repetitive.
We sat in the Yunkish pyramid that night, overlooking a city in chaos. Daenerys was restless.
"It is too easy," she said. "They fall like wheat."
"They are weak," I said, pouring wine. "They are soft men built on the suffering of others. They have no spine."
"Westeros will not be like this," she said, turning to me. "The Lannisters. The Starks. They are wolves and lions. They will fight."
"Then we will be wolves and lions too," I said. "Or better yet... hunters."
"There is... news," she said, hesitating. "From the west. A ship arrived from King's Landing."
My interest piqued. "Oh?"
"Robert Baratheon is dead," she said. "His son, Joffrey, sits on the throne. And... there is war. The Five Kings. The realm bleeds."
"Chaos," I mused, a smile touching my lips. "Chaos is a ladder."
"There is more," she said, watching me closely. "They say... they say a red comet was seen. And they say magic is returning. The warlocks in Qarth were just the beginning. In the North... they speak of dead men walking. White Walkers."
I froze. The glass in my hand cracked.
White Walkers.
Ice.
The connection snapped into place. My Asgardian blood. The Frost Giants. The ancient enemy. The "winter" that was coming.
"Loki?" she asked, concerned.
"It seems," I said, my voice low, "that my family history might be more relevant than I thought."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," I said, standing and walking to the balcony, looking north, "that the true war isn't for the Iron Throne. It's for the dawn. And I... I am the only one who knows the cold."
I turned to her. "We need to speed this up. We need Meereen. We need the ships. We need to go to Westeros. Not just to conquer. But to survive."
"Why?" she asked, stepping closer, sensing my sudden, intense urgency.
"Because," I said, taking her hand and placing it on her stomach, on our child. "Winter is coming. And it is coming for him."
The next morning, we marched on Meereen.
Meereen was different. It was massive, a mountain of multicolored bricks. And it was cruel. They had nailed a slave child to every mile marker for a hundred miles leading to the city. One hundred and sixty-three dead children, pointing the way.
Daenerys wept. She rode past each one, forcing herself to look. By the time we reached the walls, her grief had calcified into a diamond-hard rage.
"I will kill them all," she whispered to me.
"We will," I promised.
Meereen had a champion. A hero of the city who rode out to challenge us. He was a giant, clad in heavy plate, shouting insults.
Daario offered to fight him. Jorah offered.
"No," I said. "This one is mine."
I rode out. I wore no helmet. I carried no shield. Just my green-gold armor and the magical dagger I could summon at will.
The champion laughed. "A little man! A pale ghost! I will crush you!"
He charged, his lance lowered, a thundering mountain of steel and horseflesh.
I didn't move. I stood my ground, waiting.
When the lance was feet from my chest, I didn't dodge. I blinked.
A simple illusion. I appeared five feet to the left.
The champion thundered past, confused. He wheeled his horse around. "Sorcery!" he screamed.
"Speed," I corrected.
He charged again. This time, I let him come. I summoned my Seidr, shaping it not into a dagger, but into a spear of pure, hard light.
As he reached me, I sidestepped, a blur of motion, and drove the spear upward, through the weak point of his armor under the armpit. It pierced his heart instantly.
He fell. His horse ran on.
The city walls went silent.
I walked to the body. I pulled out my spear, which dissolved into motes of light. I looked up at the Great Masters on the walls.
"One down," I shouted, my voice amplified by magic. "Who's next?"
Then, something happened. Something I hadn't planned.
A man on the wall, a slave, shouted. "Mhysa!"
Then another. And another.
"Mhysa! Mhysa! Mhysa!"
Mother.
They were not cheering for me. They were cheering past me, at Daenerys.
I turned. She was sitting on her silver mare, serene and terrible.
The gates of Meereen groaned. Not opened by an army, but by a revolt. The slaves were rising.
We took the city by sundown.
That night, in the Great Pyramid of Meereen, we celebrated. But the mood was dark. The injustice of the crucified children hung over us.
"I want justice," Daenerys said. "I want the Masters to pay."
"Crucify them," Daario suggested, leaning against a pillar, cleaning his nails with a dagger. "One for every child."
Jorah frowned. "Mercy, Khaleesi. Show them you are better."
Daenerys looked at me. "Loki?"
"Mercy is a luxury of the victorious," I said. "But you are not just a victor. You are a mother. And they killed children." I walked to her. "Sometimes, the only justice is a mirror. Give them exactly what they gave."
She nodded. "Do it."
The next day, one hundred and sixty-three Great Masters were nailed to posts around the plaza. Their screams filled the air.
It was brutal. It was horrific. And it was necessary.
We stood on the balcony of the pyramid, watching. Daenerys was pale, her hand on her stomach.
"Is this what ruling is?" she asked. "Blood and screams?"
"Only the beginning," I said. "But we are building something new. Something better."
"I feel him," she whispered suddenly, grabbing my hand. "Loki! I feel him!"
I placed my hand on her belly. And I felt it. A kick. Strong. Vigorous.
A smile broke across my face, genuine and bright. "He's a fighter."
"He has his father's temper," she laughed, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Suddenly, the sky darkened. Not with clouds. With wings.
Drogon. He had grown massive in the journey. He was the size of a small ship now. He landed on the terrace, the stone cracking under his weight. He lowered his great head, staring at us.
Then, he opened his mouth and roared. A column of black fire shot into the sky, a beacon.
"He knows," Daenerys said. "He knows his brother is coming."
I looked at the dragon, then at the woman carrying my child, my legacy. I felt a surge of power, my Seidr responding to the dragon's fire, to the life in her womb.
I was ready. Westeros could wait. The White Walkers could wait.
Right now, I had a son to protect. And God help anyone who tried to touch him.Chapter 20: The Wolf and the Lion (R18 Chapter)
The fleet cut through the Slaver's Bay, a jagged armada of liberated galleys and merchant cogs under the banner of the three-headed dragon. Eighty ships. Eight thousand Unsullied. A horde of freedmen. And three dragons that grew larger with every passing week, their appetites mirroring the growing ambition of their mother.
Daenerys stood at the prow of the flagship, the wind whipping her silver hair into a halo. She was no longer the girl who had been sold. She was a conqueror. She wore the spoils of Astapor not as jewelry, but as armor—bracers of gold, a torque of heavy electrum, and a gown of deep crimson silk that looked like spilled blood.
I stood beside her, my hand resting possessively on the small of her back. My Seidr was humming, fed by the raw, chaotic magic of conquest. We were a power couple in the truest, most terrifying sense. A god and a queen, bound by blood, magic, and a child growing in secret.
"Yunkai lies ahead," Jorah Mormont said, approaching us. He looked older, wearier. The sack of Astapor had shaken him. He had fought, yes, but he had seen the brutality of Daenerys's justice, and it frightened him. He looked at me with a mixture of hatred and resignation. "The Yellow City. They will know we are coming. They will be ready."
"Let them be ready," Daenerys said, not turning. "Let them tremble."
"They have sellswords," Jorah warned. " The Second Sons. The Stormcrows. Men who fight for gold, not loyalty. They are dangerous."
"Men who fight for gold can be bought," I said, my voice bored. "Or broken."
Jorah ignored me, addressing only her. "Khaleesi, we have an army, yes. But we need allies. Real allies. Westeros is a world away. We need to secure the Bay before we move west."
"We will take Yunkai," she said firmly. "And then Meereen. I will not leave a trail of slavery behind me. I will break every chain in this bay."
Jorah bowed and retreated. He was a good dog, but he didn't understand the scale of the hunt.
That night, the sea was rough, the ship groaning against the swells. In the captain's cabin, the air was thick with tension.
"He doubts us," Daenerys said, pacing the small room. She was naked, having discarded her silks the moment the door was bolted. Her body was changing. Subtly, but I saw it. A fullness to her breasts, a slight softening of her belly. She was radiant.
"He doubts me," I corrected, sitting in the heavy chair, watching her. "He fears you are becoming me. A monster."
She stopped pacing and looked at me. "I am a monster," she whispered, walking to me. She straddled my lap, her arms winding around my neck. "I burned a city, Loki. I burned men alive. And I felt... nothing but rightness."
"That is power, my Queen," I murmured, my hands sliding up her thighs, her skin hot and smooth. "It is not cruelty. It is clarity."
She kissed me, hard. It was a hungry kiss, tasting of salt and ambition. "Make me feel it," she breathed against my mouth. "Make me feel... us."
I stood, lifting her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed. The ship pitched, throwing us together, a tangle of limbs. I entered her deeply, a slow, claiming thrust that drew a gasp from her lips. We moved with the rhythm of the sea, a slow, grinding friction. It wasn't frantic. It was heavy, deliberate, and incredibly intense.
"The child," she whispered, her hand between us, resting on her womb as I moved inside her. "He is strong. I can feel him... burning."
"He is a god," I growled, biting her neck, marking her again. "He will burn the world for you."
We fell asleep tangled together, a knot of limbs and shared power.
The next day, the scouts reported. Yunkai had indeed hired sellswords. The Second Sons.
"Their captains wish to parley," Jorah reported, his face grim. "They are arrogant men. They think they can intimidate a girl."
"Let them come," I said. "I enjoy arrogant men. They break so beautifully."
The parley was held in a tent erected on the dry plains outside Yunkai's yellow brick walls. The captains of the Second Sons arrived—Titan's Bastard, a brute of a man; and two others, forgotten faces. But the third... the third was different.
Daario Naharis.
He was flamboyant, with blue-dyed hair and a gold tooth, but his eyes were sharp, intelligent, and dangerous. He looked at Daenerys not as a queen, and not as a conquest, but as a challenge.
And then he looked at me.
He paused. His swagger faltered for a fraction of a second. He saw the green-gold armor. He saw the eyes that were older than his civilization. He saw the way I stood, not behind her, but with her.
"A queen with a pet god," Daario drawled, recovering his smirk. "Interesting."
"Careful, sellsword," I said softly. "Gods bite."
The parley was a farce. The Titan's Bastard was crude, insulting Daenerys, making lewd gestures. He demanded wine, gold, and her hand.
Daenerys sat frozen, her face a mask of icy rage. Jorah's hand was on his sword.
I didn't wait for a command. I didn't use magic. I used speed.
I moved. Before the Titan's Bastard could blink, I was across the table. I grabbed his head in one hand and slammed it down onto the heavy oak table. The sound was a sickening crack.
He slumped to the floor, unconscious or dead. It didn't matter.
The other two captains jumped up, drawing swords.
"Sit," I commanded. My voice was layered with a subtle magical compulsion, a weight of authority that hit them like a physical blow.
They sat.
Daario didn't move. He just watched, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. "Well," he said. "That simplifies the voting process."
"You have a choice," Daenerys said, her voice calm, ignoring the body on the floor. "Fight for Yunkai and die. Or fight for me and live. I have no gold for you. My gold is for my children. But I offer you glory. I offer you the chance to be part of the new world."
Daario looked at her. He looked at me. He looked at the dead captain.
"I like a woman who knows what she wants," he said. He drew his arakh. Jorah tensed.
Daario swung.
The heads of the other two captains rolled onto the floor.
"The Second Sons are yours, my Queen," Daario said, bowing low, a flourish of blue hair and blood.
Jorah looked sick. I laughed. A cold, amused sound. "I like him," I said to Daenerys. "He's useful."
With the Second Sons turned and the Unsullied marching, Yunkai fell in a night. It was less a battle and more a riot. The slaves opened the gates. The masters were dragged from their beds.
But the victory felt... hollow. Repetitive.
We sat in the Yunkish pyramid that night, overlooking a city in chaos. Daenerys was restless.
"It is too easy," she said. "They fall like wheat."
"They are weak," I said, pouring wine. "They are soft men built on the suffering of others. They have no spine."
"Westeros will not be like this," she said, turning to me. "The Lannisters. The Starks. They are wolves and lions. They will fight."
"Then we will be wolves and lions too," I said. "Or better yet... hunters."
"There is... news," she said, hesitating. "From the west. A ship arrived from King's Landing."
My interest piqued. "Oh?"
"Robert Baratheon is dead," she said. "His son, Joffrey, sits on the throne. And... there is war. The Five Kings. The realm bleeds."
"Chaos," I mused, a smile touching my lips. "Chaos is a ladder."
"There is more," she said, watching me closely. "They say... they say a red comet was seen. And they say magic is returning. The warlocks in Qarth were just the beginning. In the North... they speak of dead men walking. White Walkers."
I froze. The glass in my hand cracked.
White Walkers.
Ice.
The connection snapped into place. My Asgardian blood. The Frost Giants. The ancient enemy. The "winter" that was coming.
"Loki?" she asked, concerned.
"It seems," I said, my voice low, "that my family history might be more relevant than I thought."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," I said, standing and walking to the balcony, looking north, "that the true war isn't for the Iron Throne. It's for the dawn. And I... I am the only one who knows the cold."
I turned to her. "We need to speed this up. We need Meereen. We need the ships. We need to go to Westeros. Not just to conquer. But to survive."
"Why?" she asked, stepping closer, sensing my sudden, intense urgency.
"Because," I said, taking her hand and placing it on her stomach, on our child. "Winter is coming. And it is coming for him."
The next morning, we marched on Meereen.
Meereen was different. It was massive, a mountain of multicolored bricks. And it was cruel. They had nailed a slave child to every mile marker for a hundred miles leading to the city. One hundred and sixty-three dead children, pointing the way.
Daenerys wept. She rode past each one, forcing herself to look. By the time we reached the walls, her grief had calcified into a diamond-hard rage.
"I will kill them all," she whispered to me.
"We will," I promised.
Meereen had a champion. A hero of the city who rode out to challenge us. He was a giant, clad in heavy plate, shouting insults.
Daario offered to fight him. Jorah offered.
"No," I said. "This one is mine."
I rode out. I wore no helmet. I carried no shield. Just my green-gold armor and the magical dagger I could summon at will.
The champion laughed. "A little man! A pale ghost! I will crush you!"
He charged, his lance lowered, a thundering mountain of steel and horseflesh.
I didn't move. I stood my ground, waiting.
When the lance was feet from my chest, I didn't dodge. I blinked.
A simple illusion. I appeared five feet to the left.
The champion thundered past, confused. He wheeled his horse around. "Sorcery!" he screamed.
"Speed," I corrected.
He charged again. This time, I let him come. I summoned my Seidr, shaping it not into a dagger, but into a spear of pure, hard light.
As he reached me, I sidestepped, a blur of motion, and drove the spear upward, through the weak point of his armor under the armpit. It pierced his heart instantly.
He fell. His horse ran on.
The city walls went silent.
I walked to the body. I pulled out my spear, which dissolved into motes of light. I looked up at the Great Masters on the walls.
"One down," I shouted, my voice amplified by magic. "Who's next?"
Then, something happened. Something I hadn't planned.
A man on the wall, a slave, shouted. "Mhysa!"
Then another. And another.
"Mhysa! Mhysa! Mhysa!"
Mother.
They were not cheering for me. They were cheering past me, at Daenerys.
I turned. She was sitting on her silver mare, serene and terrible.
The gates of Meereen groaned. Not opened by an army, but by a revolt. The slaves were rising.
We took the city by sundown.
That night, in the Great Pyramid of Meereen, we celebrated. But the mood was dark. The injustice of the crucified children hung over us.
"I want justice," Daenerys said. "I want the Masters to pay."
"Crucify them," Daario suggested, leaning against a pillar, cleaning his nails with a dagger. "One for every child."
Jorah frowned. "Mercy, Khaleesi. Show them you are better."
Daenerys looked at me. "Loki?"
"Mercy is a luxury of the victorious," I said. "But you are not just a victor. You are a mother. And they killed children." I walked to her. "Sometimes, the only justice is a mirror. Give them exactly what they gave."
She nodded. "Do it."
The next day, one hundred and sixty-three Great Masters were nailed to posts around the plaza. Their screams filled the air.
It was brutal. It was horrific. And it was necessary.
We stood on the balcony of the pyramid, watching. Daenerys was pale, her hand on her stomach.
"Is this what ruling is?" she asked. "Blood and screams?"
"Only the beginning," I said. "But we are building something new. Something better."
"I feel him," she whispered suddenly, grabbing my hand. "Loki! I feel him!"
I placed my hand on her belly. And I felt it. A kick. Strong. Vigorous.
A smile broke across my face, genuine and bright. "He's a fighter."
"He has his father's temper," she laughed, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Suddenly, the sky darkened. Not with clouds. With wings.
Drogon. He had grown massive in the journey. He was the size of a small ship now. He landed on the terrace, the stone cracking under his weight. He lowered his great head, staring at us.
Then, he opened his mouth and roared. A column of black fire shot into the sky, a beacon.
"He knows," Daenerys said. "He knows his brother is coming."
I looked at the dragon, then at the woman carrying my child, my legacy. I felt a surge of power, my Seidr responding to the dragon's fire, to the life in her womb.
I was ready. Westeros could wait. The White Walkers could wait.
Right now, I had a son to protect. And God help anyone who tried to touch him.