For Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
Meereen was a city of pyramids and dust, a stark contrast to the red brick of Astapor or the yellow walls of Yunkai. It was a place of ancient, calcified power, and we had shattered it in a day.
We ruled from the Great Pyramid, an eight-hundred-foot monstrosity of stone and arrogance. At its pinnacle, in the private chambers of the former Great Masters, Daenerys and I carved out a sanctuary. It was a nest high above the chaos, a place of cool marble, silk cushions, and the constant, reassuring presence of the dragons, who now used the terrace as their personal aerie.
But ruling was harder than conquering.
"They hate us," Daenerys said, standing by the balcony rail, looking down at the sprawling city. The sun was setting, painting Meereen in shades of blood and gold. She wore a simple white tokar, the Qartheen style abandoned for something lighter in the oppressive heat, but she had kept the Dothraki trousers beneath. Always ready to ride. Always ready to fight. "Even the slaves we freed. They look at us with fear."
"They don't know what freedom tastes like yet," I said, coming up behind her. I wrapped my arms around her waist, my hands resting on the swell of her belly. It was undeniable now, a hard, round curve that housed our son. "It's bitter at first. Like medicine."
"Or poison," she murmured, leaning back against me. Her body was warm, a living furnace that chased away the chill of the high altitude. "The Sons of the Harpy. They kill my Unsullied in the alleys. They paint harpy marks in blood."
"Insurgents," I said dismissively. "Cowards who hide behind masks. We will root them out."
"How?" she asked, turning in my arms. Her lilac eyes were shadowed with fatigue. "We cannot burn the whole city."
"No," I agreed, brushing a stray lock of silver hair from her face. "But we can make them fear the dark."
I kissed her forehead. "Leave the Harpy to me. You have a court to hold. People to... inspire."
She sighed, but the tension in her shoulders eased. "Sometimes I wish we were back on the ship. Just us."
"We will be," I promised. "Soon. But first, we need ships. And for ships, we need peace. Or at least, the illusion of it."
That night, after a tedious day of audiences where Daenerys listened to the endless grievances of goat herders and former nobles, we retreated to our chambers. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of the sea, which lay far below.
"I need you," she said simply, dropping her tokar to the floor.
She was magnificent. Pregnancy had not diminished her beauty; it had ripened it. Her breasts were fuller, her nipples darker, her skin glowing with an inner light that seemed almost magical. She was fertility and power incarnate.
I stripped off my tunic, my eyes never leaving her. "And I need you."
I lifted her onto the wide, silk-draped bed. We moved with a familiarity born of months of shared intimacy, but the hunger was still there, sharp and demanding.
I kissed her stomach, my lips lingering on the taut skin. "Hello, little god," I whispered.
The baby kicked against my cheek, a strong, definitive thump. Daenerys laughed, a low, throaty sound of delight.
"He likes you," she said. "Or he's kicking you."
"A bit of both, I suspect," I said, moving up to kiss her mouth.
We made love slowly, a deep, rhythmic connection that was more about comfort than conquest tonight. I entered her carefully, mindful of the life between us, but she wrapped her legs around me, pulling me deeper, demanding more.
"Don't treat me like glass," she whispered fiercely against my neck. "I am the mother of dragons. I won't break."
So I gave her what she wanted. I moved with a steady, powerful rhythm, my hands gripping her hips, my body claiming hers. We found our release together, a shared shudder of pleasure that left us tangled and breathless in the dark.
The next morning, the reality of the world intruded.
Jorah Mormont entered our chambers, his face grimmer than usual. He held a scroll, the seal broken.
"A message," he said. "From King's Landing."
Daenerys sat up, pulling the sheet around her. "What does the Usurper's son have to say?"
"It is not from Joffrey," Jorah said, his eyes flicking to me, then back to her. "It is a pardon. For me."
Silence stretched in the room.
"A pardon?" Daenerys asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "For what crime?"
Jorah swallowed hard. "For... spying. On you."
I watched him, my mind racing. I knew this. I had suspected it from the moment I met him—the disgraced knight, the desperate need for redemption. But to have it confirmed now, in this way... it was a play. A move by someone in Westeros who knew exactly where to strike.
"Spying," Daenerys repeated, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. "You sold my secrets? To the man who killed my father? To the man who sent assassins after me?"
"I... I wanted to go home," Jorah whispered, falling to his knees. "Before I knew you. Before I believed. I stopped sending reports long ago, Khaleesi. I swear it. I love you."
"Love?" she spat, standing up, the sheet falling away, oblivious to her nakedness in her fury. "You call this love? betrayal?"
"Who sent the pardon?" I asked, my voice cutting through the emotion.
Jorah looked at me, hate and misery warring in his eyes. "Tywin Lannister. The Hand of the King."
Tywin Lannister. The Lion. The true power behind the Iron Throne.
"Why now?" I mused. "Why send a pardon for a crime stopped months ago?"
"To sow discord," Daenerys said, her eyes hard. "To break us apart before we even reach their shores." She looked down at Jorah. "He knows my weakness. He knows I have few friends."
"Khaleesi, please," Jorah begged. "I would die for you."
"You might have to," she said coldly. "Get out of my sight, Jorah. Go to the lower city. I will decide your fate later."
Jorah fled, a broken man.
Daenerys sank onto the bed, her hand on her stomach. She looked devastated. "He was my first friend. My bear."
"He betrayed you," I said gently, sitting beside her. "But Tywin Lannister... he is the real threat. He sent this to hurt you. To isolate you."
"It worked," she whispered.
"No," I said, taking her face in my hands. "It failed. Because you still have me. And you have an army. And you have dragons. Jorah is a loss, yes. But he is the past. We are the future."
"Tywin Lannister," she breathed, testing the name. "The Lion."
"Lions are proud," I said, a cruel smile touching my lips. "And pride... pride makes them careless."
A week later, a new visitor arrived in Meereen. Not a spy, but a suitor.
Hizdahr zo Loraq. A scion of one of the old Ghiscari families of Meereen. He was wealthy, influential, and impeccably polite. He came with a proposal.
"Great Queen," he said, bowing low in the throne room of the pyramid. "The killings continue. The Sons of the Harpy bleed your city. The trade has stopped. Meereen is dying."
"And you have a solution?" Daenerys asked from her throne, looking bored. I stood beside her, my presence a silent threat.
"A union," Hizdahr said, spreading his hands. "Marry me. Unite the old blood of Ghis with the new power of the Dragon. It will show the people you are not a conqueror, but a mother to them. The Harpy will lay down their knives."
It was Xaro all over again, but smoother. More political.
"I am already... spoken for," Daenerys said, her hand resting on her stomach.
Hizdahr's eyes flickered to her belly, then to me. He smiled, a thin, knowing expression. "A paramour is not a husband, Your Grace. And a bastard is not an heir. In Ghis, we understand... arrangements. The child can be legitimized. But the marriage... the marriage must be political."
I felt a surge of rage, but I held it back. He was right, in a cold, political sense. Peace required compromise.
"I will consider it," Daenerys said, dismissing him.
When we were alone, she exploded. "I will not marry that... that hairless man! I will not let him claim my child!"
"He doesn't want the child," I said. "He wants the power. And he's offering peace."
"A peace bought with my body? Again?"
"No," I said. "A peace bought with a lie. Marry him. Or promise to. Let him stop the killings. Let him open the fighting pits, if that's what they want. Let him think he has won."
"And then?"
"And then," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, "when the city is calm, when the ships are built, when we are ready to leave... we burn him."
She looked at me, a slow smile spreading. "You are wicked."
"I am necessary," I replied.
But before we could put the plan into motion, the Lion struck again. Not with paper, but with steel.
An assassination attempt.
We were walking in the gardens of the pyramid, enjoying the cool evening air. Daario was with us, flamboyant as ever, boasting of some skirmish.
Suddenly, three figures dropped from the terrace above. They wore golden masks. Sons of the Harpy.
But they moved like Westerosi knights.
One lunged for Daenerys.
I moved. I shoved her behind me, my magical dagger flashing into existence in my hand. I parried the assassin's blade, the steel ringing. He was fast, skilled. Too skilled for a disgruntled merchant.
Daario engaged the second. The third circled, looking for an opening.
"Protect the Queen!" I shouted to the Unsullied guards, who were rushing in.
I disarmed my opponent with a twist of my wrist and drove my dagger into his throat. He fell, choking.
The third assassin threw a knife. Not at me. At Daenerys.
Time seemed to slow. I couldn't reach it. I couldn't block it.
But Daario did.
He threw himself in the path of the blade. It struck him in the shoulder, burying itself deep. He grunted, falling to one knee, but he managed to hamstring his own attacker with a sweeping cut of his arakh.
The Unsullied swarmed the remaining assassin, killing him instantly.
Silence fell over the garden.
Daenerys rushed to Daario. "You're hurt!"
"A scratch, my Queen," Daario wheezed, grinning through pain. "A love token."
I walked to the body of the assassin I had killed. I ripped the golden mask from his face.
He wasn't Ghiscari. He was Westerosi. Pale skin, sandy hair.
And on his tunic, hidden beneath a black cloak, was a pin. A lion's head.
"Lannister," I spat.
Daenerys looked at the pin, her face going white, then red. "They sent men here? Into my home? To kill me? To kill my unborn child?"
"Tywin Lannister doesn't leave loose ends," I said, my voice cold. "He knows you are coming. He is trying to end the war before it begins."
"He failed," Daenerys said, standing up. Her voice was terrifyingly calm. "Daario, you will have the best healers. You saved my life. I will not forget it."
Daario grinned, wincing. "My pleasure."
She turned to me. "The ships. How many do we have?"
"Enough for the Unsullied," I said. "Not for the Dothraki horses."
"Leave the horses," she said. "We sail. Now."
"Now?"
"They struck at me," she hissed. "They tried to kill our son. I am done with Meereen. I am done with peace. I am done with waiting."
She walked to the edge of the terrace, looking west, across the dark sea.
"I am going to Westeros," she vowed. "And I am going to kill the Lion in his den."
She turned back to me, her eyes blazing. "Are you with me, Loki?"
I walked to her, taking her hand. I felt the pulse of her rage, the thrum of her magic.
"Always," I said. "To the ends of the earth. And beyond."
We left Meereen in chaos. We left it burning, the pyramids alight, the Sons of the Harpy hunted by an enraged populace. We took the fleet, the Unsullied, the dragons, and Daario's Second Sons.
We sailed west.
The voyage was long and hard. Storms battered us. But we were untouchable. We were a force of nature.
Weeks later, land appeared on the horizon. Grey cliffs, storm-lashed and imposing.
Dragonstone.
The ancestral seat of House Targaryen. The place where she was born.
We anchored in the bay. The castle was empty, abandoned by Stannis Baratheon. It stood dark and silent, a grim fortress of fused black stone shaped like dragons.
We took the longboats to the shore. Daenerys stepped onto the wet sand. She fell to her knees, touching the earth of Westeros for the first time since she was a baby. She wept.
I stood beside her, watching the castle. I could feel the magic here. It was ancient, powerful. Old Valyria. Fire and blood.
She stood up. "I am home."
We walked up the winding stairs, past the stone dragons, to the great doors. They pushed open with a groan.
We entered the Painted Table room. The great map of Westeros was spread out before us, carved into the wood.
Daenerys walked to the head of the table. She ran her hand over the painted wood, over King's Landing, over Winterfell, over the Wall.
She looked at me. Her belly was large now, the child near.
"Shall we begin?" she asked.
I smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. "Let's."
But before we could make a move, a raven arrived.
It flew in through the open window, landing on the Painted Table. It carried a scroll sealed with a black wax seal. A direwolf.
Daenerys broke the seal. She read it, her brow furrowing.
"It is from the North," she said. "From... Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell."
"What does he want?"
"He says..." She looked up at me, her eyes wide. "He says the dead are coming. He says he needs dragonglass. He says... he needs help."
"Ignore it," I said. "We have a throne to win."
"He signed it," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "'King in the North.'"
"Another usurper," I scoffed.
"No," she said, looking at the letter again. "He speaks of the Long Night. Of the White Walkers." She looked at me. "The Ice."
I froze. The connection I had felt in Meereen snapped tight.
"If the dead are coming," I said slowly, "then the throne means nothing if everyone is a corpse."
"He asks for an audience," she said. "He is coming here. To Dragonstone."
"Let him come," I said. "We will see this 'King in the North'. We will see if he is a wolf... or a pup."
I looked out the window, toward the North. I could feel it. A cold wind, blowing from beyond the Wall. A wind that tasted of my own magic.
The game had just become much more complicated. The Lion was in the South. The Wolf was coming from the North. And beyond him... the true Enemy.
I placed my hand on Daenerys's stomach. Our son kicked, a strong, warrior's kick.
"Let them come," I whispered. "We are ready."