For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
Days bled into weeks under the merciless eye of the sun. The Red Waste lived up to its name – a 'desperate craving' for water was etched on every face, a 'burning' thirst that scraped throats raw. Hope, like the pitiful scrub that dotted the cracked earth, withered with each passing mile. The Dothraki, what little remained of Drogo's mighty khalasar, followed their silver queen, but their faith was as brittle as sun-baked clay. They had seen her walk from fire, seen her birth dragons, seen me arrive like a phantom and strike down Qotho with unseen force. But miracles faded fast under a sky that promised only death.
David's part of me felt the despair keenly. The endless, 'abrasive scrape' of wind against skin, the 'pounding' headache from dehydration, the sight of good horses faltering and dying. It was a 'sledgehammer' to morale. Loki, however, adapted. He saw the Waste not just as a deathtrap, but as a crucible. It tested Daenerys. It tested her followers. And it tested me.
My Seidr remained weak, a frustrating 'flicker' where a 'burning' inferno should be. This world's magic felt thin, resistant. Using it was like trying to draw water from a dry well. Yet, necessity spurred invention. Small illusions became my currency. A shimmering heat haze conjured over our small band during the worst of the midday sun, offering scant psychological relief but costing me precious energy. A subtle nudge to a scout's senses, guiding him towards a hidden seep of brackish water that might otherwise have been missed. A 'whisper' of calming influence directed at the increasingly agitated baby dragons, whose screeches frayed already raw nerves.
Drogon, the black beast perched often on Daenerys's shoulder, regarded me with intelligent, molten-gold eyes. He seemed to sense the power within me, however diminished, and hissed whenever I came too near his mother. Acknowledging a rival, perhaps? The thought amused Loki.
Daenerys herself was a 'razor-sharp' study in contrast. Physically, the journey was taking its toll. She was thinner, her skin burned despite the Dothraki attempts to shield her, her lips cracked. Yet, her spirit remained 'Unburnt.' She pushed onward relentlessly, her lilac eyes scanning the horizon, her back straight even when swaying with fatigue. She learned the Dothraki tongue with 'frantic' speed, her commands growing surer, her presence more regal despite the rags she wore. She was shedding the frightened girl sold to Drogo and becoming the queen she was born to be.
Jorah Mormont remained her shadow, his loyalty absolute, his counsel freely given. He watched me with the unwavering suspicion of a guard dog. He saw my 'tricks,' knew they weren't natural, but couldn't deny their usefulness. We maintained a wary truce, bound by our shared duty to protect her.
The Dothraki were another matter. Fear warred with resentment. I was 'rakh,' a demon, an outsider. My power was unnatural. Yet, the water I sometimes found, the shade I sometimes conjured, kept whispers of mutiny at bay. For now. Qotho, nursing his bruised chest and pride, glared daggers at my back whenever he thought I wasn't looking. Loki made sure I always was looking.
One 'fading' evening, after a particularly brutal day where we lost two more horses, we stumbled upon a 'miracle' – or what passed for one in this hellscape. A cluster of stunted trees huddled around a small, muddy pool fed by a trickle of water seeping from rock. It wasn't clean, but it was water.
A collective sigh of relief went through the camp. While the Dothraki saw to the remaining horses and rationed the precious liquid, Daenerys gave quiet orders to her handmaidens, Irri and Doreah. A small tent was erected near the pool, shielded by blankets for privacy. Water was heated over a carefully guarded fire.
A bath. A luxury so profound in this wasteland it felt almost obscene.
I stood guard outside the makeshift enclosure, leaning against one of the pathetic trees, ostensibly watching the perimeter. David felt awkward, intrusive. Loki felt the 'delicious' irony – the god reduced to a sentry while a mortal queen bathed. My senses, sharper now, even with diminished magic, picked up the 'soft' sounds from within – the splash of water, the low murmur of the handmaidens' voices, Daenerys's occasional sigh.
Steam curled over the top of the blankets, carrying the faint, 'incredible' scent of some dried herb Irri must have hoarded – lavender, perhaps? A 'chemical reaction' stirred within me, a blend of David's simple appreciation for a pleasant smell after weeks of dust and sweat, and Loki's more complex response to the idea of her vulnerability, so close, just beyond that thin barrier.
I could picture it without needing to see. The 'burning' heat easing the 'ache' from her muscles. The 'slow movement' of a cloth, washing away the layers of grime. The contrast – the pale queen against the muddy water, the fragile moment of peace against the brutal world outside. It wasn't lust, not exactly. David felt a protective urge. Loki felt a possessive one. She was his path to power, his project, his queen-in-the-making. Her vulnerability was a facet of her strength, a reminder of what she had endured and overcome.
A louder splash, followed by a soft gasp from within. My head snapped up, hand instinctively tightening, ready to unleash what little magic I had.
"Khaleesi?" Jorah's concerned voice came from the other side of the tent. He too stood guard.
"I am well, Jorah," Daenerys's voice replied, slightly breathless but firm. "Just… tired."
The sounds resumed, softer now. The moment passed. But the 'tension' remained, a 'pounding' awareness of her proximity, of the strange intimacy forged in shared hardship and secret power. This pact we'd made wasn't just political. It was becoming something far more complicated.
Later, as twilight painted the sky in 'bruised purple' and orange, she emerged. She was wrapped in clean, rough-spun cloth, her damp, fuzz-short silver hair clinging to her scalp. The bath hadn't erased her weariness, but it had restored a measure of her queenly poise. Her skin seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. She looked directly at me, her lilac eyes holding a new depth.
"Loki," she said, using the name I had given them – simpler than explaining 'David-infused-with-Loki.' "Walk with me."
We moved a short distance from the camp, Jorah trailing discreetly behind. The baby dragons, sensing their mother, stirred in the basket Doreah carried.
"The Dothraki grow restless," she said, her voice low. "They follow me out of fear and awe, but they are horse lords. This desert eats their souls. They whisper that I lead them to their deaths."
"Fear and awe are powerful tools, Khaleesi," I replied, falling into Loki's advisory role. "But they curdle without purpose. They need to see a destination, a victory."
"And where is that?" she asked, stopping to look at me, her eyes searching mine. "Qarth? Asshai? Or the lands across the Narrow Sea?"
"Wherever your enemies are weakest, and your potential allies strongest," I said. "And wherever these," I nodded towards the dragons, "can grow."
She sighed, rubbing her temples. The gesture reminded me painfully of God. "They demand so much. Food. Warmth. They are fire made flesh, but still so fragile."
"Like their mother," I murmured, the words slipping out before Loki's calculation could stop them.
She stiffened, her eyes flashing. For a second, I thought I'd angered her. But then, a flicker of something else crossed her face – surprise, perhaps even a reluctant acknowledgment.
"Perhaps," she conceded softly. "But I survived the fire. We will survive this." She looked back towards the camp. "Qotho stirs the others against you. He calls you 'unnatural,' a drain on my spirit."
"He's not wrong about the unnatural part," I admitted with a wry smile. "But a drain? Quite the opposite, I assure you." I let a 'tiny spark' of Seidr dance between my fingers, a brief flash of green in the gathering dark. "I am your advantage. Your hidden blade."
Her gaze followed the spark, fascination warring with caution. "Show me more."
"My power returns slowly, Khaleesi. Using it carelessly now would leave us both vulnerable." Which was mostly true. David hated lying, but Loki knew the value of mystique. "But trust that when the time comes, I will be… effective."
She held my gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching. David felt the need to fill it, to explain. Loki held his tongue. Let her decide.
"Jorah tells me of the cities to the east," she said finally, turning back towards the camp. "Qarth, the greatest city that ever was or will be. They may have ships. They may have aid."
"They may also have treachery," I countered. "Great cities attract great dangers. Warlocks, shadow-binders..." Loki's knowledge surfaced. "... merchants whose greed outweighs their honor."
"And the Red Waste offers only death," she replied firmly. "We move east. Towards Qarth. You will help me navigate the dangers you foresee." It wasn't a request.
As we walked back, the 'cool night' air a welcome change from the 'burning' day, I felt the 'shift.' She wasn't just accepting my help; she was relying on it. The balance was tilting. David felt a pang of responsibility. Loki felt a thrill of control.
The pact was deepening. Ash and oasis, fire and frost, god and queen. Our strange, dangerous dance had truly begun.
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