For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The Red Waste did not relent. It was a canvas painted in shades of 'burning' ochre and 'fading' rust, stretched under a sky that offered no mercy. Each dawn felt less like a beginning and more like a continuation of the previous day's 'abrasive scrape' against survival. Water was worth more than gold, food was scarce, and the silence of the vast emptiness was broken only by the 'pounding' wind, the mournful cries of dying horses, and the increasingly strained whispers of the Dothraki.
David felt the attrition in his bones, a weariness that seeped deeper than mere physical exhaustion. Loki, however, found a perverse clarity in the struggle. Survival stripped away pretense. Here, power wasn't about thrones or armies, not yet. It was about enduring the next step, finding the next sip of water, maintaining the fragile thread of hope in those who followed.
My Seidr remained a frustrating trickle, responding sluggishly to my will. Grand displays were impossible, but subtlety became my art. One 'scorching' afternoon, as the sun reached its zenith and despair hung heavy in the air, I focused, drawing on Loki's memory of frost magic – not to create ice, which would be impossible here, but to manipulate perception. I wove a thin illusion around our immediate vicinity, a 'shimmering' veil that suggested a cooler temperature, a slight 'dampness' in the air. It was pure suggestion, costing me dearly, leaving my head 'pounding,' but the effect on morale was palpable. Shoulders slumped less, groans quieted for a precious hour. A psychological oasis, if not a physical one. Daenerys shot me a quick, questioning glance, her lilac eyes sharp, but said nothing. She understood the value of even imagined relief.
The dragons were growing, slowly. They mirrored their mother's resilience, enduring the harsh conditions with a primal stoicism. Drogon remained possessive, hissing whenever I came near Daenerys, while Viserion and Rhaegal were more curious, their jewel-like eyes tracking my movements. I made a point of never showing fear, meeting their gaze with Loki's cool confidence. They were fire made flesh, yes, but I was chaos and magic. We understood each other, on some level.
The Dothraki, however, were becoming a more immediate problem. Their fear of me had curdled into resentment, fanned by Qotho's simmering hatred. He hadn't forgotten his humiliation. He saw me as a bad omen, a 'demon' leeching the Khaleesi's strength, leading them deeper into this godsforsaken land.
The breaking point came over the water skins. Rakharo, one of the few Dothraki who seemed loyal to Daenerys rather than just afraid, was overseeing the meager distribution. Qotho shoved his way forward, demanding more for himself and the few warriors who still clung to him.
"The Khaleesi rations it fairly!" Rakharo insisted, blocking Qotho's path.
"The Khaleesi listens to the rakh," Qotho spat, his eyes finding me where I stood observing near Daenerys's small tent. "He poisons her mind, leads us on this fool's journey. We die while her pet demon plays tricks!"
Several other Dothraki murmured agreement, their faces grim. Mutiny felt a 'heartbeat' away.
Before Jorah could step in, I moved. Not with magic, but with speed and Loki's innate understanding of leverage. I flowed through the small crowd, appearing beside Qotho as if conjured from the heat haze itself.
"Are you questioning the Khaleesi's wisdom, warrior?" My voice was 'soft,' barely a 'whisper,' yet it cut through the tension like Valyrian steel. I didn't raise my voice; I didn't need to. Loki's presence, even weakened, carried an unnerving weight.
Qotho flinched, startled by my sudden proximity. He turned, hand instinctively going to his arakh. "I question following a woman bewitched by a-"
I didn't let him finish. I leaned in closer, invading his space, my eyes locking onto his. "A 'demon'?" I finished for him, letting a hint of green 'flicker' deep within my irises. "Perhaps. But this demon found the last hidden seep that kept your throat from cracking. This demon eased the sun's bite when your horses were collapsing. This demon sees the path forward when all you see is dust."
My voice dropped lower, audible only to him and those immediately surrounding us. "Your Khal is dead. Your Khalasar bleeds away into the sand. Your strength means nothing here. Only her will," I nodded subtly towards Daenerys, who was now watching intently, "and my 'talents' stand between you and becoming bleached bones under this sun. Question her again, and you will find the Red Waste far less forgiving than I am."
I didn't threaten him physically. I didn't need to. The implication, combined with the memory of my effortless takedown and the unnatural glint in my eyes, was enough. Qotho's hand dropped from his weapon, his face paling under his tan. He couldn't meet my gaze. He felt the 'cold' touch of something ancient and dangerous, something far worse than a simple swordsman.
Daenerys chose that moment to step forward, her voice ringing out, clear and strong despite her fatigue. "Qotho! You swore loyalty to Khal Drogo. Now you swear it to me, his Khaleesi, and mother of his son yet to be born in spirit. My path is the Khalasar's path. Loki speaks with my voice. Defy him, and you defy me."
It was a masterful stroke. She linked me to her authority, reminded them of Drogo, invoked the lost child, and asserted her command all in one breath. The murmuring stopped. Qotho, shamed and outmaneuvered, bowed his head stiffly and retreated into the crowd. The challenge was broken, for now.
Later that night, the air finally cooling, Daenerys sought me out. We sat by the low embers of the central fire, the dragons nestled in a basket nearby, Jorah standing sentinel just out of earshot. The vast, starry sky felt alien and immense above us.
"You handled Qotho well," she said, tracing patterns in the dust with a twig. "Without shedding blood."
"Blood attracts scavengers, Khaleesi," I replied, watching the 'fading' glow of the embers. "Better to use words. They cut deeper sometimes, and leave fewer messes."
She looked at me, her lilac eyes luminous in the firelight. "You speak like a man who has fought many battles with words."
"And other weapons," I admitted vaguely. "My home... Asgard... had its share of conflicts. Political and otherwise." Loki's fabricated past served well enough.
"Tell me of Asgard," she prompted, her voice soft, curious. The 'intimacy' of the quiet night, the shared fire, felt potent.
I offered a self-deprecating smile. "A realm of gods and magic, Khaleesi. Far removed from this world. A place of 'shining' cities and... complicated families." I kept it brief, mysterious. Let her 'imagination' fill the gaps.
She was quiet for a moment, absorbing that. "Gods," she murmured. "Are you truly a god, Loki?"
David wanted to blurt out the truth – college kid, truck, angry deity. Loki held him back. "I am... more than mortal," I allowed. "My power is diminished here, cut off from its source. But it returns, slowly."
She reached out, her fingers hesitating just above my arm where the leather was torn from my landing. Her touch was feather-light, barely there, but it sent an 'electric jolt,' a 'tremor,' through me. David's breath caught. Loki analyzed the gesture – curiosity? Comfort? A test?
"You bleed," she observed quietly. An 'abrasive scrape' from a fall earlier in the day had reopened slightly.
"Even gods can stumble, Khaleesi. Especially when thrown into worlds not their own."
Her fingers brushed the small wound, then withdrew. "We are both exiles, then. Thrown into a world that does not want us."
The parallel hung between us. Her, the last Targaryen, hunted and adrift. Me, the 'variant,' pruned and displaced. Both of us clinging to impossible power – her dragons, my fading magic.
"Perhaps," I conceded, my voice softer than I intended. David felt a pang of unexpected empathy. Loki saw the strategic advantage in shared vulnerability. "But exiles can forge their own kingdoms, Daenerys." Using her given name felt significant, a shift in our dynamic.
She didn't correct me. She simply watched the fire, her expression thoughtful. "Jorah speaks of prophecies," she said after a while. "Of Azor Ahai reborn amidst salt and smoke. Of dragons returning." She looked at me again. "The Dothraki fear you as a demon. But perhaps... perhaps you are something else. Perhaps you were sent."
"Perhaps I chose to come," I countered gently, planting a seed of agency. "Perhaps I saw a queen worthy of a god's attention." Loki's silver tongue at work.
A faint blush touched her cheeks, visible even in the firelight. David felt a 'foolish' surge of something warm. Loki filed away the reaction – she responded to flattery, to the idea of destiny, of being chosen. Useful.
"We need to reach Qarth," she said, abruptly returning to practical matters, perhaps unsettled by the turn in conversation. "Soon. Our supplies are almost gone."
"East," I agreed, nodding. "We continue east. I sense… a change in the air. Water, perhaps. Or civilization." It wasn't a lie. My senses, attuned to the flows of magic and life, felt a faint 'pull' in that direction, a concentration of something other than barren rock.
We sat in silence for a while longer, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the soft chirps of the sleeping dragons. The 'shared vulnerability,' the spoken and unspoken reliance, felt more tangible than any chain. She needed my power, my cunning. I needed her ambition, her dragons, her destiny as a path back to relevance, perhaps even back home.
As I watched her profile outlined against the dying fire, her face set with determination despite the hardships, a 'strange chemical reaction' occurred within me. David's nascent protectiveness tangled with Loki's cold calculation. She was beautiful, yes. But more than that, she was a force of nature, tempered in fire, holding the key to reshaping this entire world. And I, the God of Mischief, found myself inexplicably bound to her journey. The game was afoot, and the stakes were higher than any throne. They were existential.