For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The change Loki had sensed wasn't water, not immediately. It was a subtle shift in the 'pounding' monotony of the Waste. The horizon, once an endless, 'abrasive scrape' of cracked earth meeting bleached sky, began to shimmer with something different. Not heat haze, but distance. Structure.
Hope, fragile as a dragon's wing, flickered anew in the khalasar. Even the Dothraki, weary and cynical, straightened slightly on their remaining horses, their eyes scanning the east with a 'desperate craving' for an end to this torment.
Daenerys pushed them harder now, driven by a renewed urgency. She seemed to draw strength from the faint promise on the horizon, her commands sharper, her presence more commanding. She spent hours with her dragons, murmuring to them in Valyrian, her voice a 'soft' counterpoint to the 'harsh' wind. Drogon was growing bolder, occasionally launching himself from her shoulder to circle overhead, a 'frantic movement' of black scales against the pale sky before returning. Viserion and Rhaegal remained closer, their heat a comfort against the 'chilling' nights.
My own strength was returning, albeit slowly. The Seidr felt less like a 'fading ember' and more like a 'smoldering coal,' capable of brief flares. I continued my subtle manipulations – illusions to ward off the worst of the sun, nudges to guide the scouts, a 'whisper' of suggestion to keep Qotho and his dissenters simmering rather than boiling over. David felt the constant drain, the 'pounding' exhaustion behind his eyes. Loki relished the challenge, honing his diminished power like a blade, finding precision where brute force failed.
The landscape began to change almost imperceptibly. Dust gave way to patches of coarse, yellowed grass. Strange, skeletal trees twisted towards the sky. And then, we saw them. Bones.
Bleached white skeletons lay scattered across the plains – horses, camels, men. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, marking a path eastward. A gruesome testament to those who had tried and failed to cross the Waste before us. The Dothraki grew uneasy, muttering of curses and ancient evils.
"The Garden of Bones," Jorah Mormont said grimly, his eyes scanning the grim tableau. "Only the desperate or the damned attempt the eastern passage from here. Qarth lies beyond, but the price is often too high."
Daenerys rode forward, her face pale but set. She surveyed the skeletal remains without flinching. "We are desperate, Ser Jorah," she stated, her voice carrying over the wind. "And perhaps we are damned. But we go forward. We do not have the luxury of turning back."
Her resolve was a 'sledgehammer' against the rising fear. Even Qotho looked at her with a grudging respect. This slip of a girl, this foreign Khaleesi, had more iron in her than many warriors he had known.
That night, the mood in the camp was somber. The sight of the bones had shaken everyone. Daenerys moved among her people, offering quiet words of encouragement, sharing what little food remained. She was learning the Dothraki ways – leadership through strength, yes, but also through shared hardship.
I watched her from the edge of the firelight, nursing a cup of gritty water. My gaze lingered on the curve of her back, the determined set of her jaw. David felt a 'foolish' admiration, an 'ache' of protectiveness. Loki saw the performance, the necessary mask of a queen solidifying her rule. Yet, even he had to admit, the performance was becoming the reality.
She finished her rounds and approached me, sinking wearily onto the ground beside the fire. The dragons chirped softly from their basket nearby.
"They fear the bones," she said quietly, not looking at me. "They fear the spirits of those who died here."
"Fear is a tool, Khaleesi, like any other," I replied, echoing her earlier sentiment. "Direct it. Remind them why they endure this. Remind them of the cities, the wealth, the vengeance that lies beyond."
"Vengeance," she murmured, her eyes distant. "For my brother. For my husband. For my son." She looked at me then, her lilac gaze piercing. "And what do you seek beyond this waste, Loki?"
The question caught David off guard. Home? Power? Just… not being dead? Loki smoothly took over. "Opportunity, Daenerys. A world ripe for... change. And a queen who isn't afraid to burn the old one down to make way for the new."
A small, knowing smile touched her lips. "You speak of burning. Fitting, for a man who appeared from ashes."
"I merely appreciate dramatic entrances," I countered, the corner of my own mouth twitching. The 'shared intimacy' of these late-night conversations felt potent, a world away from the Dothraki and the dying horses. Here, under the alien stars, we were simply two exiles, plotting the fate of a world.
Her gaze drifted to my hand, where I was idly tracing patterns in the dust. "Your magic," she said softly. "The illusions. The... push you gave Qotho. Is that all you can do?" There was no challenge in her voice, only genuine curiosity.
"For now," I admitted, frustration tightening my chest. "This world... resists me. My connection to the source is frayed. But it mends." I let a 'tiny spark' of Seidr manifest, a brighter green this time, holding it steady for a few seconds before letting it fade. "What you see is but a shadow of what I am."
Her eyes widened slightly, fascinated. David felt a flicker of pride. Loki felt the satisfying hook of mystique taking hold.
"Can you... can you fight with it?" she asked, leaning slightly closer. The scent of woodsmoke and something uniquely her – a faint, 'incredible' sweetness beneath the grime – reached me. David's heart gave a 'stupid little jump.'
"I can unmake armies, Khaleesi," I said, the boast pure Loki, fueled by memory rather than current ability. "I can shatter castles, command storms, walk unseen. When my strength returns fully... there will be few in this world who can stand against us." Us. The word slipped out naturally.
She absorbed this, her expression thoughtful. "Jorah speaks of the warlocks of Qarth. He says their power is subtle, insidious. Illusions and whispers."
"Illusions?" A genuine, sharp smile spread across my face. "My dear Khaleesi, compared to me, their tricks are mere parlour games. Child's play." Confidence, even when not entirely earned, was essential.
Her answering smile was brief but dazzling. "I hope you are right." She rose gracefully. "Rest, Loki. Tomorrow, we may finally see the walls of Qarth."
As she walked away, her silhouette framed against the starry sky, I felt that 'strange chemical reaction' again – David's awe mixed with Loki's possessive calculation. She was placing her trust, her future, in my hands, based on little more than a demonstration against a brute and a few conjured tricks. It was a 'dangerous gamble' for her, and an 'intoxicating opportunity' for me.
The next day, the horizon solidified. Towers appeared, impossibly tall and slender, piercing the sky. Walls, vast and impenetrable, stretched across the plains. Qarth.
A collective gasp went through the khalasar. They had made it. They had crossed the Garden of Bones and reached the legendary city. Relief washed over them, so potent it was almost palpable.
But as we drew closer, the reality became clearer. The gates were shut fast. And surrounding the city walls was a scene even more desolate than the desert we had crossed. More bones. Thousands upon thousands, arranged in patterns, embedded in the very earth. This wasn't just a graveyard; it was a warning.
The great bronze gates of Qarth remained sealed. No welcome party emerged. Only silence, and the 'pounding' sun reflecting off the ancient walls.
Daenerys rode forward, Jorah and Rakharo beside her. I stayed slightly back, observing, my hand resting near where Loki's daggers would normally be – a habit I couldn't shake, even though I currently possessed no such weapons.
From the walls above, figures appeared. Men in elaborate robes and strange, tall hats. The Thirteen, the ruling council of Qarth.
One stepped forward, his voice amplified by the unnatural stillness. "Who are you who comes unbidden to the gates of Qarth?"
Daenerys sat tall on her silver mare, the dragons stirring in their baskets slung across her horse. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," she called back, her voice clear and strong, echoing against the walls. "The blood of Old Valyria. Mother of Dragons. And I claim sanctuary and succor within the greatest city that ever was or will be."
There was a long pause. The figures on the wall conferred. David felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. Loki assessed their postures, their expressions – arrogance, disdain, curiosity.
The spokesman called down again. "Qarth keeps its gates locked against beggars and savages, Khaleesi. Your Dothraki are not welcome." His eyes then fell on me, lingering on my unfamiliar armor. "Nor are strange sorcerers."
Daenerys bristled. "We are no beggars! I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"The Seven Kingdoms are far away," the man replied dismissively. "And queens without armies are merely women with titles. Qarth has no need of either."
He was about to turn away. Despair threatened to engulf the small band behind us. We had come so far, only to be turned away at the threshold.
"Wait," I called out, my voice smooth and carrying, infused with just a touch of Seidr to command attention.
All eyes, on the wall and on the ground, turned to me. Daenerys shot me a sharp, questioning look.
I urged my horse forward, stopping beside her. I looked up at the Thirteen, my expression calm, almost bored. "You are wise to guard your gates, esteemed sirs," I began, my tone laced with just enough mockery to prick their pride. "The world outside is full of dangers. Petty lords, squabbling tribes..." My gaze flickered pointedly towards the Dothraki, then back to the walls. "...and bones."
I paused, letting the silence stretch. "But perhaps," I continued, my voice dropping slightly, becoming more intimate, conspiratorial, "you mistake the nature of the danger you face."
I gestured towards Daenerys, not with reverence, but as if presenting a rare artifact. "You see a queen without an army. I see the Mother of Dragons. Living dragons, gentlemen. The first seen in this world for over a century. Fire made flesh. Power incarnate."
My eyes met the spokesman's. "And you see a 'strange sorcerer.' Perhaps." I let that green light 'flicker' in my eyes again, more strongly this time. "Or perhaps you see a power that could shatter these impressive gates with less than a thought. A power that finds your locks... quaint."
It was a bluff, a massive one. My Seidr was nowhere near strong enough to challenge Qarth's walls. But they didn't know that. They saw the dragons. They saw the 'unnatural' glint in my eyes. They felt the 'sudden chill' that Loki's subtle magic cast over the immediate vicinity. Doubt flickered across the spokesman's face.
"Are you threatening the Thirteen?" he demanded, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.
"Threatening?" I chuckled softly. "Merely offering... perspective. Dragons have returned to the world. Magic stirs. The old order 'crumbles.' Qarth can either welcome the dawn or be consumed by it." I leaned towards Daenerys, whispering loud enough for those on the wall to potentially hear, "Shall I demonstrate, my Queen? A small tremor, perhaps? Just to rattle their teacups?"
Daenerys played her part perfectly, placing a restraining hand on my arm, her expression a mask of regal consideration. "Patience, Loki. Let us see if Qarth chooses wisdom over arrogance."
The Thirteen exchanged uneasy glances. They were merchants, politicians, not warriors or mages accustomed to overt displays of power. Doubt, fear, and greed warred within them. Dragons were wealth. Dragons were power. But this strange sorcerer... he was an unknown variable. A dangerous one.
The spokesman finally spoke, his voice strained. "One of you may enter. To plead your case before the Thirteen. The Spice King, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, vouches for the Targaryen name. He will grant one of you entry."
One. Not the khalasar. Not even her knight. Just one.
All eyes turned to Daenerys. It was her decision. Her gamble.