Chapter 3: The Ghost Stallion Rises
The stars burned cold above Vaes Dothrak, their light glinting off blood-slicked blades scattered across churned earth, a graveyard of steel under the night sky. Dean Winchester stood alone, leathers stained with dust and the phantom residue of his own blood, the fabric stiff and heavy against his skin.
His body hummed with newfound strength, muscles coiled like tightened springs, the energy clashing with a hollow exhaustion that gnawed at his bones. The air carried the faint tang of sweat and ash, the embers of the fire pit casting long shadows that danced with the khalasar's fear. His eyes flicked to Daenerys, her silver hair a beacon in the dwindling light, her face a mask of terror and fragile hope. Time to end this circus.
Khal Drogo dismounted, the thud of his bare feet on the packed dirt a heavy decree that reverberated through Dean's chest, the sound a drumbeat of doom. His arakh gleamed with deadly intent, braid swaying with each slow step, medallions clinking softly like a death knell. The crowd's silence weighed heavy, a blanket of dread that pressed against his ears, the heat from the embers warming his back. He cracked his knuckles, the gesture a defiance born of pure adrenaline, the pop echoing in the stillness. "Alright, big guy, let's dance," he taunted, forcing his hands into a loose, ready position. Gotta die again. Alpha bonus worth it.
Drogo charged, a blur of muscle and braid, the arakh arcing low and wide with terrifying speed that made Dean's heart skip. His newly boosted Agility guided a fractional twitch, a dancer's grace, but he held back, letting the blade connect—a warhammer's crush that shattered his breath and drove him into the dust. Vision darkened, the world narrowing to a pinpoint.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: KHAL DROGO. RACIAL ALPHA. REWARD: +2 STRENGTH, +1 AGILITY, SKILL: ARAKH MASTERY (5/100).]
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST DIED. BIG GUY'S GOT MOVES. MORE POINTS FOR THE RETIREMENT FUND!]
He respawned, staggering, vertigo washing over him like a tidal wave, the ground tilting under his feet. Before he could clear his head, Drogo's hand clamped his throat, lifting him off the ground with a grip like iron. Windpipe crushed, helpless agony seared through him, vision fading to black, the pressure a vise around his neck. No way out.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: KHAL DROGO. REWARD: +2 STAMINA, +1 STRENGTH.]
He hit the ground, feet firm, spitting dust and a bitter laugh that tasted of victory, the impact jarring his teeth. Stats soared, muscles like steel cables under his leathers, movements fluid and precise. Game on, musclehead. The phantom ache of his crushed throat was replaced by a new strength, his neck unbowed, the rush of power a heady drug.
Drogo charged again, fury personified, arakh sweeping low with a whistle. Dean danced with it, pivoted inside the arc with a grace he didn't know he had, grabbed the wrist with a twist that sent a jolt up his arm. The weapon clattered to the dirt, a shameful note in the silence, dust rising in a cloud. Disarmed, Drogo lunged for a chokehold, a move of instinctual power.
Dean ducked, spun behind with a hunter's precision, arm wrapping the neck—a brutal snap that cracked like thunder. Drogo's eyes widened, surprise frozen, and he collapsed into the dust, a heavy, lifeless mass.
[SYSTEM ALERT: KHAL DOWN. NAP TIME?]
Silence reigned, thick and oppressive. Then the khalasar's knees hit dirt, a thunderous wave that shook the ground, dust swirling around Drogo's fallen body like a shroud. Khal down. Legend made. A memory flickered—hunting with Sam, the quiet pride of a clean kill, the scent of pine and gun oil, now twisted into this surreal victory that left a bitter taste.
Dean walked through the kneeling horde, boots crunching with each step, blood-streaked and panting, lungs burning with every breath. He stopped before Daenerys, clapped hands with a sharp sound that cut the silence. "Right, he's dead. I'm in charge now, which includes you."
Viserys shrieked, a high-pitched wail, rushing forward with wild eyes. "I'm the true king! The Dragon! I am Viserys! You are nothing!"
Annoying.
Dean stepped forward, grabbed Viserys by the neck with a grip that made his fingers ache, and snapped it with a cold economy, dropping the body into the dust with a dull thud. The khalasar didn't flinch. He turned to Dany, the taste of dust thick on his tongue. "I'm Dean," he said, voice raw. "Marrying you to legitimize this mess. You rule. I kill. When the cold ones come, you handle the big picture. I take a long nap. Deal?"
Dany nodded, a tiny, trembling movement, her bells jingling softly. She's mine. Kingdom secured. Retirement fund's happy. He muttered, the words a private vow, "Wedding planner's my new side gig. Here's to bad decisions."
He turned to the khalasar, legs wobbling slightly, the weight of his actions settling into his bones. Later, he sat by the embers, traced a finger through ash that smeared his skin, the warmth seeping into his chilled hands. A Dothraki child approached, offering a carved horse with small, eager hands, eyes bright with wonder. He took it, smiled faintly, the wood rough against his calluses. Reminds me of trading trinkets with kids back home. Simpler days.
[Dean Winchester]
[Attributes]
Strength: 17/100
Agility: 14/100
Stamina: 14/100
Magic: 0/100
[Warning: None.]
[Abilities]
Arakh Mastery Lv. 1 (5/100)
[Inventory] None
[Achievements] First Respawn (x8) | Alpha Kill (x1)
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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