Chapter 5: The Reluctant Consort
The Grass Sea shimmered under a midday sun, its relentless heat pressing down like a physical weight, flattening the air into a stifling haze that clung to Dean Winchester's skin. He sprawled by a low, smoky fire, the embers crackling faintly, his stolen leathers crusted with a mosaic of dust and drying blood that flaked off with every shift.
He didn't move a muscle, conserving his energy, but the sting of a whip's lash—the memory of it, a ghost pain—sang along the muscles of his shoulder blade, a sharp echo that made him wince. The khalasar murmured around him, a living entity of sighs and coughs, each sound laced with the grim, rising legend of "Vezh Maffe," the Great Stallion a title that to Dean simply meant he was doing his job. The ground beneath him was hard, littered with small pebbles that dug into his back.
Blue runes glowed coldly in his vision, their light unconcerned and clinical, tracking his stats with an indifference that irked him. System doesn't care my shoulder feels flayed. Just wants the numbers. He'd married Daenerys for the laziest future imaginable—securing her throne, retiring to a Westerosi balcony with a glass of wine while someone else saved the world. But her silver-gold hair, catching the harsh sunlight across the camp as she spoke to a group of warriors, pulled at him with a gravitational force he resented.
Her eyes, cautious and wide, stirred something deeper than strategy, a warmth he didn't want to acknowledge. Swear to God, Winchester. You came here to retire. Not to adopt the world's most complicated princess. He cursed himself, the bitter taste of salt and regret coating his tongue.
The leather creaked as he shifted, the whip's ghost pain flaring briefly, a reminder of the attack. The lash had bitten deep, a fiery snake wrapping around his ribs and snapping the air from his lungs with agonizing fire, the pain sharp and over too fast to strategize. Death's no terror now—just a cold plunge. The System's blue geometry flared in his vision, bright and mocking.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI WARRIOR #11. REWARD: +1 AGILITY.]
He respawned a breath later, the sting gone, the warrior frozen in a moment of triumph, his arakh still raised. Dean moved with a lighter, faster economy he hadn't possessed moments ago, his stolen arakh twisting in a gruesome arc that sent blood splattering across the dry earth. The fight ended, and he let his head loll back onto the saddle he used as a pillow, his hand instinctively resting on the dull, heavy dagger at his hip. He didn't open his eyes, letting the silence settle around him.
"Work's done," he muttered, the words dry and scratchy, meant only for the dust and the ants scurrying nearby.
The Dothraki who had witnessed the fight, a fresh Ko with twenty-odd men, shuffled back another few paces, their boots scuffing the ground, the sight of the Vezh Maffe—sprawled like a tired child—more terrifying than any charge they'd faced. The air grew thick with their unease, the scent of sweat and fear mingling with the smoke.
Daenerys Targaryen watched from the edge of the camp, overseeing the preparation of the communal fire pit, her hands trembling as she adjusted a pile of kindling. Her heart had performed a sickening, quick clench when the whip wrapped around Dean, a sudden, primal terror for a man she barely knew but who had killed the Khal who owned her and stayed when he could have ridden away. He terrifies me—his power, his fearlessness—but it tastes like safety. She felt the tremor of the moment, the way the warrior had boasted, his voice a harsh bark, and the way Dean had vanished in a flash of blue light, reappearing with eyes hard and empty before the kill.
She turned to a Ko, her silver braids catching the harsh sunlight, the strands glinting like molten metal, her voice a little stronger than it had been a moon ago.
"The wind breaks the dust here. Move the silks closer to the wagons, or they will be ruined before sundown."
The Ko nodded, his broad face set in a grim line, immediately obeying. His obedience was less to her and more to the quiet man lying by the fire, Dean's shadow of violence empowering her without a word. She watched him now, a deep furrow creasing her brow as she traced a pattern in the dust with her foot. He should have ridden. He should have taken the gold. Why does he endure the shame and the blood for me? Her fear of him was softening, morphing into a complex, hesitant curiosity that tugged at her thoughts.
Dean sat up, stretching his arms, the new Agility an invisible tension humming in his limbs, a subtle vibration that felt like a second heartbeat. He caught sight of her supervising the camp and made his move, a low-effort piece of Americana charm he knew she wouldn't understand. He ambled over, kicking a pebble in the dust, the small stone skittering across the ground, and offered a genuine smirk, the kind that creased the corners of his eyes and made his long, hunter's face look younger.
"Looking queenly, Your Grace. Need a break from the horse parade?"
Daenerys stiffened, her posture going instantly rigid, the trauma of Viserys's forced familiarity flashing in her violet eyes like a storm. She hadn't earned that ease, and it felt like an invasion, even if his tone was gentle.
"I am not yours to jest with," she said softly, the words crystalline and rejecting him cleanly, her hands clenching at her sides.
He didn't push. He hadn't expected to. He simply held up his hands, the gesture a clear, respectful retreat, his fingers brushing the air as if to erase the moment.
"Fair enough. I'll be by the fire. Shout if the next guy who tries to kill me needs to fill out paperwork first."
He walked away, the dust swirling around his boots, feeling a sudden, mocking pop-up flare in his vision where the heat of his cheek should be.
[SYSTEM: SHOT DOWN? OUCH. SUGGEST: LEAD WITH PIE NEXT TIME. OH, WAIT. NO PIE. SUBTLETY, WINCHESTER. SUBTLETY.]
Dean settled back onto his saddle, the khalasar's whispers fading to a dull, fading drone, the sound a distant hum against the crackling fire. The System's runes glowed brighter than before, confirming his agility was sharper, his body adapting to the speed it had purchased with his life, the leather creaking as he shifted. But Dany's rejection—that soft, firm denial—stung more than the phantom pain of the whip had, a sharp ache that settled in his chest.
He risked a glance, her silver hair shining like a beacon as she commanded the camp, directing the Kos with her eyes alone, a queen emerging from the terrified girl she'd been.
"Patience, Winchester," he muttered into the dust, pushing his anxiety down with a slow breath, his fingers tracing a nonexistent wrinkle in his leathers. "She'll come around."
The grind continued, each death a step toward the retirement fund he'd promised himself—or, worse, a deeper, undeniable bond with the silver-haired princess he had sworn to protect.
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