Chapter 2: The Slaughter Dance
Twilight cloaked Vaes Dothrak in a bruised canopy of purple and black, streaks of daylight clinging to the horizon like fading bruises, the air heavy with the promise of night. The great fire pit roared, flames crackling with a ravenous edge, spitting embers that stung Dean Winchester's face and filled his nostrils with the scent of charred meat and smoke. He leaned against a tent pole, the stiff leather chafing the phantom wound on his neck, a ghost of pain that refused to fade completely.
The coppery taste of blood lingered on his tongue, a cruel phantom from his earlier deaths, and his muscles ached with a dull burn that seeped into his bones. Blue runes flickered at the edge of his vision, tallying his growing power with a mocking hum that grated on his nerves. Time to rack up points. Lazy means efficient. Efficient means dead a lot right now.
He pushed off the pole, striding into the fray with a predator's focus, the ground uneven under his boots, dust puffing with each step. The khalasar's shouts had died, replaced by hesitant shuffles of feet, the churned earth releasing a faint scent of horse dung and roasted meat that turned his stomach. His thighs burned from earlier falls, a persistent ache that made him wince, but he pressed on, driven by a hunter's instinct honed over years. Better play this smart. Or die again. The heat from the fire pit warmed his face, a stark contrast to the chill of his resolve, and he wiped sweat from his brow with a shaky hand.
He spotted four Dothraki warriors, their bronze skin glistening with sweat under the firelight, faces a mix of awe and unease that sent a shiver down his spine. One, a stocky man with a spear, looked away first, shame flickering in his dark eyes, his grip tightening on the weapon until his knuckles whitened. Dean grinned, white teeth flashing against the flickering flames. "What's the matter, tough guy? Didn't you hear? Retirement fund's growing."
He lunged, deliberately clumsy, a rookie's mistake engineered to provoke, his movements slow and exaggerated. The stocky warrior thrust his spear, steel piercing Dean's chest—a clinical burst of pain that deflated his lungs like a punctured tire, the shock stealing his breath. The world collapsed, snapped back in a jolt that left him dizzy. He respawned ten paces away, spitting the bitter taste from his lips, shirt unmarked, the phantom ache a hollow echo in his chest. His hand rubbed his neck, the nervous tic flaring hard.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI SPEARMAN #4. REWARD: +1 AGILITY.]
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST DIED. DEATH #5: RETIREMENT FUND'S GROWING.]
He pressed on, letting an archer loose a barbed arrow, the thud into his chest a deep, searing hammer blow that drove him to his knees. Stamina. Need that. He respawned, rubbing the spot where the phantom ache burned in his pectoral, the dust clinging to his lips like sandpaper. Another warrior swung an arakh, a strategic wound, the blade slicing air with a whistle. Dean reappeared, unscarred, the crowd's gasps a faint echo that buzzed in his ears.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI ARCHER #3. REWARD: +1 STAMINA.]
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI WARRIOR #5. REWARD: +1 STRENGTH.]
Deaths blurred into a montage—each respawn a jolt that rattled his teeth, each taunt a challenge that steadied his nerves. "Come on, who's next?" he rasped, voice steady despite the strain, the words tasting of dust and determination. His body adapted, dodges sharpening with each revival, the Dothraki patterns—wide arakh arcs, low spear crouches—cataloged in his mind like a hunter's map. Worst training montage ever. At least give me a montage song. He stood on churned dirt, panting hard, adrenaline pressing behind his eyes like a vise. He wiped his mouth, a reflexive gesture, the motion grounding him.
He was surrounded by a wide circle, warriors with lowered blades, their awe chilling his blood like ice water. I'm terrifying them. Good. Less fighting later. Maybe. A memory surfaced—trading baseball cards with kids back home, their laughter a warm contrast to the blood-soaked chaos, the feel of worn cardboard between his fingers a fleeting comfort.
Daenerys stood near the tent's shadow, her silk dress sweat-soaked, clinging to her trembling frame like a shroud. She watched him die six times, heart pounding like a trapped bird, the jingle of her bells a faint counterpoint to the silence. He is not a man. No man defies blades. Viserys hissed, fingers clawing her arm, damp with sweat, his breath hot against her ear. "He's a demon! A beast! Tell Drogo to burn him!"
Dany pulled back, eyes fixed on Dean, her grip tightening on her dress. "Or a god," she whispered, the word thick and strange, a challenge that hung in the air. His relentlessness unsettled her, a knot of terror in her gut, yet it offered a glimmer of safety she hadn't known since her sale. Viserys recoiled, lips trembling, a spoiled child denied. "You… you fear him less," he stammered, eyes darting to Drogo's fury.
She watched Dean, a blood-streaked specter, the firelight casting shadows across his face. A monster. But my shield. Terror knotted her stomach, but a small ember of respect kindled beneath, her fingers damp against the silk.
The Dothraki worshipped power, their belief shattered by six resurrections. A Bloodrider lowered his arakh, steel clinking on a pebble with a sharp echo. "He lives. Again. He is Vezh Maffe." Whispers of "Vezh Maffe"—Ghost Stallion—spread like wildfire. Dean heard it, saw lowered blades, and spat contemptuously. This is it. Less work. Maybe I can sleep soon.
[SYSTEM: CROWD'S QUIET. SCARED OR IMPRESSED? TRY THE IMPRESSED ONE, HOST. IT'S CUTER.]
He raised a blood-slicked hand, pointed at Bloodriders, the motion shaky. "Anyone else?" he growled, grin reckless, the taste of blood still sharp. "We've got all night. Dead end policy's open."
No one moved. Drogo's fury loomed atop his stallion, a silent storm. Dean wiped blood from his face, hand trembling slightly, the silence roaring louder than war cries. He turned to Dany, mock bow, dust falling from his hair. "Keep staring, princess. I'm just warming up."
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
Love [ Game Of Thrones Pleasse Kill Me System ]? Unlock More Chapters and Support the Story!
Dive deeper into the world of [ Game Of Thrones Pleasse Kill Me System ] with exclusive access to 35+ chapters on my Patreon, plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $5/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ Game Of Throne ,MCU and Arrowverse, Breaking Bad , The Walking dead ,The Hobbit,Wednesday].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!