Chapter 4: The Grind Begins
Dawn erupted over the Grass Sea, a violent clash of gold and crimson streaking the horizon like spilled blood on a battlefield, the first light searing Dean Winchester's tired eyes. He sprawled by the smoldering remnants of a fire pit, the charred wood still radiating a faint warmth against his back, his leathers stiff and crusted with the dried blood of Drogo's brutal deaths. The ache lingered deep in his bones, a dull throb that pulsed with every heartbeat, a reminder of the arakh strikes that had felled him twice.
The khalasar moved around him, their steps hesitant, boots crunching on the brittle grass, their whispers of "Vezh Maffe" rising like a nervous hum in the still air. Blue runes flickered at the edge of his vision, glowing with an ethereal hum that vibrated in his skull, tallying his power as he grinned, the taste of dust coating his tongue like ash.
Gotta keep the fear fresh. System's rule is one kill, one point. Grinding's my lazy ticket out. His marriage to Dany was a calculated gamble—her ruling the khalasar, him napping on some distant balcony—but the System demanded blood, and he was ready to pay that price. The camp buzzed with life, the scent of roasted horse meat mingling with the sharp tang of sweat, and he spotted Ko Qhono, a grim-faced warrior with a jagged scar slicing his left cheek, practicing spear thrusts with a focus that set Dean's nerves on edge. The warrior's muscles flexed under sun-darkened skin, his movements precise, a coiled spring ready to strike.
"Morning, buddy," Dean drawled, sauntering over with hands shoved deep in his pockets, the gesture a deliberate insult in this warrior culture. "You look tense. Want a free point in Strength? All you gotta do is kill me."
Ko Qhono's eyes widened, then narrowed, a flash of shamed fury darkening his gaze. He didn't hesitate. The spear shot out, a clean, swift thrust that pierced Dean's throat with a wet crunch, pain exploding like a firework before darkness claimed him. Here we go again.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI WARRIOR #10. REWARD: +1 STRENGTH.]
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST DIED. ANOTHER POINT FOR THE RETIREMENT FUND.]
He respawned in a jolt of energy, the throat wound vanishing, though the ghost of the spear-point lingered like a cold kiss against his skin. Ko Qhono stared, his weapon dipping an inch, shock freezing his features as Dean moved. His newly acquired Arakh Mastery and Strength surged through him, turning his steps into a blur of calculated precision. He drew his basic dagger, its steel worn but sharp, and slipped behind the warrior before Ko Qhono could raise his spear.
The kill was swift—a clean cut to the spine, the blade slicing through muscle and bone with a sickening crunch. Ko Qhono crumpled, lifeless, a "dead end" sealed by Dean's system. No repeats. No threats. Clean sweep. He wiped the dagger on a scrap of discarded leather, the motion steady despite the adrenaline roaring in his veins, the leather's texture rough against his calloused fingers.
A small knot of Dothraki gathered, their silence a heavy shroud that pressed against his ears. They'd witnessed the resurrection, the impossible return, followed by the unforgiving kill, and the message sank deep—he was a god, his rage absolute. His movements sharpened, less reliant on the System's raw boost, more a hunter's instinct honed by muscle memory. The dust settled around Ko Qhono's body, and a fierce ruthlessness hummed in his chest, the scent of blood thick in the air.
Across the camp, a crowd had gathered, their murmurs a low tide against the morning. Daenerys stood on a small cart, clad in a new dark silk dress that shimmered faintly in the dawn light, mediating a dispute over a horse. Her voice trembled, thin and fragile, every muscle in her back rigid as she braced for a knife, a slap, or a brutal command. She's terrified. But my power cleared the field. They'll listen because of me. The fear the khalasar held for him was her shield, and he watched as she glanced his way, her body shuddering at the sight of his blood-streaked form.
One of the men, a thick-set Ko with a braided beard streaked with gray, gestured angrily, his hand hovering near his arakh, threatening to turn the dispute into violence. Dany's voice cracked on a high-Valyrian command for peace, the words shaky but resolute. She stole a glance at Dean, where he stood over Ko Qhono's body, and shuddered, a violent spike of cold fear racing down her spine. He keeps me safe. I must be worth it. She planted her small feet, forcing the tremble to stop, her silk dress rustling softly.
"The horse goes to the younger man," she announced, her voice gaining a cautious empowerment that surprised her. "The other will take a goat."
The decision was swift, pragmatic, delivered with a finality that echoed across the cart. It was her first true, independent command, and the Ko grumbled, his hand dropping from his weapon, the fear of the Ghost Stallion outweighing his anger at the Khaleesi. Dany let out a silent breath, the tension draining from her shoulders in a damp rush, the silk clinging to her skin. The man walked away, muttering under his breath but obedient, and she felt a small, unexpected pride bloom in her chest. Dean's my shield. I'm using it.
Dean leaned against a cart, the wood creaking under his weight, watching the khalasar with a lazy grin. The air grew heavy with silence, a respectful terror that thickened with every passing moment. Kos whispered to the older women, their voices low and urgent, while the women pulled their children closer, their small hands clutching at tattered cloaks. He caught stray snippets of Dothraki—"Ghost. Rises. Will never fall. He owns the Khaleesi"—and his grin widened, a tired curve of his lips. This is perfect. Fear's spreading faster than a plague. Less work later.
He overheard a cluster of Bloodriders, Rakharo among them, their voices a low rumble as they discussed his latest kill—the "dead end" policy. Rakharo, his broad shoulders tense, spoke with a gruff edge.
"He is smart. He leaves no one to boast."
Dean pushed off the cart, the movement slow and deliberate, walking by them and pausing just long enough for them to feel his presence, the dust swirling around his boots.
"Good. Less work later," he said, his Midwestern drawl a casual slap against their formal panic, nodding at Rakharo with a flicker of amusement.
[SYSTEM: FAN CLUB'S GROWING, HUH? MAYBE A T-SHIRT LINE IS NEXT.]
The warriors snapped to a rigid posture, their eyes darting away, his acknowledgment cementing his divine status in their minds. He leaned back against the cart, the khalasar's caution a solid, tangible victory that warmed his chest. Dany's voice carried over the camp, steady and commanding, her silver hair shining in the rising sun, and a flicker of protective pride stirred within him.
"Keep ruling, princess," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper against the wind. "I'll keep dying."
He was ready to grind the horde into submission, the taste of dust still lingering as the runes pulsed brighter.
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