Chapter 6: The Growing Legend
Night draped the Grass Sea in a vast, star-pricked velvet, the cold steel of the stars glinting far above the miserable reality of the dirt, their light casting long, jagged shadows across the camp. Dean Winchester sat cross-legged near the embers of a small fire, the heat a faint caress against his legs, methodically sharpening a stolen arakh, its curved edge flashing like a frantic crescent in the overwhelming darkness.
The ache of too many deaths pulsed in his bones, a low, constant vibration that settled in his teeth and knees, the weight of each respawn a growing burden that made his hands tremble slightly. The khalasar's fear was no longer a whisper; it was a living thing, a wide berth of silence around him, their hushed voices speaking the name "Vezh Maffe" in a collective song of dread, of reverent terror that hung heavy in the air.
Blue runes glowed softly at the edge of his vision, tallying his newly acquired power with a hum that vibrated in his skull, and Dean felt a twitch of something almost like pride, a warmth that clashed with the chill of the night. He ran a thumb over the whetstone, checking the edge, the scrape a dull rhythm against the crackle of the embers, the stone's roughness grounding him. "Fame's a pain in the ass," he muttered, the words barely audible over the fire's faint pop, his breath visible in the cold air.
He knew he was the most dangerous thing in this camp now, the realization settling like a weight on his shoulders. Across the wide, scattered layout, Dany's tent glowed with a soft, warm light—a beacon, a reminder of the plan, and of the inconvenient, deeply felt crush he couldn't shake, the sight of it tugging at his chest.
The attack came swift and clumsy, characteristic of Dothraki desperation, the air splitting with the warrior's wild cry. Dean had been walking back from the river, half-lidded and bored, the water's cool touch still lingering on his hands, when the Dothraki warrior charged, his eyes wild with ambition, the glint of his curved blade catching the starlight. He died to that blade, a sudden, searing pain that split his abdomen and sent him to his knees, his vision dissolving into red static, the metallic aftertaste of blood flooding his mouth. Burning cold of a severed artery—then the reset.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI WARRIOR #12. REWARD: +1 STAMINA.]
He blinked back, alive and whole, the enemy poised above him, the warrior's triumphant grin fading into confusion. The System's reward was instantaneous, his new Stamina bringing not just raw endurance but a horrifying new economy, a body that knew exactly how much effort was needed. He didn't waste a flicker of strength, didn't hunt for a dramatic kill. He simply moved the blade, and the Ko Qhono he was targeting—a different, lesser warrior named Ko Lazzo with a scarred lip—crumpled, his ambitions pooling in the sand, the blood a dark stain under the stars.
Dean wiped the arakh on a piece of discarded leather, the texture rough against his palm, the motion slow and deliberate.
"Another one bites the dust," he said, the boredom thick in his voice, his tone flat as he kicked at the dirt.
The spectacle was over in less time than it took for the dust to settle, but the effect was cumulative, a ripple that spread through the camp. The remaining warriors of the challenging Ko's band simply fell to their knees, their movements a synchronized surrender driven by raw, religious terror, their long black braids touching the dirt in a gesture of submission. Dean stopped, his newly acquired Stamina making his posture feel rock-solid, his legs steady despite the night's chill.
He let out a long, theatrical sigh, the sound carrying over the silence.
"Seriously? That's it?" He kicked a loose piece of braid, the hair sliding across the ground, and looked at a nearby Rakharo, who watched with wide, respectful eyes, his arakh still sheathed.
"Guess I'm too scary now. Bummer."
This is the desired outcome. The laziest way to control them is to terrify them into inaction.
[SYSTEM: SCARING THEM OFF? LAZY. PLAN: 10/10. REMINDER: RETIREMENT FUND'S GROWING.]
The silence was profound, the dominance absolute, the air thick with the scent of blood and fear. He was bored, but he was in control, the submission logical as fear became his most effective tool. The warriors' heads remained bowed, their breathing shallow, the camp a tableau of reverence.
Daenerys watched the entire sickening pantomime from the back of the crowd, her silver braids catching the starlight, her hands clasped tightly at her waist. She saw the rage of the challenger, the flash of the Dothraki blade, and the sudden, awful vanishing act that preceded the cold, precise counter-kill, the blood gleaming wetly in the firelight. When Dean spared the kneeling men, not with mercy but with utter disinterest—as if they were beneath his notice—her fear, which had been a constant companion, finally began to ease, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
He did not gloat. He did not torture them. He simply removed the threat to the order, and then he stood still, the arakh dangling loosely in his hand. She murmured to a nearby Ko, her voice low and laced with a dawning respect, her fingers tracing a small circle in the dirt. Her eyes never left Dean's figure, tall and unnaturally composed against the chaos, his silhouette a stark contrast to the kneeling warriors.
"He fights for me. No matter how strange his method, he fights for my safety, for my khalasar."
The realization was a foundational shift, a warmth spreading through her chest. It wasn't about him controlling her; it was about him protecting her right to command, the weight of that truth settling in her mind.
Dean stood amidst the kneeling warriors, the vast Grass Sea whispering under the cold light of the stars, the wind carrying the faint scent of distant smoke. The System's runes glowed a steady blue, his Stamina stronger, the phantom aches now mere background noise, a dull hum against his senses. But Dany's words, overheard by the respectful silence of the camp—he fights for me—echoed with a startling clarity, sparking something dangerous and warm inside his chest.
Stop it. That's how you get your heart broken, Winchester. You're the muscle, the security detail. Nothing more.
He turned his back on the prostrate men, their braids a dark wave against the earth, walking toward his saddle and his fire, the embers casting a faint glow on his path. He muttered, the familiar cynicism a shield against the warmth, his voice rough with exhaustion.
"Keep dreaming of that balcony."
He picked up his whetstone, the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone a dull, monotonous sound that filled the night, the texture of the stone cool against his fingers. The blood would dry, the legend would grow, and Dean Winchester would prepare for more blood to solidify his princess's rule, the weight of his arakh a constant companion.
[Dean Winchester]
[Attributes]
Strength: 18/100
Agility: 15/100
Stamina: 16/100
Magic: 0/100
[Warning: None.]
[Abilities]
Arakh Mastery Lv. 1 (5/100)
[Inventory]
Basic Dagger | Leather Armor
[Achievements]
First Respawn (x10) | Alpha Kill (x1) | Dead End Policy (x2)
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