[ SYSTEM ACTIVE... ]
[ TEMPLATE DETECTED... ]
[ SYNCHRONIZATION IN PROGRESS... ]
[ STATUS: ONLINE ]
──────────────────────────────────────────────── [ TEMPLATE SLOT: EMPTY ]
[ SYNCHRONIZATION RATE: 0% ]
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[ ABILITIES: NONE ]
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[ STATUS :
STRENGTH: Muscles were rotting away a few seconds ago
AGILITY: Slower than a old man with a broken leg
DURABILITY: Skin was pierced needs to recover
STAMINA: Normal levels if body is rested for prolonged period of time ]
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Drogo's vision sharpened. Shapes and letters appeared before his eyes—faint at first, then solid, glowing as though carved from sunlight itself.
A translucent pane hovered in the air. He blinked once. Twice. It remained.
To his side he could see Daenerys's sobs trembled against his chest, yet she did not see it. Mirri Maz Duur's face twisted with horror, yet her eyes were fixed only on him—not on the strange window hanging in the air.
Only he could see it.
Drogo—or rather, the man who was now Drogo—stared.
His lips parted in disbelief.
A system? In this world ?
The words formed unbidden in his mind, yet the pane shifted as though answering his very thought.
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETED]
[ TEMPLATE ACQUIRED: AQUAMAN ]
[ SYNCHRONIZATION RATE ERROR…]
[ SYNCHRONIZATION RATE ADJUSTING DUE TO HOST'S COMPATIBILITY…. ]
[ Ting !! ]
0% → 1%
1% → 2%
2% → 3%
3% → 4%
4% → 5%
5% → 6%
6% → 7%
7% → 8%
8% → 9%
9% → 10%
────────────────────────────────────────────────
ABILITIES Unlocked:
MINOR AQUATIC AFFINITY (NEW !!!)
AQUATIC BREATHING (NEW !!!)
ENHANCED VISION (NEW !!!)
────────────────────────────────────────────────
────────────────────────────────────────────────
[ STATUS: ONLINE ]
STRENGTH: Stronger than the stronger bloodrider; might be able to wrestle and overpower direwolves
AGILITY: Faster than the finest Dothraki sprinter; reflexes honed beyond mortal limits.
DURABILITY: Blades bite less deeply; wounds close faster than expected. Arrows fling off.
STAMINA: Able to fight or swim for hours without tiring; lungs can hold breath for thirty minutes.
────────────────────────────────────────────────
The glowing words scrolled and vanished, leaving only a faint shimmer, as if burned into the back of his mind.
And then his body changed.
At first it was subtle—a tingling in his fingertips, a tremor rolling up his arms. But it grew, spreading through him in a wave of warmth that sank into his bones.
Not pain.
No, it was something deeper, almost… healing.
His joints cracked softly, not with weakness but with release, like hinges long rusted suddenly oiled. He felt his spine shift, vertebrae clicking one after another as if realigning. His chest swelled, ribs expanding wider, lungs drinking in more air than they had ever known.
Strength moved through him like molten gold poured filling every crevice, every flaw. His muscles tightened, then loosened, then reformed, as though being stitched anew by unseen hands.
He could feel fibers knitting together, threads pulling taut, until they thrummed with power. Where once there had been slackness from fever and wound, now was firmness, coiled strength ready to surge.
His scar on his chest no longer throbbed with weakness; it filled with vitality. The ache of sickness and rot was gone, replaced by the vibrant heat of a body reforged. He could feel it all—shoulders broadening, thighs strengthening, fingers flexing with perfect control.
It was not foreign, not alien—it was as if his flesh had remembered what it was meant to be and was remaking itself accordingly.
Daenerys still pressed against his chest, her tears falling like fire on his skin.
He shifted slightly beneath her weight, his head rising from the ground just enough to draw in a deeper breath. The air entered him differently now, fuller, richer.
Each inhale carried with it more than dust and heat—he tasted the sharp bite of iron from blood drying in the grass, the faint sweetness of water far away, hidden in streams and rivers beyond the horizon.
He felt the cold edges of distant seas brushing against his awareness, as though they whispered his name.
His vision sharpened as well. What had once been glare and haze from the burning sun now cut clear and sharp. Every blade of grass shimmered with detail, every fly's wing glinted in the light. The world was brighter, richer—alive in ways it had never been before.
He flexed his hands, watching the tendons ripple beneath bronzed skin, each motion fluid and precise.
Power curled and uncurled in his grip, not wild but controlled, waiting at his command. He had been a husk, an empty shell mocked by the breath of life. Now he was more than he had ever been—alive, strong, renewed.
And all the while, Daenerys whispered broken prayers into his chest, blind to the miracle happening beneath her touch. Mirri Maz Duur stared wide-eyed, horror carved into her features, as if she alone could see the truth of what had returned.
He was strong. He was alive.
*
*
*
[ Daenerys POV ]
Daenerys's body trembled as she pressed her forehead to his chest, tears still streaking down her face. She expected the same hollow silence, the same empty rhythm that had haunted her since the maegi's spell. But instead—
A movement.
Her sun-and-stars shifted beneath her touch. His ribs rose in a steady, living breath, not shallow and pitiful, but deep, strong. Slowly, impossibly, he lifted himself upright.
Her heart lurched. She gasped and pulled back, violet eyes widening in disbelief. He was sitting. Not dragged by her, not guided like a lifeless puppet—sitting, on his own.
"Drogo…" Her whisper broke, fragile as spun glass.
His gaze met hers, and for the first time in what felt like eternity, there was light behind his eyes. Not the glassy emptiness Mirri had left him with, but fire—low, flickering, yet undeniably alive.
Her hands shot up to cradle his face, desperate to be sure it was real. Warmth surged beneath her palms. He leaned into her touch, and when his great hand rose to cover hers, the strength in his grip made her breath catch. He was here. Not a husk. Not a ghost. Her sun-and-stars.
Relief broke through her like dawn scattering the night. Awe flooded her chest, mingling with a joy so sharp it hurt. She clutched him to her, burying her face against his shoulder, sobbing and laughing all at once. The curse, the words of the maegi—they had been lies. This was no corpse. This was life.
Behind her, Ser Jorah stood frozen, mouth half-open, as though even his weathered tongue could not shape words for what he was seeing. A man returned from death, not as shadow, but as flesh.
But before the Khaleesi could breathe the fullness of her joy, a hiss cut through the air.
Mirri Maz Duur, the witch spat her venom into the dust.
"This is no gift," she rasped, voice dripping with loathing. "You have defied life. You have defied death.You have defied god, He should be a husk—not this. Not this!"
Her voice cracked into a snarl. "The world gave him back, but it is no blessing. It is a curse. Nothing good comes from stolen breath."
The words struck Daenerys like a lash, but she did not flinch. Her tears stilled, her face hardened. She turned slowly, still keeping one hand on Drogo's chest as if anchoring herself to his warmth.
"Jorah," she said, her voice low and sharp as steel. "Bind her more tightly."
Ser Jorah moved at once, his jaw grim, dragging the woman back by her bonds.
Mirri spat into the dirt, yelling bitterly through her defiance. But her words faltered when her eyes flicked once more to Drogo—sitting tall, alive, his gaze fixed not on her, but wholly, utterly, on Daenerys.
And Daenerys, heart pounding, clung tighter to her sun-and-stars, hope burning brighter.