Chapter 7: The Cost of Dying
The Grass Sea sprawled beneath a blistering noon sun, its golden expanse shimmering with heat that twisted the air into wavering ghosts. Dean Winchester slumped beside a smoldering fire pit, the acrid bite of ash clawing at his throat, mingling with the metallic tang of blood crusted into his leathers. Each breath dragged dust across his tongue, gritty and bitter, a constant reminder of the gore plastered against his skin—some his, some not.
The phantom echo of an axe splitting his skull pulsed behind his eyes, a high-pitched whine that drilled deeper with every heartbeat, leaving a dull ache that made his vision blur at the edges. Blue runes flickered in his peripheral sight, their ethereal hum a mocking tally of his stats, while the khalasar circled him like vultures, their wide eyes torn between reverence and terror. Across the camp, Daenerys Targaryen's silver hair gleamed like a distant star, pulling at him with a weight he couldn't shake. He wanted her to rule, to rise above this hellscape, but the cost—the toll on his mind and body—was piling up, a whisper of doubt gnawing at his hunter's grit.
"This better be worth it," he rasped, voice cracking like dry leather as he plucked a loose thread from his tunic, the motion a futile attempt to steady his trembling hands.
The thread snapped, fluttering into the fire with a faint hiss, and he watched it burn, the flicker of flame mirroring the unease coiling in his gut. His leathers creaked as he shifted, the stiffness a second skin that chafed against his ribs, each movement sending a jolt of phantom pain through his skull. The khalasar's murmurs rose and fell, a low tide of awe and fear, their footsteps crunching on the brittle grass like a drumbeat he couldn't escape. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic kicking in as the runes pulsed brighter, their light a cold comfort against the heat. Dany's presence across the camp was a lifeline, a reason to keep going, but the weight of each death was carving something out of him, leaving a hollow he couldn't name.
Dean's Toll
He'd screwed up. A lazy slip, born from too many respawns dulling his edge, and he hadn't seen the second man until the axe was mid-swing. The burly Dothraki's snarl filled his vision, the blade whistling down with a sound that sliced the air. It hit, cleaving through his parietal lobe, and the world shattered into blackness, a brutal, instantaneous end. The pain lingered post-respawn, not as a wound but as a throbbing migraine, a relentless pressure behind his eyes that turned the sunlight into stabbing needles. His body reset with a clinical snap, the gore vanishing, but the echo remained, a ghost ache that argued with the System's cold efficiency.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI WARRIOR #13. REWARD: +1 STRENGTH.]
He surged forward, the new Strength lending his stolen arakh a punishing heft, and the axe warrior crumpled under a single swing, blood arcing across the dry grass in a crimson spray. He spun, spotting the spearman lurking in the shadows, and ended him before the fool could thrust, the kill swift and ruthless. His hands shook, a fine tremor he hid by wiping the blade on a scrap of leather, the rough texture grounding him against the nausea rising in his throat. The act of dying wasn't the fear—it was the creeping realization that each reset burned something vital, a detachment fraying at his core.
"Another point for the piggy bank," he said, forcing a brittle grin at the few Dothraki who dared watch, the smile a brittle mask over the raw vulnerability seeping into his bones.
[SYSTEM: HEADACHE? JOIN THE CLUB. SUGGEST: NAP. ALSO, MAYBE STOP LETTING THEM SPLIT YOUR SKULL? JUST A THOUGHT.]
"Shut up, I'm working," he muttered, the words a growl as he rubbed his neck again, the tic a shield against the System's snark. The humor was a thin veneer, cracking under the weariness dragging at his limbs, and the grind pressed on. But the cost was etching deeper, a shadow he couldn't outrun, and he wondered how long he could keep this up.
Dany's Leadership
Daenerys stood before two squabbling Kos, their harsh voices clashing over a stolen water-skin dangling from a saddle, the air thick with the threat of a duel. A month ago, she'd have flinched, her voice a timid whisper, but now she straightened, the silk of her dress rustling as she stepped forward. The fabric clung to her skin, damp with sweat, and she felt the weight of every eye on her. Her spine was a rigid line of command, a conscious effort to hold the space Dean's death had carved.
"He stole from you. But the water is needed. Give him back the skin, and you will both be given a new one from the wagons."
The judgment landed, fair and pragmatic, halting the bloodletting before it could spill. The Kos bowed, their movements jerky with confusion, accepting the peace she offered with reluctant nods. Her violet eyes flicked to where Dean had fallen and risen, the sight of his casual death a terror that coiled in her gut like a living thing. Yet his return, swift and unyielding, created a vacuum of calm she was learning to fill, his shadow a shield she leaned on without meaning to.
"I lead in the space he creates. I hate his killing, but it is why I can stand here and not be afraid of Viserys," she thought, her fingers tracing a small circle in the dust, the motion a tic to steady the tremor in her hands.
She glanced back at him, slumped by the fire, and felt a pang of gratitude tangled with fear, her mixed emotions anchoring her growth. The Kos dispersed, their murmurs fading, and she stood taller, the weight of her command settling like a mantle she was only beginning to wear.
Nighttime Banter
The moon hung high, a cold silver disc casting long shadows across the sleeping khalasar, the air crisp with the scent of night-blooming grass. Dean approached Daenerys near her tent, her silhouette a quiet figure against the dark, her silver hair a faint glow. He wasn't pushing tonight; he slid a skin of sour, fermented mare's milk across the dusty ground, the scrape a soft rasp in the silence.
"Rough day, Your Grace? This helps. Cuts through the smell."
She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the skin, the sour scent wafting up to tickle her nose. Her gaze lifted, studying the exhaustion etched into his face—the lines around his eyes, the way his smile didn't reach them. She noticed the faint tremor in his hands, a detail that spoke of deaths he buried beneath that grin.
"You fight strangely, Dean. You do not fight for honor or glory. You fight only to end it quickly. Why?"
He leaned back on his hands, the dust coating his palms as he brushed them together, a hunter's instinct kicking in to deflect. Don't give her the truth. Give her the Dean show.
He let his grin slide into place, easy and practiced.
"Strange's my middle name. It's either that or 'Retirement Fund.'"
She paused, a flicker of amusement tugging at her lips before it faded, a small victory in the vast darkness. The moment stretched, tentative and quiet, and he felt a spark ignite, a romantic flicker beneath her cautious surface.
"Patience, Winchester. She's warming up," he thought, the thought a private pep talk as he watched her silhouette, the tent's glow softening her edges.
Closing
Dean sank back by the embers, the khalasar's murmurs fading into a distant hum carried by the night breeze, the crackle of the fire a lonely companion. The System's runes glowed a steady blue, his Strength climbing, adding a subtle density to his movements that felt both empowering and alien. But the axe's echo lingered, a dull pressure in his skull that refused to fade, a reminder of the toll exacted with each respawn. His fingers brushed the back of his neck, the tic a reflex as he processed the weight of it all.
Dany's steady voice carried across the camp, firm and regal, a queen emerging from the frightened girl she'd been, her words a beacon of progress. She's getting stronger. Good.
"Keep it up, princess. I'm just the muscle," he muttered, his voice a low growl meant for the fire alone, the words tasting of dust and resignation.
The grind loomed ahead, a necessary evil, each death a step toward power—or a descent into the darkness the Dothraki already saw in him. He stared into the embers, the heat warming his face, and wondered how much of himself he'd lose before this was over.
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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