Chapter 14: The Queen's Burden
The Grass Sea baked under a midday sun, the heat warping the air into a shimmering haze that carried the sharp scent of dust and the musky odor of unwashed horsehide drifting from the khalasar's restless herd. Dean Winchester leaned against a heavy supply cart, the wood rough and splintered against his back, his leathers sticky with sweat and crusted with the day's battles, the phantom sting of a Dothraki sword's cut lingering across his ribs like a fading brand.
The cart's edge dug into his spine, a minor ache he ignored, his fingers drumming a lazy rhythm on the wood as Mirri's warning about "fire" echoed in his mind—a puzzle he didn't want to solve but couldn't shake. Blue runes glowed at the edge of his vision, their hum a steady pulse of his climbing stats, while Dany's tent, a white beacon in the glare, drew his focus, her guardianship of the eggs a quiet burden he felt through their bond.
"Just get to the endgame, princess. This crush is gonna be the death of me."
He muttered, voice low and rough, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he watched the tent flap shift in the breeze. The khalasar's murmur rose and fell, a tide of activity, but his attention stayed on Dany, the pull of their growing connection a warmth against the day's heat. He shifted, the leather creaking, and rubbed his neck, the tic a shield against the emotions stirring within.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: Dothraki Warrior #19. REWARD: +1 AGILITY.]
The new Agility surged through him, a fluid grace that turned his movements into a dancer's flow, and he tested it with a quick stretch, feeling the muscles respond with ease. The kill replayed—sword slicing his side, blood pooling in the dust, then a precise arakh strike—leaving him detached but efficient, a machine honed by the System's grind. He wiped his hands on his leathers, the texture rough, and let the satisfaction of the stat gain settle, though the hollow echo remained. His breath came easier, a faint rasp, and he leaned harder against the cart, the wood groaning.
Through the tent flap's slit, Dean glimpsed Daenerys, her silver hair a stark contrast to the dim interior, kneeling on the floor with the three dragon eggs—onyx, jade, cream—resting on a silk cushion. She cradled the black one, her knuckles white, her forehead furrowed with the weight of her responsibility, the future it represented pressing down like a physical load. The air inside was humid, thick with the faint warmth radiating from the eggs, and her focus was intense, not on their beauty but on the destiny they carried. She's staring down the future, and it looks exhausting.
Her gaze drifted past the flap, finding him in the harsh sunlight, and the pressure on her shoulders seemed to lift, her fear softening to a heavy reliance. The message was clear in her violet eyes: He protects me. She shifted, the silk rustling, and her hand lingered on the egg, a subtle tremor betraying the burden she bore.
The tent's quiet pressed against him, a stillness too serious for his liking, and Dean ducked inside, the humid air wrapping around him like a damp cloak. He leaned against a pole, putting on his best easygoing smirk, the gesture a deliberate break in the tension.
Eggs keeping you up, Your Grace?
He kept his tone light, a familiar defense, his hands resting casually at his sides. Dany set the egg down, folding her hands neatly, her silver eyebrows arching as a subtle amusement softened her mouth, though a tremor lingered.
They are my future.
Her voice was steady, a regal note beneath the weight, and she met his gaze, the flicker of humor a bridge between them. Dean nodded, his smirk turning genuine, and tucked his hands into his pockets, the motion a physical attempt to seem harmless.
Good future. I'll stick to dying.
His words carried a wry edge, a nod to his immortality, and he leaned back, the pole creaking under his weight.
[SYSTEM ALERT: DYING? YOUR BEST TALENT. THE PRINCESS'S HEART RATE INCREASED BY 4%. SHE'S INTO IT, HOST. SHOCKER.]
The System's jab brought a quick grin, and he glanced at Dany, catching the playful spark in her eyes as she laughed—a low, breathy sound that eased the tent's pressure, echoing off the canvas walls. She tilted her head, the motion graceful, and returned to the eggs, her hand tracing the faint cracks on the jade stone, the texture rough under her fingers. Her burden hadn't lifted, but it felt lighter, shared in that moment.
The sun's furnace hit him as he stepped back outside, the heat a shock after the tent's shade, and he wiped sweat from his brow, the salt stinging his skin. He muttered low, a self-aware quip to the empty air.
Keep dreaming, princess. I'll keep bleeding.
The words hung in the heat, a promise and a jest, and he leaned against the cart again, the wood warm under his touch. Dany's burden tugged at him, her silver hair shining as she guarded the eggs, a queen shaping her destiny, while Mirri's warning hinted at fire to come—a shadow over his plans.
The midday sun dipped slightly, the khalasar's activity slowing, and Dean sat by the cart, picking at a splinter in the wood, the motion a small anchor in the day's chaos. Across the way, Rakharo passed with a nod, his arakh glinting, and Dean returned it, a quiet respect passing between them. The splinter broke, pricking his finger, and he sucked at the tiny wound, the copper taste a brief distraction from the weight on his mind.
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