Chapter 13: The Witch's Warning
The Grass Sea stretched out under a night sky where stars burned cold and distant, their light barely cutting through the smoky haze rising from the khalasar's scattered fires. Dean Winchester slumped by his own fire, the leather of his jacket stiff with crusted blood and a gritty layer of dust that clung to his skin, the phantom ache of a spear's recent thrust throbbing deep in his chest like a dull drumbeat.
The fire spat embers, their brief dance a flicker against the dark, and the air carried a sharp mix of roasted goat and trampled earth, thick in his dry throat. His fingers moved absently over the dagger's edge, a pointless ritual for a blade that respawned with him, but the motion steadied the restless churn in his gut as the khalasar's unease buzzed around him—a low hum of voices and clashing steel from warriors wrestling with the legend he'd become. Blue runes pulsed at the edge of his vision, their mocking glow a constant taunt, while Daenerys's tent glowed faintly across the camp, her growing obsession with the dragon eggs a weight pressing against his skull.
Great, another problem.
He muttered, voice rough with exhaustion, and rubbed the back of his neck, the nervous tic a shield against the tension coiling tighter. The khalasar's noise swelled, a chaotic symphony of grunts and clinking metal, but beneath it lay a predator's stillness he'd felt on too many hunts—something was coming. His eyes drifted to Dany's tent, the soft light a beacon, the eggs' mystery tugging at him like a hook in his chest. He shifted, leather creaking, and the fire's heat seeped into his bones, a fleeting comfort.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: Dothraki Warrior #18. REWARD: +1 STRENGTH.]
Damn right it's great. Now I just need to get through these next three levels and I can start thinking about a retirement bungalow.
The runes flared brighter, a smug hum in his mind, and he flexed his hand, the new strength rippling through his arm like a warm current. The kill replayed in his head—spear through his chest, a cold shock, then a swift arakh thrust, blood spraying in a dark arc across the grass—clean, efficient, but leaving a hollow echo he couldn't shake. He wiped the dagger on his thigh, the motion slow, and the grit of dust scraped against his palm, a reminder of the cost. His breath hitched, a quiet rasp, and he stared into the flames, the orange light dancing in his tired eyes.
Two Dothraki warriors erupted into shouts near the fire, their voices raw as they brawled over a captured goat, arakhs half-drawn in the flickering light. The camp's tension spiked, a ripple of anticipation tightening the air, and Dean's grip tightened on the dagger, his knuckles whitening. Daenerys strode toward them, silver hair catching the flames like a banner, her steps steady despite the raised blades glinting inches from her skin. She stopped, her presence a quiet force.
Put down your blades.
Her voice was low, a whisper that sliced through the chaos, and the warriors froze, muscles bunched then easing as her authority sank in. Her eyes flicked to Dean, a quick, nervous glance he caught from his sprawled position, elbows dug into the dirt. He held her gaze, offering no overt sign, just the steady weight of his presence—the dagger idle in his lap—a silent promise that steadied her resolve. The warriors sheathed their weapons, sullen but compliant, and she turned, her expression a mix of determination and a flicker of unease.
The night air cooled, the goat's bleating a soft undercurrent, and Mirri Maz Duur emerged from the shadows, her glide silent and eerie, robes whispering against the grass. Her eyes, dark pools of ancient sorrow, locked onto Dean, piercing through the blue glow of his System, seeing something he wanted buried. The scent of bitter herbs clung to her, clashing with the fire's smoke, and a shiver crawled down his spine, raising the hairs on his neck.
Your blood calls to fire, undying one.
Her voice rasped like dead leaves, a sound that grated against his nerves, and Dean forced a smirk, flipping the dagger to catch the handle with a practiced flick.
Lady, I'm just here for the wine.
He leaned back, the smirk a brittle shield, but his heart thudded harder, the word "undying" echoing with her weighty stare. A spark from the fire landed on his leathers, and he brushed it off, the motion quick, his fingers trembling slightly.
[SYSTEM ALERT: MIRRI MAZ DUUR: WARNING DETECTED. HIGH UNRELIABILITY. WINE? PREDICTABLE.]
The System's snark cut through, a jab that eased the knot in his chest, and he rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. Mirri's gaze held, her sorrow a tangible thing, then she turned, vanishing into the darkness as silently as she'd come. Dean stared at the empty space, the phantom ache in his chest growing colder, a weight he couldn't dismiss.
What in the hell does she know?
The thought gnawed, a flicker of doubt sparking in his mind, and he rubbed his neck again, the tic a reflex against the unease settling deep. Dany's voice rose across the camp, confident and commanding as she directed her bloodriders, the sound carrying over the cooling night. He picked up a dry stick, tossing it into the fire, the wood crackling as it caught.
Fire, huh? Better not burn my retirement.
The words were a gruff mutter, a half-joke to mask the apprehension coiling tighter, and the eggs' mystery deepened, their pull a shadow over his plans. Mirri's warning lingered, a promise of trouble, and he stared into the flames, the heat warming his face but not his doubts.
The camp quieted, the khalasar slipping into restless sleep, and Dean lingered by the fire, tracing a finger along a crack in the dagger's hilt, the motion slow and meditative. Across the way, Dany's silhouette moved within her tent, a graceful shadow against the canvas, and he felt a pang of admiration—her strength, her fire. The crack widened under his touch, a small fracture, and he set the dagger down, the gesture a quiet pause in the chaos.
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