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Chapter 17 - Chapter 17: The Unnatural Aura

Chapter 17: The Unnatural Aura

The first light of dawn crept over the Grass Sea, a fragile gold bleeding across the eastern sky, but the air hung heavy with the sickly-sweet reek of burnt offerings from the previous night's rituals and the sharp, metallic bite of Dean Winchester's own blood, a ghost that lingered on his tongue like a bad memory.

 

He sat cross-legged by a dying fire, its embers glowing faintly like dying stars, his leathers sticky with grime and the invisible residue of resurrection, the fabric chafing his knees raw with every slight movement. The dragons' cries—Drogon, Rhaegal, Viserion—drifted from Daenerys's tent, thin, reedy hisses that grated on his nerves like a rusty hinge, each sound a needle prickling his skin and setting his teeth on edge. The khalasar's fear was absolute, their muttered prayers a frantic, superstitious hum that vibrated through the earth beneath him, muted by the terror of their Khal's passing, a weight that pressed down on his chest like a stone. Blue runes pulsed at the edge of his vision, cold and clinical, marking his progress:

Strength 22, Agility 19, Stamina 19, Magic 0, a mocking tally that danced in his peripheral sight.

The key to getting out of this gig is Dany as Queen. Those eggs are the ticket. Trouble, sure, but they're worth the investment.

He scraped a piece of hardened tallow from his knife with his thumb, the rough texture scraping against his calloused skin, a small act of focus, and muttered to the coals, the words a low growl that rasped in his throat.

"Scaly kids are trouble."

Better figure out how to win them over before they turn me into a human torch.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic that steadied the tension coiling in his gut, the leather creaking as he shifted his weight, the sound a faint echo in the dawn stillness. The fire's last embers cast flickering shadows across the trampled grass, each blade bent and broken from the khalasar's restless movements, telling a story of sleepless nights and unspoken fears.

[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI WARRIOR #22. REWARD: +1 STRENGTH.]

The respawn's cold slammed into him like a plunge into icy depths, his teeth aching with the shock, his breath catching in his chest, and his eyes snapped open, the world tilting for a disorienting moment. The warrior loomed over him, panting heavily, his dark eyes gleaming with the thrill of an impossible victory, his arakh still dripping with Dean's blood, the steel glinting in the faint light. Dean rose, dusting the dry earth from his newly whole leathers, the movement terrifying in its casual speed, a predator's grace that made the warrior's stance falter, his breath hitching. He didn't waste a word.

 

His dagger, heavy and familiar in his grip, moved with the swift, unforgiving economy of a hunter putting down a diseased animal, slicing through the warrior's throat with a wet gurgle. Blood misted the air, coating the warrior's face, then his own, before the man crumpled to the ground, his arakh clattering uselessly to the dirt, the sound a dull thud. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the gesture detached, almost bored, the copper taste lingering on his lips like a bitter afterthought.

Another point for the piggy bank. That beachfront's inching closer every kill.

He kept his head turned toward the ridge, honoring the invisible boundary between his grim work and Dany's sacred vigil, the distance a silent promise to respect her space, the wind carrying the scent of blood away in a faint breeze. He stood, the leather stiff against his movements, his boots crunching the parched earth with each step, the sound a solitary rhythm in the quiet.

Daenerys Targaryen, standing near her pavilion, felt the subtle ripple of violence even at a distance, a tremor that ran through the ground beneath her feet like a heartbeat, stirring the ash at her boots. She hadn't seen the kill, only Dean's impossible rising from the dust, a miracle that steadied her resolve and sent a shiver of relief through her frame. She smoothed the cool, rough surface of the largest egg, Drogon's, with her fingertips, the texture grounding her as the hatchling inside hissed with a low, fearful tremor that vibrated against her palm. He is my shield. The truth settled into her chest, heavy and solid, a weight she carried with pride, and she watched Dean walk back, his gait too casual, too easy for a man who had just been skewered, a sight that filled her with a mix of awe and a growing need she couldn't name. She didn't want him to leave. She needed his impossible resilience, a rock in this storm of fire and blood.

Dean approached the fire again, shaking off the residual metallic taste with a grimace that twisted his lips, the flavor a persistent ghost, and the hissing intensified as he neared the tent, growing sharper, more insistent, a sound that set his nerves on edge and made his fingers twitch. The three eggs were furious, their cries piercing the dawn silence, their energy a palpable force that seemed to press against his chest.

He stopped five feet from the silk entryway, holding his hands up in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips despite the tension coiling in his gut.

"What, I smell bad?"

[SYSTEM ALERT: SMELL BAD? TRY DYING LESS, WINCHESTER. WE'RE TRYING TO RUN A PROFESSIONAL OPERATION HERE.]

The fire crackled weakly, a small, futile barrier against the night's fading chill and the growing, primal energy of the eggs, its embers casting faint shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched into his features. Dany's fierce, silver-haired silhouette remained framed in the tent's opening, a queen with her children, her presence a beacon of strength that steadied his fraying nerves. He sighed, the last wisps of death-chill finally fading from his limbs, the air cooling against his sweat-slicked skin.

I need to figure those scaled little jerks out before they figure me out and turn this into a dragon roast.

Jorah Mormont passed by, his heavy boots thudding softly against the earth, and nodded at Dean, a quiet acknowledgment in his stern eyes, his sword glinting in the dawn light with a faint, reassuring gleam. Dean returned the nod, a silent bond forming between them, a flicker of camaraderie in the chaos, and sat by the fire, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, the motion a quiet anchor as the fabric frayed under his fingers. The thread snapped, falling into the dirt with a soft rustle, and he brushed it away with a gentle sweep of his hand, the gesture a small act of control amid the storm.

The pyre's promise loomed in the near distance, its wood stacked high and waiting for the final, binding fire, a shadow over his plans that grew darker with each passing moment. The dragons' hisses faded into a low, persistent hum, a challenge brewing on the horizon, and he leaned back, the leather creaking, his mind racing with the weight of what lay ahead.

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