Chapter 1: The Unwelcome Guest
Dean Winchester's last breath came in a wet, choking rattle, the motel room's flickering fluorescent light casting jagged shadows across the threadbare carpet. The taste of stale beer clung to his tongue, mixing with the sharp, metallic sting of blood as a vampire's fangs ripped into his throat. His body hit the floor, the scratchy synthetic fibers scraping his cheek, cold air stinging his skin, and then—nothing.
Darkness swallowed him whole. Until now. A violent heave yanked him back, lungs clawing for air that burned like fire. He gasped, staggering upright, the sun blazing overhead, turning the Grass Sea into a shimmering haze of heat and dust. His boots sank into brittle grass, crunching loudly, and his hands brushed scratchy leather that chafed his skin raw, the fabric stiff and alien against his frame.
The air hit him hard—thick with the rancid stench of unwashed horses, human sweat, and a sickly sweet perfume that made his stomach churn. A colossal tent loomed ahead, its blood-red fabric sagging with grime and age, the edges frayed like an old wound exposed to the elements. His head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat that pulsed behind his eyes, and his legs wobbled under the weight of this new reality. Blue runes flickered at the edge of his vision, cold and mocking, their eerie hum vibrating through his skull. I was dead. Throat torn out by that damn vamp. This ain't heaven—too much dust, no pie.
[SYSTEM ALERT: WELCOME, HOST DEAN WINCHESTER, TO THE PLEASE DON'T KILL ME SYSTEM. SURVIVE. OR DON'T. YOUR CALL.]
"Jesus," he rasped, voice rough with disorientation, his Midwestern drawl scraping against the dry air. "A system? Died and got stuck with a smartass app?" His fingers probed his neck, expecting a gaping wound, but found only smooth, thick skin—unfamiliar, unmarred. The leather creaked as he shifted, the weight dragging at his shoulders, and he squinted toward the crowd ahead, heart hammering a frantic rhythm. A young woman stood trembling, her silver hair braided with tiny bells that jingled softly, her thin silk dress clinging to her frail frame like a second skin. Beside her towered Khal Drogo, a mountain of muscle, braids glinting under medallions, his presence a silent threat that sent a shiver down Dean's spine. The name hit him like a punch—Game of Thrones, Daenerys Targaryen's wedding. If Drogo takes her, it's dragons, White Walkers, seven years of hell. No naps. No retirement.
His lips twitched into a grim smirk, the lazy part of him craving a shortcut to end this mess, even as his hunter's mind calculated the stakes with cold precision. The absurdity of it—yanked from a Kansas dive to a medieval warzone—warred with his instinct to act, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat. He hitched up his ill-fitting pants, the fabric groaning in protest, and forced a slouch to mask the frantic bird-wing tremor in his chest. The dust coated his lips, gritty and bitter, and he spat it out, steeling himself. "Well, this is a hell of a Monday," he muttered, the words tasting like ash as he took his first step forward.
He moved with deliberate strides, boots crunching the parched earth, each sound slicing through the ritualistic hush like a gunshot in a silent church. The crowd parted slightly, dark eyes narrowing with suspicion, their murmurs fading into a tense silence that pressed against his ears. A man in gold-threaded robes turned—Viserys, his sneer twisting his sharp features into a petulant mask, sweat beading on his brow like tiny pearls. Dean's hand twitched, reaching for a phantom wrench or phone, finding only empty air, the absence a hollow ache in his palm. Too late for subtlety. Gotta wing it.
He strode into the center of the wedding ring, hands spread wide in a gesture more bar brawl than blessing, the leather creaking with every movement. The khalasar's gaze bore down, a thousand glints under the brutal sun, their collective breath a heavy weight that made his shoulders tense. "Alright, hold up," he called, voice lazy, a stark contrast to the tension thickening the air like a storm on the horizon.
Khal Drogo shifted on his stallion, the beast snorting a plume of dust that stung Dean's eyes, but the giant didn't deign to look down. Dean edged closer, locking eyes with the stone-faced brute, his heart thudding wildly. "Buddy, I think you lost your invitation," he drawled, tone light but mind racing with every possible outcome. "This Medieval Airbnb's a scam. Happy couple needs a raincheck on the 'shackles and ownership' vibe."
A Dothraki Bloodrider lunged, a compact figure with a grease-dark braid gleaming like oil under the sun, his arakh arcing toward Dean's neck with no warning. Instinct screamed, but his body froze, the blade biting deep—a searing line of fire that stole his breath. Blood gushed, warm and wet down his chest, soaking into the leather, and his knees buckled, dust cushioning his fall with a soft thud. The world tilted, a crimson haze swallowing the sun, the jingle of Dany's bells fading into a distant echo. Yep. That's death. Still sucks.
The final sight was Daenerys, her pale face burned into his fading vision, violet eyes wide with horror, framed by the glint of her silver hair. Then, blue light exploded, pain melting into a hollow ache that lingered like a bad memory. His body jolted upright, ten paces away, unscarred, the sudden shift leaving him dizzy. The Bloodrider froze, arakh dripping with his blood, his face twisted in terror, eyes darting like a cornered animal. The khalasar gasped, a collective sound rolling across the Grass Sea, a wave of shock that vibrated through the ground.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI BLOODRIDER #1. REWARD: +1 STRENGTH.]
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST DIED. NICE START, GENIUS. RETIREMENT FUND'S GOING TO BE EMPTY AT THIS RATE.]
"Well, that's one way to make an entrance," he croaked, hand rubbing his intact neck, the motion a nervous tic that grounded him. A reckless smirk tugged his lips, adrenaline sharpening his senses—the dust grating against his skin, the faint metallic tang still haunting his mouth. Round two. Push the odds.
The Bloodrider roared, a primal sound that echoed off the tent, charging again with arakh raised high. Dean didn't move, shock rooting him to the spot, the blade stabbing his chest—a white-hot spike that drove the wind from his lungs. Agony stole his breath, vision darkening to a pinpoint, the Dothraki's furious face seared into his mind as he collapsed into the dust.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST KILLED. KILLER: DOTHRAKI BLOODRIDER #2. REWARD: +1 AGILITY.]
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOST DIED. DEATH'S GOT A LOUSY YELP REVIEW. MAYBE TRY DODGING NEXT TIME?]
He respawned, stumbling backward, hand clutching his chest where the phantom ache pulsed like a second heartbeat. The surreal weight of two deaths in minutes crashed over him, yet he felt stronger, faster, a twitch of new power in his limbs. This is real. Die. Respawn. Get better. What the hell? He steadied himself, hand dragging across his jaw, the dust biting into his calluses, grounding him in this bizarre new world.
The Bloodriders stood rigid, blades lowered, eyes wide with a fear that mirrored the khalasar's silence, broken only by a shrill neigh from Drogo's horse. Dean forced a grin, spitting dust onto the ground with a wet smack. "Round two?" he taunted, voice a challenge meant for the silent army. "Didn't like the service the first time."
Daenerys' gaze burned into him, terror and curiosity dancing in her violet eyes, her bells jingling as she shifted. He met her stare, flashed a reckless grin, the taste of victory bitter on his tongue. "Here's to a bloody retirement, princess."
Later, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows that stretched like skeletal fingers across the Grass Sea, Dean found a quiet corner near the tent, sinking onto a low crate with a groan. The leather creaked, heat radiating from the ground through his boots, warming his aching feet. He traced a faded horse carving on the wood, a child's work worn smooth by time, his rough fingers catching on the edges. Distant clatter of Dothraki faded to a hum, a lullaby of sorts. Just a breather. Then back to this insane mess. A memory flickered—trading baseball cards with kids back home, their laughter ringing in his ears, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked chaos around him.
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