Arren walked through the sprawling chaos of the Dothraki camp, his steps measured, his senses attuned to the world around him. Though he couldn't see, the sounds, smells, and vibrations of the camp were more than enough to guide him. The crackling of fires, the distant snort of horses, and the endless hum of Dothraki voices gave the camp its pulse—a chaotic rhythm that had grown familiar to him over the past few days.
But something else gnawed at him.
The slaves. Their labored breathing, their silent suffering as they hauled heavy loads and performed backbreaking work day after day. He could hear their footsteps, heavier and slower than the Dothraki riders. He had grown accustomed to the way they shuffled, the way their exhaustion weighed on each movement. It reminded him too much of the pit, of the cruelty he had once endured.
He couldn't stand it.
Today, as he walked near the outskirts of the camp, something—someone—caught his attention. A young Dothraki boy, no older than twenty, was following him, his footsteps light but close enough that Arren noticed. The boy hadn't approached him directly yet, but Arren could feel his presence lingering nearby, like a shadow that hadn't decided whether to reveal itself.
Arren continued on, focusing on the sounds of the camp, and as he neared a quieter area where discarded items were often thrown, he spoke without turning.
"You've been following me for a while."
There was a moment of hesitation before the boy responded, his voice carrying both curiosity and nervousness. "I... I want to learn. To fight like you."
Arren turned his head slightly, listening to the boy's voice. He had heard him before—one of the younger Dothraki, his braid short, barely enough to signify a few victories. The boy had kept his distance during the last few days but had clearly been watching Arren's every move.
"I'm not much of a teacher," Arren said, though there was no harshness in his tone. "Besides, you don't need to follow me to learn how to fight."
The boy hesitated again, his voice dropping as if embarrassed. "I can't see well. Things... they blur at a distance. The others mock me for it."
Arren frowned. That explained the boy's fascination. Myopia wasn't something that would stop the Dothraki from fighting, but it would certainly make things harder for him. A warrior who couldn't see clearly would struggle in battle, and in the Dothraki culture, any sign of weakness was mocked relentlessly.
"What's your name?" Arren asked.
"Zhal," the boy said quietly.
Arren nodded, his mind shifting from the conversation to the task at hand. The slaves needed help, and he had been thinking about ways to make their labor easier. He didn't know where to find everything he needed, but maybe this boy, Zhal, could help.
"I'm working on something," Arren said after a pause. "Something to help the slaves. I could use a hand, but I need someone who can see where things are. I've heard there's plenty of scrap wood and broken planks scattered around the camp. Can you find those for me?"
Zhal perked up, clearly eager to be of use. "I can help with that."
Over the next few hours, with Zhal's assistance, Arren began gathering materials—old wood, pieces of metal, and bits of rope that had been discarded around the camp. Zhal moved quickly, describing the objects as he handed them to Arren, his excitement growing as he realized he was helping with something meaningful.
"What are we building?" Zhal asked, handing Arren a long plank of wood.
"A wheelbarrow," Arren replied, feeling the shape of the plank with his hands, ensuring it was sturdy enough. "It'll help the slaves carry heavy loads more easily."
Zhal seemed confused. "But... why? The slaves are here to work."
Arren's lips pressed into a thin line. "There's no harm in making their work easier. Besides, strength isn't about how much weight you can carry. It's about how smart you are in the fight."
Zhal fell silent for a moment, pondering Arren's words. For a young Dothraki, the idea of helping slaves—who were little more than property in their eyes—was strange, but Arren's calm conviction seemed to make sense.
They worked in relative silence after that, with Zhal fetching materials and describing their condition as Arren constructed the first few wheelbarrows. It was slow work, but by the time the sun began to set, they had built several functional wheelbarrows from the discarded scraps.
Zhal inspected the finished product, impressed. "The slaves will like this."
"They'll like it because it'll make their lives a little less miserable," Arren said with a small smile. "Small steps."
Just as they were finishing the last of the wheelbarrows, Arren sensed the shift in the atmosphere. The distant murmurs grew louder, and the sound of several Dothraki approaching made him tense. It didn't take long for him to realize that not everyone in the camp approved of his efforts.
"What is this?" a sharp voice rang out.
Arren straightened, recognizing the aggressive tone. Another Dothraki warrior, older and clearly more experienced than Zhal, stepped forward. Arren could hear the disdain in his voice as he spoke.
"You think you can change our ways, blind man? You insult us by giving these slaves these toys to play with."
Arren stayed calm, his blindfold firmly in place. "It's not an insult. It's a tool to help them. There's no shame in making their work easier."
The warrior spat on the ground, his voice laced with anger. "You mock us. The slaves will work till their back breaks. you are not meant to help" His hand reached for his arakh, and Arren heard the familiar sound of the blade being drawn.
Another fight was coming.
"I don't want trouble," Arren said evenly, though his body had already shifted into a ready stance.
The Dothraki sneered. "You are trouble."
With that, the warrior charged. Arren moved fluidly, his body already reacting to the sound of the man's heavy footsteps and the rush of air as the arakh cut through the space between them. The fight was quick—too quick. Arren sidestepped the first strike, deflecting it with ease, and with a swift, well-placed strike to the warrior's side, sent him crashing to the ground.
The crowd that had gathered to watch was silent, taken aback by how easily the blindfolded foreigner had bested one of their own.
The Dothraki on the ground grunted in pain, struggling to get up, but Arren didn't press the attack. He had already made his point. Without waiting for further confrontation, Arren turned and walked toward the edge of the camp, where he found a quiet spot behind a large boulder to collect his thoughts. He didn't want to keep fighting these Dothraki warriors just for the sake of proving himself. The real challenge—Khal Drogo—was still ahead.
As he sat in the shade of the boulder, his thoughts drifting, he heard footsteps approaching again—lighter this time, accompanied by the rustle of fine fabric. He didn't need to see to know who it was.
"You're avoiding them," came the soft voice of Daenerys.
Arren smiled faintly. "I'm avoiding unnecessary fights."
Daenerys stepped closer, and he could sense her presence, calm and curious. Her handmaidens stood a few steps behind her, their soft footsteps barely audible.
"You've already defeated two of my Khal's warriors," Daenerys said, her voice thoughtful. "But they were not his best."
Arren nodded. "I know. The weak ones always come first. I'm just waiting for the real fights to begin."
A silence settled between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp. After a moment, Daenerys spoke again, her voice quieter this time. "I heard what you've been doing for the slaves."
"They need the help," Arren replied simply. "Their work is hard enough."
"You don't agree with the way the Dothraki treat their slaves," she said, not as a question, but as an observation.
Arren let out a quiet sigh. "No, I don't. No one should be forced to live like that. They break their backs while the Dothraki live in comfort."
Daenerys's voice held a note of weariness. "The Dothraki are not the only ones who use slaves. It is... part of how this world works."
Arren's jaw clenched. "That doesn't make it right."
The silence stretched, the weight of the conversation heavy between them. After a long pause, Arren spoke again, his voice low. "You speak of their suffering as if you understand it, but you live in a house built on their backs. You're part of it, whether you like it or not."
Daenerys's tone hardened slightly. "I live in that house because I have no choice, Arren. I didn't choose this life, this way of living. The Dothraki are my people now, but I am no freer than the slaves you pity."
Arren winced, realizing how harsh his words had been. "I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed."
Daenerys huffed softly, and he could sense a mixture of annoyance and amusement in the sound.
Daenerys let the moment linger before speaking again, her tone soft but pointed. "It's easy to judge when you're on the outside looking in, but the world is not as simple as you think."
Arren nodded, feeling the weight of her words. He had spent so much time focusing on his own challenges, his own journey, that it hadn't occurred to him that others were trapped by circumstances just as harsh. "I didn't mean to judge. I just... I've seen too much suffering. It's hard to watch and do nothing."
Daenerys shifted slightly, her handmaidens remaining a respectful distance behind her, though Arren could hear them shifting, their nervous movements betraying their unease at the conversation. "I understand. More than you might think." She paused, the firelight flickering behind them, casting long shadows. "But we all have our burdens to carry."
For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, and Arren could feel the tension in the air dissolve ever so slightly. Then, with a curious edge to her voice, Daenerys asked, "Why do you wear that blindfold? I've heard the rumors, but I don't believe them."
Arren chuckled softly, leaning back against the rock. "You don't believe in the cursed warrior who challenged the gods and lost his sight?" He said it with a trace of amusement.
Daenerys scoffed, her tone dripping with disbelief. "No. That's a story for children. There's more to it than that, isn't there?"
Arren hesitated, wondering how much he should reveal. He could tell her the truth, or he could continue to hide behind the legend Belenar had spun. But something about Daenerys made him feel as though she wouldn't accept anything but honesty. She was sharp, perceptive.
Still, the truth was not something he was ready to share. Not yet.
"Let's just say," Arren began, "that I had to learn to fight without my eyes. The blindfold is a reminder."
"Of what?" she asked, her curiosity deepening.
Arren smirked. "Of what I'm capable of, and of what I'm still learning."
Daenerys didn't press further, though he could sense she wasn't entirely satisfied with his answer. Instead, she let out a small sigh, her voice becoming lighter, more casual. "It seems you're full of secrets, Arren."
"Maybe," he said, keeping the playful tone. "But I'm not the only one."
For the first time in their conversation, Daenerys let out a genuine laugh. It was soft and short-lived, but it held a warmth that contrasted the earlier tension. "True enough," she admitted.
The conversation shifted then, moving from the heavier topics of slavery and burdens to lighter things. They talked about life in the camp, the strange customs of the Dothraki, and the places Daenerys had visited in her exile. Arren found himself enjoying the simplicity of it, the way the conversation flowed without the need for pretense or performance.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to relax. He forgot about the fights to come, the looming challenge of Khal Drogo, and the weight of his own journey. In that moment, he was just Arren, talking with a queen who, despite her power and title, was as much a stranger to this land as he was.
Daenerys studied him for a long moment, as if weighing something in her mind. Then, with a final nod, she turned and began walking away, her handmaidens following closely behind. As they left, Arren couldn't help but feel a strange sense of connection to her—a bond, perhaps, though they were on very different paths.
As the night settled in, and the camp quieted down, Arren found himself thinking about their conversation. Despite their differences, he and Daenerys shared a certain understanding. She was trapped by her own circumstances, just as he was bound by his quest. They were both outsiders in a world that didn't truly belong to them.
For a brief moment, he considered what might happen if his journey didn't end in violence—if, somehow, he could coexist in this strange world without bloodshed. But that thought faded as quickly as it came.
He had chosen his path. And that path led to Khal Drogo.
As Daenerys walked back to her tent with her handmaidens trailing behind her, she found herself deep in thought. Arren was an enigma, a man full of contradictions. He was a skilled fighter, yet he spoke with the quiet thoughtfulness of someone who had seen too much. And then there was the blindfold, the mystery behind it, and the way he carried himself despite his blindness.
Irri, still looking uneasy, spoke again. "Khaleesi, speaking with a man alone... it's not something—"
Daenerys interrupted her with a laugh, though it was softer this time. "I was hardly alone, Irri. You, Jhiqui, and Doreah were standing right there the entire time."
Irri blushed again, but said nothing, her concern still visible in the way she wrung her hands.
Daenerys, however, brushed it aside. Arren was no ordinary man, and their conversation had been... refreshing. He didn't treat her like a queen, nor did he fear her like the others did. There was something grounding in that, something she hadn't realized she missed.
"He's different," Daenerys said, more to herself than to her handmaidens. "A good conversationalist, and certainly not like the other men I've met."
Jhiqui, the youngest of her handmaidens, glanced at Daenerys curiously. "Will you speak with him again, Khaleesi?"
Daenerys smiled, though there was a wistful edge to it. "Perhaps. But his path is set on blood. If he stops seeking Drogo's head, maybe."
Her handmaidens exchanged uneasy glances, but Daenerys continued walking, her thoughts lingering on the blindfolded man. Arren was different, yes, and though they were on opposing paths, there was something about him that drew her interest.
Still, she reminded herself, he was a warrior seeking her Khal. And as much as she might have enjoyed their conversation, she could not afford to forget the reality of his quest.
She sighed quietly, her handmaidens trailing behind her as they disappeared into the tent, the firelight flickering in the distance.
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