The days in the Dothraki camp passed in a blur of heat, dust, and battle. Arren's blindfold remained firmly in place, a constant reminder of the path he had chosen—the path toward Khal Drogo. Each day brought new challenges as one Dothraki warrior after another stepped forward to face him. Most fights were quick, a display of brute strength clashing against Arren's sharp reflexes and honed instincts. His victories were almost always inevitable, though he knew that the true test still lay ahead.
But in the spaces between those battles, Arren found himself occupied with something else: teaching.
Zhal, the young Dothraki boy who followed him like a shadow, had become an eager student. Though his vision was poor, Zhal had shown promise, picking up on the subtle techniques Arren employed during his fights. Arren had taken the boy under his wing, not because he had been asked, but because he saw in Zhal something that reminded him of his own younger self—a desire to prove himself in a world that offered little mercy.
"You're thinking too much," Arren said, his voice calm but firm, as he sparred with Zhal one morning. They were in a quiet corner of the camp, away from the noise of the other warriors. "Your mind's getting in the way of your body."
Zhal frowned, wiping sweat from his brow. "But how do I fight if I can't see clearly? Everything is... blurred."
Arren's lips curved into a small smile beneath his blindfold. "You don't need to see clearly. You need to listen, feel, and trust your instincts. Your body will know what to do if you let it."
Zhal hesitated for a moment, then nodded, stepping back into position. Arren could hear the boy's shallow breaths, the tension in his movements. "Relax," he said, his voice softer now. "You're not fighting me. You're fighting yourself. Just let go."
Zhal swung his practice blade, this time more fluidly, and Arren moved effortlessly, guiding the boy's movements, correcting his stance with each step. It was slow progress, but Zhal was improving. Each day, his strikes grew more precise, his footwork more confident.
After their sparring session, they sat by the campfire, Zhal looking exhausted but proud. "Do you think I'll ever be as good as you?" he asked, his voice full of hope.
Arren leaned back, his blindfolded gaze turned toward the crackling flames. "You'll be better than me one day, if you keep at it."
Zhal's face brightened at the compliment, but Arren's mind was already wandering to his next fight. He knew that the Dothraki warriors he had faced so far were merely tests—none of them were the real challenge. Khal Drogo was still far away, looming like a distant storm. Arren's path was clear, but the road ahead was long.
In the quiet moments between battles and training, Arren found unexpected company in Daenerys Targaryen. Their conversations, though brief at first, grew longer and more frequent. She had taken an interest in him—perhaps as a curiosity, perhaps as something more. But either way, they spoke often, sharing stories, thoughts, and quiet moments amid the chaos of the camp.
One evening, they sat near a small fire, the camp bustling around them, but their conversation quiet and intimate. Daenerys, her violet eyes reflecting the firelight, had been pondering aloud about the world around her, her thoughts drifting to the wonders she had seen and those she hadn't yet encountered.
"I've seen so many strange and beautiful creatures in my travels," she said softly, her voice thoughtful. "But sometimes, I wonder about the animals of Westeros. What wonders does your homeland hold?"
Arren smiled beneath his blindfold, his thoughts drifting back to the memories of his past life—the knowledge he carried with him, the things he had learned but never shared. "There are many creatures in Westeros," he began, his tone light. "Some are as mundane as the direwolf, loyal and fierce. But then, there are stranger creatures. The shadowcats of the mountains, the ice spiders of the far north—though no one has seen those in many years."
Daenerys tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Ice spiders? That sounds like something from a child's story."
Arren chuckled. "A lot of things sound like stories until you come face to face with them. Then they're all too real."
Daenerys laughed softly, leaning in just a bit closer, clearly enjoying the conversation. "Tell me more. What else?"
Arren smiled, sensing the lightness in her voice. He shared fun facts, little tidbits of knowledge he recalled from his past life. "Did you know ravens are smarter than crows? They remember faces, and some of them can even mimic human speech."
Daenerys raised an eyebrow, amused. "I'll have to listen more closely the next time I see one."
The conversation meandered from one creature to another, Arren recounting the animals of Westeros with surprising detail, as though his mind was a wellspring of knowledge. Daenerys laughed along with him, her eyes sparkling with genuine enjoyment. For a moment, she wasn't the Khaleesi of the Dothraki, and he wasn't the blindfolded foreigner. They were simply two people talking about the world and its mysteries.
But then, Daenerys's tone shifted, becoming more serious, more curious. "What about dragons?" she asked, her voice soft but intent. "What do you know of them?"
Arren hesitated, his thoughts immediately going to the knowledge he held about dragons—things he had learned from his previous life. He knew how to hatch them, knew the secrets that might unlock the potential of the dragon eggs she carried. But it wasn't his place to interfere with her destiny. The weight of that knowledge was heavy, and he had no desire to change the course of her path.
Instead, he smiled and began a tale. "There's a story from my land—an old legend. A tale of a great dragon, Smaug, who laid waste to a kingdom, much like the dragons of old Valyria. The people fled, except for a single man from a small town by the lake. He took up his bow, shot the dragon down from the sky, and the people escaped to rebuild their lives far away from the ashes of their fallen homes."
Daenerys listened intently, her expression thoughtful. When he finished, she let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "That's not how the Doom of Valyria happened."
Arren grinned, turning his head toward her. "No, but it's how it could have happened."
Daenerys laughed again, a sound that was both warm and genuine. She reached out, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. "You make good tales, Arren."
He felt the light touch of her hand, a gesture that caught him off guard. It was unexpected but not unwelcome. He smiled faintly, though the weight of their conversation lingered. "It's easy to make tales. The hard part is living them."
Daenerys regarded him for a moment, her violet eyes searching his blindfold as if trying to see beyond it. Then, with a soft sigh, she stood, her hand falling back to her side. "You have a way with words, Arren. Perhaps one day, we'll speak of a tale that belongs to you."
With that, she turned and made her way back toward her tent, her handmaidens trailing behind her. As she disappeared into the shadows, Arren remained by the fire, thinking about the strange bond that had formed between them. She was a queen, and he was a man on a path to face her Khal, yet there was something undeniably familiar, something connecting them that neither fully understood.
Later that night, as Daenerys entered her tent, her handmaidens followed closely, their expressions filled with concern. Irri, the most outspoken among them, spoke first.
"Khaleesi," she said carefully, "you laid your hand on that man. Arren."
Daenerys waved a dismissive hand, though her mind was still on the conversation she had shared with Arren. "It wasn't intentional. We were talking. It was nothing."
Irri frowned, stepping closer. "That's what makes it dangerous, Khaleesi. He is a man, and he seeks to kill your husband. Speaking to him, touching him—it gives the wrong impression."
Daenerys glanced at Irri, a hint of annoyance in her gaze. "You think I don't know that? I know exactly who he is and what he wants. But he's also... more than that. He's someone with stories, someone who sees the world differently."
Irri lowered her gaze, still uneasy. "It's not proper."
Daenerys sighed softly, turning away from her handmaidens. "Proper or not, it was harmless. He makes good conversation and that is all I am there for"
Irri said nothing more, though her disapproval lingered in the air. As Daenerys settled onto her cushions, her thoughts drifted back to Arren. There was something intriguing about him, something that made her want to know more. He was different from the other men in the khalasar—quiet, thoughtful, and oddly respectful, despite the violence that simmered beneath his calm exterior.
Perhaps, she mused to herself, there's more to him than just a man seeking a fight.
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