Arren had grown stronger, faster, and sharper with each passing day. His blindfold never left his face, but the Dothraki warriors who fought him soon learned that his lack of sight wasn't a disadvantage—it was what made him more dangerous. The challenges were becoming more difficult. The fighters more experienced. And yet, each time, Arren stood victorious, his skills honed through battle after battle.
The days in the Dothraki camp passed in a blur of sweat, steel, and blood. Arren's mind was sharp, his body fluid, and his senses heightened with every fight. Each Dothraki warrior that stepped forward came with years of experience, their braids long, their arakhs deadly. They didn't hold back, and neither did Arren.
One particularly brutal fight saw him facing a blood rider with a long braid and a reputation for ruthlessness. The man's strikes were fast, calculated, and brutal. The crowd watched in silence as Arren dodged each blow, his body moving with the ease of someone who had trained without sight for years. He parried, blocked, and countered, his movements precise. His hearing, sharper than anyone else's, picked up the subtle shifts in the man's stance—the scrape of his boots on the ground, the tension in his muscles before each swing.
The fight was long, but Arren wore the blood rider down, exploiting the smallest mistake. With one swift movement, he disarmed the warrior, sending his arakh clattering to the ground. Arren could feel the silence in the air, the disbelief of the onlookers.
Arren stepped back, breathing heavily, his heart pounding from the adrenaline. Another victory.
As the crowd dispersed, whispers followed him. Each win made him a greater legend among the Dothraki, and with each passing day, his name was spoken with a mix of fear and admiration.
But it wasn't just the regular warriors who took notice.
One evening, after yet another victory, Arren was summoned to the great tent of Khal Drogo. He wasn't surprised. His victories had caught the attention of the entire khalasar, and he had been expecting this moment. With a calm, deliberate pace, he followed the warrior who had come to fetch him.
Inside the tent, the air was thick with the smell of meat roasting over a fire. The flickering flames cast long shadows on the walls, making the space feel both grand and intimate. Khal Drogo sat at the head of the room, his massive frame dominating the space. His long braid was a symbol of his undefeated status, and his presence was almost palpable.
Arren could hear the subtle rustle of fabric and armor as others in the tent watched him enter. He moved carefully, guided by the sounds and scents around him.
"Khal Drogo," Arren said, his voice steady as he stopped a few feet from the towering man.
Drogo's deep, rumbling voice filled the tent as he spoke in broken Common Tongue. "You... fight well," he said, his accent thick but clear. "But not ready. Not yet."
Arren tilted his head, listening intently.
Drogo rose from his seat, towering over Arren. "You want fight me. Prove strength." He gestured with a heavy hand toward his blood riders, who stood silently around him. "Fight them first. Only when... you beat all blood riders, you face Khal."
Arren nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of the challenge. The blood riders were the best of the best—warriors who had sworn to protect Drogo with their lives. Defeating them all would not be an easy feat.
"When?" Arren asked, his voice calm despite the weight of what lay ahead.
Drogo grinned, showing his teeth. "When you are ready. Then... I fight you."
The unspoken understanding passed between them. Arren had faced many warriors in the camp, but none as skilled or dangerous as the blood riders. He had known from the beginning that Khal Drogo wouldn't fight him unless he had proven himself worthy.
Before Arren could respond, there was a commotion outside the tent. A voice, sharp and angry, broke through the evening air.
It was Viserys Targaryen.
Viserys stormed into the tent, his face twisted in rage. His golden hair, once neat and regal, was disheveled, and his eyes burned with fury. "What is this?!" he shouted, his voice trembling with indignation. "You dare disrespect the blood of the dragon?!"
Arren stood still, listening, though he could sense the tension rising in the tent. Viserys was in one of his usual rants, but there was something more dangerous about his tone this time.
"I am your king!" Viserys shouted, pointing at Daenerys, who had entered behind him, her face calm despite her brother's tirade. "I will not be treated like some beggar prince!"
The room was thick with tension as Viserys moved closer to Daenerys, his eyes wild with anger. "I'll take back what is mine," he sneered, his voice lowering dangerously. "I'll rip that baby from your womb if I have to."
The air in the tent grew cold as the Dothraki warriors stiffened. Arren could hear the subtle shift of their stances, the quiet but unmistakable anger building in the room. Khal Drogo's presence loomed large, and for the first time, Arren sensed a shift in the Khal's usually calm demeanor.
Drogo stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over Viserys. Without a word, he grabbed Viserys by the arm, pulling him toward the center of the tent. The young Targaryen struggled, but Drogo's grip was like iron.
"You want crown?" Drogo rumbled in broken Common Tongue, his voice filled with disdain. "I give you crown."
Arren listened, knowing what was about to happen. He could hear the liquid metal being poured, the sound of Viserys's desperate gasps as he realized his fate.
Within moments, the deed was done. Viserys Targaryen, the self-proclaimed king, was dead—his golden crown still burning on his head.
Arren felt no sorrow at the sight. Viserys had brought his fate upon himself. And yet, the act reminded Arren of how different this world was. Brutality was a way of life here, and even kings could fall without mercy.
Later that night, as the camp settled into a hushed quiet, Daenerys approached Arren. She stood before him, her steps soft and measured, but he could sense a shift in her—something heavier weighing on her mind.
"So," Arren said quietly, "you're pregnant."
Daenerys nodded, her eyes thoughtful. There was no use denying it now. "Yes," she said softly. "I am."
Before she could say anything more, Arren launched into a stream of information, his voice full of enthusiasm. "You'll need to make sure you're eating enough iron-rich foods—whatever you can find out here. And water, that's important. The baby will need all the fruits you can give it. And don't forget about rest! It's easy to get caught up in the excitement, but your body needs time to recover."
Daenerys blinked, surprised by the sudden tirade. Her handmaidens stood nearby, exchanging amused glances as Arren continued, oblivious to their reactions.
"And once the baby's born," Arren went on, his voice picking up speed, "you'll want to keep it swaddled for warmth, especially at night. Babies lose heat faster than adults, so it's important to keep them warm. And breastfeeding—"
At this point, Daenerys and her handmaidens could no longer hold back their laughter. The image of the stoic, blindfolded warrior launching into a detailed explanation of baby care was too much for them to bear.
Daenerys held up a hand, trying to contain her amusement. "Arren... that's enough."
Arren paused, realizing that he had gotten carried away. "Right," he said, his voice softer. "Sorry. I just... I know a lot about this kind of thing."
Daenerys smiled warmly, her laughter fading. "I appreciate your... enthusiasm."
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the weight of the day's events hanging over them. Finally, Daenerys turned to leave, her handmaidens trailing behind her.
As they walked away, Arren overheard the handmaidens whispering.
"He doesn't seem jealous at all," Irri said quietly. "It's strange."
Doreah nodded in agreement. "Maybe he only sees her as a friend."
Daenerys said nothing, but a small smile tugged at her lips as they disappeared into the night.
Arren sat by the fire, his mind wandering. He had come to Vaes Dothrak for one reason—to fight Khal Drogo. But as the days passed, he found himself becoming entangled in the lives of these people, in the moments of humanity that surfaced even in a place as brutal as this.
But the path to Drogo was clear. And the blood riders still awaited him.
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