The days had grown long and violent in the Dothraki camp. Arren had already fought two of Khal Drogo's bloodriders, each battle testing the limits of his skill, each victory proving that his abilities, honed in the brutal pit, were enough to match even the fiercest of warriors.
The first bloodrider he faced was seasoned, his braid long and adorned with the skulls of his fallen enemies. The crowd gathered as usual, eager for the spectacle. Arren could feel the weight of the Dothraki's expectations, their silent hope that their bloodrider would bring down the blindfolded foreigner who had dared to challenge their way of life.
Arren stood still, listening to the bloodrider's movements. The man was cautious at first, circling, probing for weaknesses. But Arren had none. His entire body was attuned to the sounds of the fight—the scrape of leather, the shift in weight, the faintest rustle of fabric. When the bloodrider lunged, Arren moved fluidly, dodging the arakh with the same precision that had won him every fight so far.
The fight was fast and brutal, Arren deflecting each strike with ease. The bloodrider's frustration grew, and in his impatience, he made a critical mistake—he overextended on a swing, giving Arren the opening he needed. With one swift motion, Arren ducked low, swept the man's legs out from under him, and pressed the edge of his blade to the man's throat.
The bloodrider yielded, gasping for breath as Arren stepped back, his blindfold still firmly in place.
The second bloodrider came the next day, eager to reclaim the honor of his fallen comrade. This fight was harder, more drawn out. The bloodrider was skilled, his strikes fast and deadly, but Arren's instincts were sharper. Each clash of their blades sent vibrations through the air, the sound of steel on steel ringing in Arren's ears. But even this warrior, with all his experience, fell to Arren's unwavering skill. The crowd watched in silence as the bloodrider surrendered, his pride wounded.
Arren was ready for the next fight—ready to continue proving himself until Khal Drogo finally stood before him. But before the next challenge could come, the camp was thrust into chaos.
Khal Ogo, one of the few men bold enough to challenge Khal Drogo's might, had declared war. The Dothraki khalasar was buzzing with anticipation, horses being readied, weapons sharpened. The sound of preparation filled the air, the ground trembling beneath the hooves of a thousand horses.
As the camp stirred into a frenzy, Arren found himself summoned by none other than Khal Drogo himself. He was led into the great tent, where Drogo stood tall, his massive frame brimming with power and authority. The tension in the air was palpable as the Khal turned to face Arren, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Drogo's voice rumbled in the thick, broken Common Tongue. "You... talk with my wife."
Arren stood still, feeling the weight of the accusation hanging in the air. He had spent time with Daenerys, yes, but their conversations had been harmless, filled with stories, questions, and laughter. There was no malice, no intent to betray. He wasn't sure how much Khal Drogo knew or how much he assumed, but the last thing Arren wanted was to provoke the Khal.
"She is a friend," Arren said, his tone calm but firm. "Nothing more."
Drogo stepped forward, his towering presence almost suffocating. His dark eyes bore into Arren's, and despite the blindfold, Arren could feel the intensity of the Khal's gaze. "You wanted fight?" Drogo growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You get fight... when I come back."
Arren clenched his fists, feeling the promise in Drogo's words. His chance to face the Khal was coming, but not today. Drogo placed a massive hand on Arren's shoulder, his grip heavy and commanding. "Until then," Drogo said, his tone softer now but still laced with authority, "keep my wife safe."
The command was clear, and Arren nodded, giving Drogo the respect he deserved. "I will," he said simply.
With that, Drogo turned and left the tent, his bloodriders following closely behind. Arren stood alone for a moment, the weight of the responsibility settling over him.
The war came swiftly. The sound of hooves thundered across the plains as Khal Drogo led his warriors into battle against Khal Ogo. The air was thick with the smell of dust and blood, the ground trembling beneath the weight of the massive khalasar. Arren did not go to war with them. His task was different—he had been given the responsibility of guarding Daenerys, keeping her safe while Drogo fought.
For days, Arren stood vigil outside Daenerys's tent, his senses attuned to every movement, every sound. The camp was quiet without the warriors, only the slaves and those too young or weak to fight remained. Arren expected an attack, a stray challenger seeking to exploit the Khal's absence, but the days passed without incident.
It was not until the Khalasar returned that Arren realized the true cost of the war.
Khal Drogo had won the battle against Khal Ogo, as expected. His warriors returned victorious, their horses laden with the spoils of war. But Drogo himself was not the same. Arren could smell it before he saw it—the sharp, acrid stench of infection.
Drogo rode at the front of the khalasar, his posture proud, but there was something off about the way he moved. Arren could hear it in his breathing, the strain in his voice as he barked commands. And then, when Drogo dismounted, the full extent of his injury became clear. A deep wound on his chest, swollen and oozing white pus.
Arren stood silently as Daenerys rushed to her husband's side, her eyes wide with horror. She reached out to touch him, her hands trembling. The wound was festering, the infection spreading rapidly. Drogo, the great Khal, the undefeated warrior, had been brought low by a single injury.
Daenerys's voice broke as she spoke, her tone filled with desperation. "We need a healer... someone to help him!"
But Arren already knew it was too late. The infection had taken hold, and even if a healer were found, the damage was done. Drogo's fate was sealed.
As Arren watched Daenerys plead for help, her heart breaking before his eyes, he felt an unexpected sense of detachment. This was the man he had come to fight, the warrior he had trained for. And now, without ever crossing blades, Drogo was lost to him.
Arren stood still, his face impassive, though his mind raced with conflicting thoughts. I lost my opponent, he thought bitterly, the realization settling in. But as he watched Daenerys kneel by Drogo's side, her face etched with sorrow, Arren shook his head. This was no longer about the fight.
He couldn't leave. Not now. Daenerys, strong as she was, was surrounded by sycophants, men who would only tell her what she wanted to hear. She needed someone who wasn't afraid to speak the truth—someone who could be a friend in a time when her world was falling apart.
Arren sighed quietly, his gaze shifting toward Daenerys. He had come here to fight Khal Drogo. But now, his path had changed. He would stay—not for Drogo, but for her.
For Daenerys, the woman who still had battles of her own to face.