Perspective: Joffrey Baratheon
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was dimly lit, but the flickering candles illuminated the face of the boy king, Joffrey Baratheon, as he lounged on the Iron Throne. His golden curls caught the faint light, and his sharp, cruel smile widened as he listened to the news from his small council.
Varys, the spymaster, stood at the far end of the room, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his face as smooth and unreadable as ever. "It is confirmed, Your Grace. Daenerys Targaryen has lost her husband, Khal Drogo, and half of her khalasar. Her son was stillborn—deformed, some say like a demon. She is now alone with a few remaining followers and some... curiosities."
Joffrey laughed, a shrill sound that echoed off the stone walls of the hall. "Good riddance to that whore," he said with smug satisfaction, his eyes gleaming. "That's what happens to those who defy me. Her death was a gift from the gods." He leaned forward, his hand gripping the arm of the Iron Throne as if he were already the greatest king Westeros had ever known. "This calls for a celebration."
Varys bowed slightly, his face unchanged by the king's outburst. "Of course, Your Grace. But there is still the matter of her dragons—"
Joffrey waved a hand dismissively, cutting him off. "Dragons! There are no dragons, Varys. Just myths, like the stories old women tell to frighten children." He leaned back, tapping his fingers on the arm of the throne. "I want a dragon skull placed beneath my feet. Bring one from the crypts and set it under the throne. I'll rest my boots on it while I rule. Let the people see who holds the real power now."
The small council exchanged uneasy glances, and it was Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and the true power behind the throne, who cleared his throat. His voice was measured, calm, and carried the weight of generations of wisdom. "Your Grace," he began, choosing his words carefully, "we cannot afford to dismiss Daenerys Targaryen so lightly. She may have lost much, but she has dragons. If we are not vigilant, we could very well find ourselves facing them."
Joffrey sneered at his grandfather, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Dragons are dead, grandfather. I'll not waste my time worrying about a beggar queen and her fairy tales."
Tywin's eyes narrowed, but he did not show his frustration. "If the reports are true, Your Grace, and she has dragons, it would be wise to prepare. A single dragon can turn the tide of a war, and she is said to have three."
Joffrey scoffed, but his grin faltered slightly. He looked to Cersei, who sat beside him, her calculating green eyes watching the exchange with interest. "Mother, do you believe this nonsense?"
Cersei's lips curled into a faint smile. "I believe it would be unwise to ignore any potential threat, my son. Dragons or not, Daenerys Targaryen is still a Targaryen. We've destroyed her family once, and we'll do it again if necessary."
Joffrey's face hardened, his hand gripping the arm of the throne until his knuckles turned white. "Fine," he snapped. "Let her come. I'll burn her and her dragons if they dare show their faces in my kingdom. But for now, fetch me the skull. I want to feel its bones under my feet."
Tywin shared a glance with Varys, knowing full well that Joffrey's arrogance would be their greatest liability. The world was shifting, and while the boy king reveled in his imagined invincibility, the real dangers grew ever closer.
Perspective: Ser Jorah Mormont
Far across the Narrow Sea, in the heart of the Dothraki camp, Ser Jorah Mormont watched from a distance as the sun set over the horizon, casting long shadows over the sea of tents. He stood tall, his weathered face etched with concern as he surveyed the camp. His eyes were always on her—Daenerys, his queen, his Khaleesi.
But there was another shadow that loomed beside her now. The cursed warrior.
Arren, the blindfolded swordsman, had become something of a legend within the khalasar. Where Jorah had once stood as Daenerys's protector, Arren had quietly taken on that role. Jorah's pride stung at the thought, but he could not deny the truth. Arren was a force unlike any he had ever seen.
The cursed warrior was vigilant in ways Jorah couldn't understand. His blindfold had led to countless whispered rumors about dark magic and forgotten gods. The Dothraki feared him, and even those who didn't believed he was something beyond human. Arren was everywhere—silent, always on guard. Some said he never slept, though Jorah knew better. Even still, the man's presence was unnerving. He would lie in the shadows, seemingly idle, but at a moment's notice, he would act, faster than any man Jorah had ever seen.
Like the other night.
Jorah's memory flashed back to that moment by the fire. Daenerys had been resting, speaking with Doreah and her handmaidens, when Jorah noticed something—a fire ant, crawling dangerously close to her. The Dothraki called them khals' blood, for their sting was like a dagger's bite, leaving agony that could last for days. The ant, no larger than a pebble, had begun to crawl up her arm.
Before Jorah could move, before anyone had even registered what was happening, Arren was there. In a single, fluid motion, the cursed warrior, who had been lying on a bale of grass as if asleep, sprang to his knees, his hand swift and sure. With a quick flick of his fingers, he caught the ant and crushed it.
The entire camp had gone silent, every eye watching as Arren, still on one knee before Daenerys, tilted his head slightly and dropped the crushed ant to the ground. The queen had been unharmed, unaware of the danger she had been in, but those who had witnessed it knew.
It was not just the speed. It was not just the precision. It was the way he had moved—like a ghost, a shadow, a guardian from the myths. He had been sleeping, or so everyone thought, yet he had known, in that fraction of a second, what needed to be done. He had protected her from something small, something seemingly insignificant, but in that moment, he had solidified the belief among the Dothraki that he was more than just a man.
Jorah had stood frozen, watching as Daenerys had smiled faintly at Arren, not realizing the danger she had been in. "Thank you," she had said, her tone light, unaware of the gravity of the moment.
Arren had nodded, his expression unreadable behind the blindfold, before returning to his resting place as if nothing had happened. The handmaidens exchanged looks of awe, and even the Dothraki who had witnessed the event whispered among themselves.
Jorah had clenched his fists, feeling a strange mix of respect and envy. He, too, had sworn to protect Daenerys with his life. He had followed her from the beginning, had pledged his sword to her cause. But Arren... Arren was different. He was like the guardian angels of old tales, always watching, always ready, moving as if guided by something beyond the mortal world.
Jorah's gaze lingered on Arren now, who lay near the entrance of Daenerys's tent, seemingly asleep once again. But Jorah knew better. The cursed warrior was always vigilant. Not even the smallest threat could approach Daenerys without him knowing.
It gnawed at Jorah's pride, but he knew his limits. Arren was a man who had stood against gods—or at least that's what the whispers said. And in his heart, Jorah believed it. He had seen enough to know that there were forces in this world far beyond his understanding.
He would continue to serve Daenerys, to protect her as best he could. But as long as the cursed warrior was by her side, Jorah knew one thing for certain:
No harm would come to the queen. Not while Arren was near.
Jorah let out a sigh, his eyes flicking to the tent where Daenerys rested, knowing that despite the weight of his own devotion, it was the blindfolded man—the legend—that cast the shadow of protection over her. He would do his duty, but he would never compare to the one who had become her silent sentinel.