The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the Dothraki camp. Dust rose with each gust of wind, swirling through the tents and around the slaves who had once been bound by chains, but now, under the command of Daenerys Targaryen, were free. Or at least, freer than they had been before. Many of them, full of awe and superstition, had begun to call her "Mother of Dragons," whispering of her as if she were some divine figure sent to lead them to salvation.
But not all of them.
Among the throng of newly freed men and women stood a slave who did not believe in gods or miracles. He was a lean man, with sun-weathered skin and the posture of someone who had spent most of his life in thought rather than action. He had seen too much cruelty in the world to believe in divine intervention or destiny. No, Daenerys Targaryen wasn't a goddess. She was a queen—ambitious, determined, and ruthless in her own way. She would gain power if she survived long enough, but in the slave's mind, survival was the true test. The world chewed people up, especially those who thought they were more than flesh and blood.
He had learned this lesson when he was just nine years old, sold into servitude at a young age, and shuffled from one master to another. Faith, religion, gods—they had no place in the brutal reality of survival. They were luxuries for those who could afford to believe in something greater. The slave, a scholar by training but a prisoner by circumstance, had learned to put his faith in knowledge. Numbers, words, books—these were the things that lasted, long after kings and queens had fallen.
Yet, even as his skepticism remained, something gnawed at him. It wasn't Daenerys that unsettled him, though she commanded respect. It wasn't the dragons, though their existence was a wonder that made him question the boundaries of reality. No, it was the man who walked in her shadow—the cursed warrior.
Arren, they called him. The blindfolded protector who never seemed to rest. There were whispers about him in the camp. Some said he was cursed by the gods, others that he had made a pact with dark forces. They spoke of him with fear, but also with reverence. He was a man who had stood against warriors, beasts, and worse, all without the use of his eyes. The scholar didn't believe in curses, nor in gods, but when he saw Arren, there was something that stirred deep within him—an unsettling feeling, as though the tales might, just this once, hold a kernel of truth.
And the final nail in the coffin for his skepticism came that day.
The slave had been wandering the camp, observing as Daenerys moved among her people, searching for her dragons. The creatures, still small but already dangerous, had been playing behind a rock, hiding from their mother. He watched as the queen, graceful yet full of an almost childlike curiosity, moved through the camp, calling out for them.
The slave, though standing at a distance, couldn't help but think how careless it was to let such valuable and dangerous creatures roam free. They should be kept under watch, he thought. Too powerful to be allowed such freedom.
As if his thoughts had somehow shaped reality, the largest of the three dragons—a red-scaled beast with sharp, gleaming eyes—had wandered too close to one of the tents. Its tail brushed against a supporting pole, and in an instant, the tent collapsed in on itself. The queen, still searching for her wayward pets, walked unknowingly toward the falling structure.
It wasn't any sort of life-threatening danger. The tent was simply heavy fabric. Daenerys would be fine, perhaps a little dusty and embarrassed, but unharmed. Maybe she would even laugh about it later. Yet, before the slave could react, something extraordinary happened.
Out of nowhere, as if summoned by some unseen force, Arren appeared.
He had been lying on a bale of hay, seemingly asleep as always, but in that fraction of a second, he moved like a shadow. With a single, graceful motion, he knelt before the queen and unsheathed his sword. A quick slice tore through the fabric of the falling tent, creating a precise line through which both Daenerys and he emerged unscathed.
The image of that moment—the cursed warrior cutting through the fabric of the world itself, standing beside the queen like a guardian from ancient myths—was burned into the scholar's mind. It wasn't just the speed of his reaction, or the way he seemed to always be present in the right moment. It was the fact that Arren hadn't needed to see the danger. Somehow, he had sensed it, as if his blindfolded eyes could see more than any of them ever could.
For the first time in years, the scholar found himself questioning the limits of what was real and what was possible. Could it be that the stories were true? Could it be that this man—this cursed warrior—was something more than flesh and bone?
Days later, the slaves who had chosen to stay with Daenerys were gathered in front of her, lined up in neat rows. She had ordered their chains to be broken, and now, she sought to know them, to learn their names, their ages, their skills. The queen moved among them, her dragons at her feet, asking each one about their talents. There was a quiet determination in her voice, a grace that was impossible to ignore.
The scholar, for the first time in years, felt a flicker of hope. Not because he believed Daenerys was divine, but because she listened. She genuinely wanted to know who they were, what they could do, how they could help build something new. He had been a librarian once, working for a magister in Qarth. He knew how to read, how to count, how to organize. But that was a lifetime ago, and he had spent most of his years in servitude doing little more than fetching and carrying.
When his turn came, Daenerys approached him, her eyes kind but piercing. "What is your name?"
The scholar hesitated for a moment, unused to being asked such a question. "My name is Belos, Khaleesi."
"And what can you do, Belos?" she asked, her voice gentle yet commanding.
He swallowed, unsure of how to frame his modest talents. "I was a scholar once. I can read and write. I know numbers... I've read many books, but I'm no administrator. I only know what I've seen in the pages."
Daenerys smiled at him, a warm, genuine smile that made something stir deep within him—a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. "A scholar is a valuable thing, Belos. I'm sure we will find work for you soon."
That smile. Those words. They were enough to light a spark in his chest, a feeling that had long been dormant. In that moment, he felt seen, felt worth something more than the endless drudgery of servitude. Perhaps he wasn't destined for greatness, but here, in this place, he might be part of something larger than himself.
As the day wore on, and the slaves dispersed to continue their tasks, Belos found himself watching Daenerys from a distance. She moved with purpose, her dragons by her side, her people gathering around her as if she were the center of their universe.
But his gaze drifted, as it always did, to the figure that stood in the shadows—the cursed warrior. Arren, blindfolded and silent, never far from the queen's side. He was a man of few words, but his presence spoke louder than any proclamation. He was her guardian, her protector, and perhaps something more.
Belos wasn't sure what he believed anymore. The gods still seemed distant, and faith still felt like a luxury. But as he looked at Arren, standing tall and vigilant in the fading light, a part of him—perhaps the part that had once believed in fairytales—whispered that maybe, just maybe, there was more to this world than what could be seen.
Perhaps, in this strange, new world of dragons and queens, curses and warriors, the impossible wasn't so impossible after all.