Arren moved through the camp with quiet efficiency, his blindfolded gaze sweeping across the tents and fires as he walked beside Daenerys. His mind was sharp, focused on the task at hand: logistics, strategy, and the never-ending struggle to maintain control over the growing khalasar. Since the division of the group after Drogo's death, Daenerys had leaned on Arren for advice. Though there had been moments of tension between them, she still valued his counsel, and today, it was no different.
"I've been considering how to better organize the supplies we receive," Daenerys said as they moved between tents, her voice calm but edged with the strain of leadership. "Food, weapons, clothing—it's all coming in faster than we can account for, and I need someone to manage it."
Arren nodded. "You need to establish a proper system. The new scholar, Belos, will be useful here. He understands numbers, but he'll need more guidance."
They stopped outside one of the larger tents, where Belos, the newly freed scholar, was working. The former slave-turned-advisor was nervous, his hands shaking slightly as he scrawled in a ledger. He was doing his best, but Arren could see the gaps in his knowledge.
"Belos," Arren called as he entered the tent, Daenerys following behind. "Let me show you something."
Belos looked up, startled but eager. "Yes, of course."
Arren sat beside him, guiding the man through the fundamentals of double-entry bookkeeping. "You need a system that tracks not only what comes in but what goes out. Every entry must have a corresponding exit, so nothing is unaccounted for."
Belos nodded quickly, absorbing every word. As Arren explained the process, Daenerys watched closely, her expression thoughtful. She had always known that Arren was intelligent, but seeing him so meticulous, so calm in his instruction, reminded her of why she relied on him.
"This will help us manage the resources of the camp better," Daenerys said, crossing her arms as she watched the ledger fill with neat columns. "But what about the Dothraki? They grow restless."
Arren paused, considering her words. "The Dothraki are warriors. You can't keep them idle for too long. If they have nothing to fight, they'll find a way to satisfy that hunger elsewhere—probably by leaving."
Daenerys frowned. "Then what do you suggest?"
"Fighting tournaments," Arren said simply. "Give them a structured way to channel their aggression. Let them fight in organized bouts. The best of them will rise through the ranks. It'll keep the bloodthirsty in line and give them something to aim for."
Daenerys smiled, the tension in her face easing slightly. "That's a good idea."
The first tournament was set for the following day, and the camp buzzed with anticipation. Dothraki fighters sharpened their arakhs, their eyes gleaming with excitement at the prospect of proving themselves. Daenerys had announced the tournament herself, promising rewards for the strongest warriors, and now, the entire camp had gathered to witness the event.
The bouts began early in the day, the sun barely rising over the horizon when the first two fighters clashed in the center of the ring. The atmosphere was electric, the sound of metal striking metal reverberating through the air. Blood was spilled quickly, and the crowd roared with approval.
By the fourth hour of the tournament, Arren had already fought in several matches, his body drenched in sweat, but his focus unwavering. His blindfold remained firmly in place, but that didn't stop him from besting every opponent that came his way. His movements were precise, efficient, and devastatingly powerful. Each strike landed with purpose, and his opponents fell one by one, leaving the crowd awestruck.
During one particularly intense bout, a Dothraki warrior with a wild look in his eyes managed to land a lucky blow. His arakh sliced through Arren's upper clothing, tearing it away and leaving his chest and arms exposed to the crowd. The warrior grinned, thinking he had gained the upper hand, but Arren's response was swift. He disarmed the man with a single, brutal strike, sending him crashing to the ground in defeat.
As Arren stood tall, victorious once more, the crowd erupted into cheers. But not everyone in the audience was focused on the fight.
Daenerys's Perspective:
From her seat, Daenerys watched the fight with growing intensity. She had always admired Arren's skill, his unwavering dedication to her and her cause. But now, as the fabric of his tunic fell away, revealing his bare chest and shoulders glistening with sweat, something stirred inside her.
Her eyes traced the lines of his muscles, the way his skin gleamed under the harsh sun. The power in his body was undeniable, and it took her breath away. There was something raw, something almost primal about him in that moment, standing half-naked in the arena, his blindfolded face impassive as if the battle was nothing more than routine.
Daenerys felt her breath hitch, a flush rising in her cheeks as she realized she was staring. She tried to look away, to focus on the tournament as a whole, but her gaze kept drifting back to him. Her thoughts became disjointed, her mind clouded with desire that she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a long time.
She swallowed hard, pushing down the sensation. He is a warrior. Nothing more, she told herself. But the sight of him—glistening, powerful, unbreakable—had already ignited something within her. Lust. It flared up, unbidden, and she hated how much she wanted to give in to it.
Doreah's Perspective:
Doreah stood near the edge of the crowd, her eyes locked on Arren as he fought his way through yet another opponent. She had always found him intriguing, and as they grew closer, her feelings had only deepened. But now, as she watched him move with lethal grace, his bare chest heaving with each breath, her curiosity shifted into something far more dangerous.
Her hunger.
It wasn't just admiration anymore—it was desire. Pure, unadulterated desire. She felt her heart race as she watched his muscles flex, the way his body glistened in the heat of battle. The thought of him, powerful and untouchable, sent a wave of heat through her. She bit her lip, considering the possibilities.
Perhaps tonight, she thought to herself. Perhaps tonight, I'll go to his tent and give him what he needs. The idea thrilled her, and she could feel the pull, the aching in her core that wouldn't be denied much longer.
Arren, she knew, was a man of restraint, but she had seen the way he glanced at her, the way his attention wandered over her body when he thought she wasn't looking. He wanted her, too—she was sure of it. And soon, they would no longer need to pretend otherwise.
The Slave Women's Perspective:
Arren's reputation had spread throughout the camp, and many of the freed slave women had heard the stories of the cursed warrior. Some feared him, others admired him. But as they watched him in the arena, his bare chest exposed, glistening with sweat, many of those women felt something else entirely—desire.
They whispered among themselves, their eyes following every movement he made. His strength, his power, the sheer rawness of him—it was intoxicating. He was unlike any man they had ever known, and the thought of being with him, even for a night, sent shivers down their spines.
"I heard he never sleeps," one of them whispered, her eyes wide with fascination. "Imagine the things he could do."
"Maybe we should go to his tent tonight," another suggested, her voice low and filled with excitement. "We could all go. Who knows? Maybe he'll choose one of us."
The idea spread quickly among them, and soon, several of the women had made up their minds. They would wait until the camp was quiet, until the night fell, and then they would go to him. Whether out of admiration or lust, they were drawn to him—pulled by the mystery, the power, and the allure of the cursed warrior.
Arren's Perspective:
As the tournament drew to a close, Arren stood tall, the taste of victory lingering in his mouth. He had bested them all, and though his body ached from hours of fighting, he felt no satisfaction. The crowd cheered, and he could feel the weight of their admiration, their fear, their awe. But something was wrong.
He could sense their eyes on him, but these were not the usual stares of fear or respect. There was something more... something hungry.
He didn't need his eyes to know what they were thinking. He had felt it before, from Doreah, from Daenerys, even from the other women in the camp. It was desire—carnal and undeniable.
He cursed under his breath, knowing that no good could come from it. He had lived his life with walls built high around him, keeping everyone at arm's length. But those walls were starting to crumble, and he didn't know if he had the strength to rebuild them.
As he made his way back to his tent, the night falling over the camp, Arren's mind raced. He had chosen to serve Daenerys because she was the lesser evil, but now, everything felt more complicated. Desire, loyalty, duty—they were all tangled up.