The Dothraki camp buzzed with its usual energy as the day stretched into evening. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the tents and horses. Fires were being lit as the khalasar prepared for their nightly feasts, and the sounds of laughter and clashing steel echoed throughout the camp. The scent of roasting meat wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy smell of horses and dry grass. But for Arren, everything seemed distant, like a dull hum in the background.
He sat at the edge of the camp, away from the commotion, sharpening his sword with slow, deliberate movements. The rhythm of the blade against the whetstone gave him something to focus on, something to ground himself. He had always found solace in the repetition of it, the way it helped quiet his mind. But today, even that wasn't enough.
He had been avoiding the fire pit, the place where Daenerys, Doreah, and he had spent their nights in quiet conversation, laughing and planning. Something in him had shifted. There was a nagging feeling inside, a mixture of emotions he didn't quite understand—regret, confusion, maybe even guilt. His life had been simple before—fight, survive, repeat. But now, things were tangled, complicated.
He was still Daenerys's protector, her guard, but now there was something more. And that "more" was what unsettled him.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Daenerys appeared, her shadow falling across him as she approached. She didn't say anything at first, simply watching him as he continued sharpening his blade. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Arren could feel her presence, steady and calm.
"You've been quiet today," she finally said, her voice soft but edged with curiosity.
Arren didn't look up, his hands still working the blade. "Just thinking."
"About?"
He paused, the whetstone stilling for a moment before he answered. "The path ahead."
Daenerys sat down beside him, her silver hair catching the last rays of the setting sun, casting her in a soft glow. She didn't press him further, simply letting the quiet settle between them. It was something he appreciated about her—she knew when to speak and when to let the silence speak for them.
After a while, she broke the quiet again, her tone more playful. "You've been avoiding me. Or is it Doreah you're avoiding?"
Arren finally glanced at her, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Both, maybe."
Daenerys raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Afraid of the two of us?"
He chuckled, though the sound was short, almost bitter. "I think I'm afraid of what's happening to me."
She tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "And what is that?"
Arren sighed, setting the sword aside and leaning back on his hands. He wasn't sure how to explain it, not in a way that made sense even to him. "I've lived my life one way for so long. A life where emotion, connection… all of that was just noise. But now… things feel different."
Daenerys studied him, her expression softening. She had seen the change in him too, but hadn't pushed. She knew what it was like to carry burdens, to keep things locked away. In many ways, they were alike, both weighed down by expectations and destinies they hadn't chosen.
"It's not a weakness, you know," she said quietly. "To care. To feel."
Arren was silent for a moment, his thoughts swirling. "No, but it complicates things."
Daenerys nodded slowly, understanding. "Complication is unavoidable. But you don't have to carry it alone."
Arren glanced at her, the weight of her words settling over him. There was a truth to them, but that didn't make it easier to accept. For so long, he had been alone, by choice or by necessity. Letting people in—it felt like surrendering something important, something that had kept him alive all these years.
Before he could respond, Doreah appeared, her usual playful grin in place as she approached the two of them. "Hiding from us, are you?"
Arren shook his head, his lips twitching upward in a reluctant smile. "Not very well, it seems."
Doreah sat down beside Daenerys, leaning back on her hands, her gaze flicking between the two of them. "Well, you can't hide forever. We'll always find you."
There was a lightness in her words, but something deeper beneath the surface. Arren could feel it, the unspoken connection between them. The three of them. The events of the past few nights had changed things, bound them together in ways none of them had expected. And yet, it didn't feel wrong. Just… different.
The three sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the camp come to life around them. The firelight flickered, casting shadows across the tents, and the sound of horses and laughter filled the air. It was a strange kind of peace, the calm before the next storm, the next challenge.
---
**Jorah's Perspective**
From a distance, Jorah Mormont watched them. His heart ached as he saw the three of them sitting together, their laughter and easy companionship a sharp reminder of what he didn't have—what he could never have. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to turn away, his chest tightening with the familiar sting of jealousy.
He had seen it. The way Daenerys looked at Arren, the way they shared moments he could only dream of. And Doreah, always by his side, completing the strange bond they had formed. Jorah had tried to ignore it, tried to bury his feelings beneath his duty, but it was getting harder. Each night, each glance, each soft word between them—it was a wound that never healed.
Still, he stood guard. He remained loyal, because it was all he had left.
But it hurt. More than he would ever admit.
---
**Mary's Perspective**
Far away from the Dothraki camp, Mary trudged through the woods, her satchel bouncing against her back with each determined step. She had been walking for hours, the path ahead winding and uncertain, but she didn't care. Her heart was set. Her mind was focused on one thing: finding her brother.
The morning she had left felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been a few days. The house, the village, her parents—they all felt distant now, like memories from another world. This was her journey now. Her path. And she would see it through, no matter how long it took.
She would find Arren. She would bring him back.
The thought fueled her, kept her going even when the road seemed endless. Her brother had left to find a worthy opponent, to prove himself, but if no one else could, then she would become that opponent. She would be the one to challenge him.
The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the trees, but Mary didn't stop. She couldn't stop. Not yet.
---
**Jorek and Lysa's Perspective**
Back at the small stone house, Jorek stood at the window, staring out at the empty path where his daughter had disappeared just days ago. The morning light filtered through the trees, casting a soft glow over the fields, but it did little to ease the ache in his chest.
He hadn't wanted her to leave. He hadn't wanted to let her go. But he had known—*they* had known—that there was no stopping her. Not when she had made up her mind.
Behind him, Lysa moved quietly through the house, her hand resting protectively on her belly. She had been calm, more accepting of Mary's departure than Jorek had been, but he knew it weighed on her too.
They had already lost Arren to the world, and now, they had lost Mary too.
Lysa joined him at the window, her hand gently resting on his arm. They didn't speak. There were no words that could fill the void left behind. All they could do now was wait—and hope.
Hope that one day, both of their children would return.