Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The morning sun had barely begun to rise over the horizon when Arren stirred from his sleep, his body slick with sweat, the warmth of the two women beside him still lingering from the night before. The air in the tent was thick, a mixture of exhaustion and something more, something unspoken that now bound the three of them together. 

He blinked beneath his blindfold, his muscles tense and sore from the battles he had fought—both in the arena and in the deeper, more personal moments shared the previous night. To his right, Daenerys lay quiet, her silver hair cascading over the pillow, her breathing soft and even. On his left, Doreah stirred slightly, her body pressed close to his, her arm draped lazily over his chest.

For a moment, none of them spoke. The weight of what had transpired hung in the air, and though it was a quiet, peaceful moment, the implications of the night still sat heavily on Arren's mind. He hadn't expected this... *any* of this. Duty had always been his guiding force, but now, there was something else—a new connection, a new tether.

Eventually, Doreah shifted beside him, her voice a soft whisper in the dim light. "I didn't think last night would end this way," she said with a hint of amusement, her hand tracing the lines of his chest. "But I can't say I'm surprised."

Arren smiled faintly, his fingers brushing lightly over her skin. "Neither did I," he admitted, his voice low, unsure of how to frame the new reality. 

From the other side of the bed, Daenerys stirred, propping herself up on one elbow, her gaze moving between Arren and Doreah. Her usual regal demeanor seemed softened in the intimacy of the morning, but her expression was thoughtful, as though considering the implications of what had transpired.

"We can't pretend it didn't happen," Daenerys said quietly, her voice steady. "But we must decide what happens next."

There was a brief silence, each of them pondering her words. Arren, still somewhat wary, could feel the weight of her question. What had begun as a spontaneous moment had now turned into something far more complex. He had no illusions about his place—he was her protector, her advisor. But now, there was something beyond duty that connected them.

Doreah was the first to speak, her voice soft but decisive. "I don't think it has to change anything, Khaleesi. Not unless we let it." She turned to Arren, her eyes meeting his. "We're not just here for duty. We're here because we *want* to be."

Daenerys considered her words, then nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on Arren. "You've been by my side through so much already. And I trust you with my life." There was a pause, her voice dropping slightly. "But this... *us*... I don't know where it leads."

Arren exhaled quietly, the tension between them easing as he found his own words. "Wherever it leads, we'll face it together."

After another beat of silence, Daenerys smiled softly, the tension breaking just a little. "Perhaps it should be a regular thing then," she said, her tone almost teasing.

Doreah grinned at that, leaning back against the pillows. "I wouldn't mind that at all."

Arren couldn't help but smile, a feeling of peace settling over him despite the complicated nature of their relationship. They had forged a new bond—a strange, unconventional one—but for now, it worked.

---

### **Life in the Dothraki Camp**

The days that followed were filled with a new rhythm. Life in the Dothraki camp, though still rugged and chaotic, had become more structured, more efficient. Daenerys, Arren, and Doreah now spent their evenings together by the fire, their conversations flowing with ease. Where once Arren had spoken privately with Daenerys or Doreah, now they all sat together, sharing stories, ideas, and plans.

The atmosphere had changed. There was a quiet intimacy between them, but also a new strength. They trusted each other, relied on each other—not just as lovers, but as comrades. And in that shared trust, they found balance.

The camp itself had grown more organized under Arren's guidance. The issue of food, which had once been a pressing concern, had been solved. Arren had taken control of logistics, instructing the few blacksmiths they had to create sealable packages to preserve meat for months. With enough supplies to last the next six months, the need to move constantly was no longer urgent.

The Dothraki, once restless and bloodthirsty, were kept occupied with fighting tournaments. The structure of the camp was now smooth, almost like a well-oiled machine. Even the scholars, like Belos, were thriving under Arren's tutelage. The camp was not just surviving—it was evolving.

Yet, amidst all of this, there were eyes on them, watching, wondering. Irri, ever dutiful to Daenerys, stood nearby during their conversations, her gaze lingering on the trio as they sat close by the fire, their laughter carrying softly into the night. Irri's curiosity was piqued, her thoughts wandering. There was a part of her that wondered if she could be a part of it. The closeness they shared—the laughter, the quiet moments—she longed for something like that.

But for now, she remained silent, watching from a distance, her feelings hidden behind the mask of duty.

---

### **Perspective: Stannis Baratheon**

Far to the west, in the cold, gray walls of Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon sat at his council table, his face a stony mask of concentration as he listened to the latest reports. The chamber was dimly lit, a fitting reflection of the mood that had settled over his war council.

Davos Seaworth, ever the loyal Hand of the King, stood nearby, his brow furrowed as he read the letter aloud.

"A Targaryen... alive," Davos said, his voice low. "And not just that—three dragons at her side."

Stannis's jaw clenched at the mention of the name. "Daenerys Targaryen," he muttered, as though the name itself tasted foul on his tongue. "The last of a cursed bloodline."

"It seems she's gathered followers," Davos continued, "and she has... someone with her. A warrior, they say. Blindfolded, yet undefeated. The Dothraki call him cursed, but others..." Davos paused, hesitating slightly. "Others speak of him as something more. A man who never loses. A man who—"

"Spare me the tales," Stannis interrupted, his voice sharp. "I don't need legends, I need facts."

Davos nodded, though his face remained grim. "The facts are that she's growing in power. Whether by myth or strength, she is gathering a force."

Stannis stood abruptly, his hands pressing against the table as he leaned forward. "Dragons. Cursed warriors. It's all superstition. But I won't ignore it. If the Targaryen girl truly has dragons, we must be prepared." His voice lowered, almost as if speaking to himself. "The time for battle is coming."

---

### **Perspective: Melisandre**

In a darkened chamber, lit only by the flickering light of fire, Melisandre, the Red Priestess, stood before the flames, her eyes locked in a trance. The fire danced before her, revealing visions of the past, present, and future. She had heard the reports, the whispers of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, but what interested her most was the tale of the cursed warrior.

Arren.

The flames had shown her glimpses—fleeting images of a man wrapped in shadow, bound by destiny, yet separated from the path that had been laid out for him. A warrior, blind yet seeing. Cursed, yet powerful. And there was more. Something deeper.

As she stared into the fire, Melisandre's lips parted, a soft breath escaping her. "The warrior of light..." she whispered.

Could it be him?

For years, she had sought the one who would fulfill the prophecy, the one who would stand against the darkness. Stannis believed he was that man, and she had believed it too. But now, as the flames flickered and twisted, she was no longer sure. The vision of the cursed warrior lingered in her mind, haunting her.

She had to know more.

Melisandre turned from the fire, her red robes trailing behind her as she stepped into the cold halls of Dragonstone. "The time is coming," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness. "And I will find him."

The warrior of light, the cursed champion—Arren's fate was bound to something greater, something that even he did not yet understand.

And she would see him before the flames.

Before the end.