Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the vast plains of Vaes Dothrak. Arren stood at the edge of the camp, his senses alert despite the blindfold tied firmly around his eyes. The heavy scent of horses, sweat, and dust filled the air, and the murmurs of the Dothraki riders surrounded him. Their voices carried through the camp, low and guttural, as they spoke in a language that felt as wild and untamed as the land they roamed.

Arren didn't ride with the khalasar. He couldn't—he couldn't ride a horse blind. Instead, he walked alongside the horde, his footsteps silent as he kept pace with the Dothraki riders who glanced at him with a mix of curiosity and disdain. He was an outsider, a man who hid behind a blindfold, challenging their way of life. But none of them knew his true origins, the brutal place that had shaped him—the pit.

No one knew of the pit and no one should know of it.

His reflection was interrupted by a nagging thought, one that had been scratching at the back of his mind since he'd first met the woman in the market. The woman with the commanding voice who had stared him down and challenged him to fight.

Daenerys Targaryen.

The name had slipped through his thoughts without him realizing it, like a whisper from another life. And then, slowly, as the days passed and he walked with her khalasar, the pieces had begun to fall into place.

He knew her. Not personally, but from somewhere distant—a memory from the world he had left behind. It came to him in flashes, bits of information that felt more like dreams than reality. She was the last Targaryen, the daughter of a fallen king. A queen in exile, destined to reclaim her family's throne.

And yet, that knowledge only weighed on him in a vague, distant way. He had no intention of interfering in her path. Whatever destiny awaited Daenerys Targaryen, it was hers alone to claim. His journey was separate, dictated by the brutal rules of the pit and the need to prove himself. To prove that he could face and defeat the greatest warrior in the world—Khal Drogo.

But first, he would have to earn that fight.

As the camp settled in for the night, Arren stood still, letting his other senses take over. The blindfold, which had been his constant companion, stayed in place. He had no need for sight here. The Dothraki camp was loud and chaotic, but in its chaos, there was order. He could hear the distant clink of weapons being sharpened, the soft rustle of tents being set up, and the low laughter of warriors as they exchanged stories.

And then, the sound he had been waiting for—a pair of footsteps approaching him, deliberately slow, as if the person was sizing him up. Arren straightened, his muscles tensing in anticipation.

"You fight tonight," a voice said in broken Common Tongue.

Arren turned his head toward the voice. The voice was that of a young Dothraki warrior, his tone full of arrogance. He had a small braid hanging down his back which Arren could feel from the noise his hair made as it moved from the wind, barely long enough to mark him as a warrior, which meant he was untested or still earning his place among the horde. Perhaps twenty years old, if that.

The fight wouldn't be much of a challenge.

"Against who?" Arren asked, though he already suspected the answer.

The young Dothraki laughed softly, the sound filled with youthful pride. "Against me."

Arren said nothing, his mind already shifting into the calm clarity that came before a fight. He had been trained to fight without hesitation, without fear, and this fight would be no different. The young Dothraki might have been eager for battle, but Arren could already sense his inexperience.

The camp around them began to stir as word spread of the upcoming fight. Dothraki warriors, both seasoned and young, gathered to watch, their eyes gleaming with interest. They saw this as sport, a test of strength and skill, and they were eager to see how the blindfolded foreigner would fare.

Arren stood in the center of the makeshift ring, his body loose and ready, the blindfold still firmly in place. He could feel the crowd closing in around him, their breath hot on the evening air, their excitement palpable. But for Arren, the noise faded into the background. All that mattered now was the fight.

The young Dothraki stepped forward, his arakh gleaming in the dim light of the campfires. He twirled the blade confidently, clearly eager to show off his skills. Arren stood still, listening to the sound of the blade cutting through the air, the warrior's boots shuffling across the dirt. He could sense the young man's nervous energy—he was trying to mask it with bravado, but Arren could feel the tension in his movements.

The fight began without ceremony. The young warrior lunged forward, his arakh slicing through the air with deadly intent. But Arren had already moved, his body fluid and precise. He sidestepped the attack easily, the blade missing him by inches.

The Dothraki hesitated, clearly surprised that his first strike had missed, but he recovered quickly, swinging again with more force. Arren ducked low, avoiding the blow, and in one swift motion, he stepped inside the young man's guard. His hand shot out, delivering a sharp, controlled strike to the warrior's ribs.

The young Dothraki grunted in pain, stumbling back.

Arren didn't press the attack, letting the warrior regain his footing. The crowd murmured in surprise, clearly not expecting the blindfolded foreigner to move with such ease. But Arren had been trained in the pit, where every fight was a matter of life and death. He had learned to read his opponents by sound, by the subtle shifts in their movements. And this young Dothraki was no match for him.

The warrior charged again, more recklessly this time, his arakh swinging wildly. Arren could hear the desperation in his footsteps, the way the blade hummed through the air. He stepped aside at the last moment, allowing the warrior to overextend himself. Then, with a quick, precise movement, Arren hooked his leg around the Dothraki's ankle and swept him off his feet.

The young warrior crashed to the ground, his arakh slipping from his grasp.

Before the Dothraki could react, Arren moved in, pressing his knee against the warrior's chest, pinning him to the ground. He felt the man struggle beneath him, but it was no use. Arren's grip was firm, his movements controlled. He could end the fight now, but he didn't need to.

"Yield," Arren said, his voice low but commanding.

For a moment, the young warrior hesitated, his pride warring with the pain in his chest. But then he let out a shaky breath and nodded.

"I yield," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration.

Arren stood, releasing the warrior and allowing him to scramble to his feet. The crowd around them erupted in a mixture of cheers and murmurs of surprise. Some of the older Dothraki nodded in approval, while others eyed Arren with newfound respect.

The fight had been easy—too easy. But Arren knew that this was only the beginning. The young warrior had been untested, barely more than a boy. The next opponent would be stronger, more experienced, and the one after that even more so. It was a path that would lead him through a gauntlet of warriors, each one more dangerous than the last.

And at the end of that path stood Khal Drogo.

Daenerys Targaryen stepped forward, her eyes gleaming in the firelight as she watched Arren with renewed interest. "That was a small victory," she said, her voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. "But the real challenge lies ahead."

Arren nodded, his chest still rising and falling with the adrenaline of the fight. "You said I could fight Drogo."

Daenerys smiled, a knowing grin spreading across her lips. "I said you could have a chance to fight him. And you will. But not until you've proven yourself worthy."

She turned, her violet eyes locking onto his. "You do not get to kill the king when you haven't fought his army."

Arren clenched his fists, understanding now the gravity of what lay ahead.

"You will fight each warrior in the khalasar, one better than the last, until my Khal himself deems you worthy of a fight."

The crowd, sensing the weight of her words, quieted, their attention fully focused on the foreigner. Arren knew that the road ahead would be long, but it was one he was prepared to walk. He had come to Vaes Dothrak for this—to face the greatest warrior among the Dothraki. If it meant fighting every warrior in Drogo's army, then so be it.

"I'll fight," Arren said, his voice steady.

Daenerys nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Then your trial begins. Prepare yourself, blindfolded warrior. The khalasar will be watching."

And with that, Daenerys turned, her guards following her as she moved back through the camp, leaving Arren to stand alone in the firelight. The eyes of the Dothraki were on him now, and his journey toward Khal Drogo had truly begun.

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