Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The Dothraki camp was quiet, too quiet, and heavy with the weight of impending doom. Khal Drogo lay motionless in his tent, his once-powerful frame now a lifeless shell. His chest wound, festering and infected, had sapped all the strength from him, leaving behind only a man trapped between life and death. The victory over Khal Ogo had been hollow, the cost far too high.

Arren stood near the entrance of the tent, listening to the low murmurs of the remaining khalasar. Fear and uncertainty rippled through the camp. Without their Khal, they were leaderless, and the once-great horde was on the verge of splintering. Arren's blindfold remained firmly in place, but he didn't need sight to feel the tension in the air. He knew something terrible was coming—something that would change everything.

Inside the tent, Daenerys sat beside her husband, her hand resting gently on Drogo's chest. Her violet eyes were filled with sorrow and desperation, the weight of her decisions pressing down on her. She had tried everything to save him, but nothing had worked. The wound festered, and Drogo, her mighty Khal, the man who had promised her the world, was slipping away.

Desperate for any solution, Daenerys had turned to a healer, Mirri Maz Duur, a witch from one of the villages they had conquered. The witch had promised to save Drogo, but her magic came with a price. Arren had heard the warnings in the witch's voice, the subtle hints of danger in her words. He knew, even before it happened, that something was wrong.

As the witch performed her dark rituals, chanting in a language Arren did not understand, the air inside the tent grew thick with tension. Daenerys's face was pale, her hands trembling as she clung to the hope that this would save her Khal. Arren could hear the crackle of fire, the strange, unnatural sounds that accompanied the magic, and the low, rhythmic chanting of the witch. The smell of blood and fire filled the air.

But something went terribly wrong.

When the ritual was complete, Drogo was alive—but not truly. His eyes were empty, his body still. He was no longer Khal Drogo, the great and powerful leader of the Dothraki. He was a shell, a husk, a man with no soul.

Daenerys's heart broke at the sight of him. She had not saved him. She had damned him to a living death.

As if that wasn't enough, Daenerys's labor began shortly after. She screamed in agony, clutching her swollen belly as the pain overtook her. Arren stood outside the tent, listening to the chaos unfold, his hands clenched into fists. He wanted to help, but there was nothing he could do. He wasn't a healer, and he had no power to stop what was coming.

The hours dragged on, the cries of pain and sorrow filling the air. When the baby was finally born, the whispers spread quickly through the camp. The child was stillborn. Worse than that, it was... wrong. The midwives had recoiled in horror, speaking of a child that looked more like a demon than a human, with scales and a twisted, unnatural form. Daenerys's grief was immeasurable.

The woman who had once been full of hope and fire was broken. In a matter of days, she had lost her husband, her son, and everything she had hoped for.

Arren knew something was wrong when Daenerys emerged from the tent, her face hollow and her eyes filled with a deep, unbearable sadness. She moved like a ghost, her once regal presence now diminished. She stood by the pyre that had been built for Drogo, her dragon eggs placed beside her, and Arren could hear the resolve in her footsteps.

Daenerys was going to end it all.

She had made up her mind. She would take her own life, along with the life of the witch who had betrayed her, the lifeless shell of her husband, and the eggs that had been nothing but a symbol of her lost heritage. The fire would consume everything.

Arren's heart pounded as he realized what she intended to do. He couldn't let her go through with it. He couldn't let her throw her life away—not like this.

He approached her cautiously, standing a few feet away from where she stood, her hand resting on the cold, lifeless body of Drogo. "You don't have to do this," Arren said quietly, his voice steady but filled with urgency.

Daenerys didn't turn to face him. Her gaze was fixed on the pyre, her voice distant and hollow. "What else is there? I've lost everything."

"You haven't lost everything," Arren said firmly, stepping closer. "You still have a future. A destiny."

Daenerys shook her head, her voice trembling with grief. "My son is dead. Drogo is gone. What future could I possibly have now?"

Arren clenched his fists, feeling the weight of her pain. He wanted to tell her everything, to explain that this wasn't the end, that her true path was only just beginning. He remembered how the story played out in the life he had once known, how Daenerys would rise from the ashes as the Mother of Dragons. But he couldn't tell her that—not without changing the course of history.

"You're stronger than this," Arren said, his voice low and intense. "This is not the end for you."

Daenerys finally turned to face him, her eyes red and swollen from tears. "You don't understand," she whispered. "Everything I loved is gone."

Arren took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "I understand more than you think," he said. "I've seen what loss can do. But I also know that you're not alone. You have people who care about you. You have your strength. And you have your dragons."

Her eyes flickered toward the eggs, and for a moment, there was a glimmer of something in her gaze—hope, perhaps, or at least curiosity. But it faded just as quickly, and Daenerys shook her head.

"They're just stones," she said, her voice flat. "They've never been anything more than that."

Arren wanted to tell her the truth—that the dragon eggs were more than stones, that they held the key to her future. But he couldn't bring himself to say it. It wasn't his place to reveal that part of her destiny. "Maybe they're more than you think," he said softly.

Daenerys looked back at Drogo, her expression hardening with resolve. "I have to do this," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Arren's heart sank. He could see that her mind was made up. No matter what he said, she was determined to end it here. He stepped back, knowing that he couldn't stop her—not this time. But as he watched, he made a silent promise to himself.

I will save her from her fate.

Later that night, Arren stood near the pyre, watching as the fire consumed everything. The flames roared high into the sky, casting an eerie glow over the camp. The witch, Mirri Maz Duur, had been tied to the pyre as well, her cries for mercy falling on deaf ears. Drogo's body lay motionless in the center, surrounded by the dragon eggs. Daenerys walked calmly into the flames, her head held high.

Arren watched from a distance, his heart pounding as the fire grew hotter and brighter. He had seen this before, in a world that seemed so far away now. He knew what was coming. And yet, it still filled him with awe.

The flames licked at Daenerys's skin, but she didn't burn. She walked deeper into the fire, her eyes closed, her face serene. And then, as the fire consumed the pyre, a roar split the night air.

Dragons.

Arren could feel the power of the moment, the birth of something ancient and powerful. Daenerys emerged from the ashes, unscathed, her body draped in soot and embers. And in her arms, nestled against her chest, were three small dragons. The future had been born.

Arren stood silently, his mind racing. He had witnessed the birth of the Mother of Dragons, the woman who would change the course of history. But as much as he admired her strength, he knew that her journey was far from over. She would need more than dragons to survive the trials that lay ahead.

As the camp slowly came to terms with what had happened, one of Khal Drogo's bloodriders—a man with a long braid and an air of arrogance—approached Daenerys. He had seen her power, yes, but he had also seen her vulnerability. With Drogo gone, the khalasar was fractured, and he saw an opportunity to take control.

"I will take you as my wife," the bloodrider said gruffly, his voice filled with certainty. "You will be mine, and we will lead this khalasar together."

Arren, standing nearby, tensed at the man's words. He stepped forward, placing himself between Daenerys and the bloodrider. "If you want to mess with the queen," Arren said coldly, "you'll have to go through me."