Game of thrones: The blind warrior

The sprawling chaos of Vaes Dothrak spread out before Arren, its air thick with the scent of horses, sweat, and the pungent tang of leather. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, but still, something about it felt... familiar. Even as the weight of the city pressed in around him, his mind clung to an elusive memory. Faces, names, and places swirled in his subconscious, just out of reach, like wisps of smoke he could not grasp.

As he walked alongside the merchant Belenar, the blindfold firmly in place over his eyes, Arren’s thoughts kept circling back to one name: Khal Drogo. It felt important, almost as though he had heard it before. It was a nagging, distant recollection, tied to something he couldn’t quite place. Flashes of an imposing figure, wild hair, fierce eyes—a man he knew, or at least, thought he knew.

But that wasn’t possible. Arren had never met Drogo. Not in this life, anyway.

The heat from the midday sun bore down on him as the sounds of the city filled his ears. Dothraki voices, deep and guttural, rang through the streets, accompanied by the clink of coins, the heavy stomp of hooves, and the endless hum of activity that marked Vaes Dothrak. It was a city alive with violence and savagery, yet Arren felt strangely calm amid the chaos.

He had come here for a reason. To face a great warrior. To complete his blind training.

And Drogo’s name kept surfacing.

“Still thinking about the curse, eh?” Belenar’s voice broke through Arren’s thoughts, filled with its usual playful tone. The merchant had been his travel companion for days, eager to hear more of the fabricated tale Arren had spun for him. The blindfolded warrior cursed by the gods, seeking redemption by defeating the greatest fighter in the world—it was a story Arren had told for his own amusement.

But Belenar had believed it, wholeheartedly.

Arren smiled faintly beneath the blindfold. “Something like that,” he muttered, brushing his hand along the hilt of his sword. He could hear the excitement in Belenar’s voice; the man was enjoying every minute of the story, eager to spread it like wildfire.

“You know,” Belenar continued, his footsteps crunching on the dusty road, “the people here are starting to talk about you. Two days in this city, and already your story’s spreading. I’ve told a few merchants about the cursed warrior who challenged the gods and lost his sight. You wouldn’t believe how quickly that sort of thing catches on.”

Arren frowned slightly but said nothing. He hadn’t asked for his story to be told, but Belenar had been quick to embellish it for his own gain. Arren had noticed a shift in how people treated him over the past two days. Merchants who had ignored him at first were now answering his questions, curious about the blindfolded man who had wandered into Vaes Dothrak. He hadn’t understood the sudden change until now.

Belenar had spread the legend of Arren.

“Curse or no curse,” Belenar added, a grin evident in his voice, “you’re certainly drawing attention. I’d wager the Dothraki will be talking about you long after we’ve left.”

Arren shrugged. He wasn’t here for the attention or the legends. He was here to test himself, to find the greatest warrior he could and see if his blind training had truly prepared him. And yet, as he wandered deeper into Vaes Dothrak, the image of Khal Drogo lingered in his mind. There was something about the name, something that felt important, but no matter how hard he tried to grasp it, the memory slipped through his fingers like sand.

Who was Khal Drogo?

He knew the stories, of course. Drogo was the leader of the largest khalasar in the world, a man feared by all who crossed his path. His reputation was one of unparalleled brutality, a warrior who had never been defeated in combat. But Arren’s mind conjured up more than just the stories. He could almost picture Drogo’s face, the fierce, unyielding eyes, the long braid that hung past his shoulders—a symbol of his undefeated status.

But why did Arren feel like he had seen that face before?

The next few days passed slowly, with Arren spending most of his time wandering the city, trying to gather information about Khal Drogo. The merchants, once cold and dismissive, were now more eager to speak to him, no doubt influenced by the rumors Belenar had spread. Everywhere he went, he could hear whispers following him—the cursed warrior, the blind man seeking redemption. It was a strange feeling, being at the center of a legend he had made up on a whim.

Arren approached another stall in the crowded market, the scent of roasting horsemeat filling the air. The vendor, a burly man with a thick beard, looked up as Arren neared, his eyes widening slightly.

“You’re the one they talk about,” the vendor said, his voice low. “The cursed warrior.”

Arren tensed but nodded slightly. “I’m looking for the greatest warrior among the Dothraki,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Who leads them?”

The vendor grunted, wiping his hands on his apron. “You want the strongest, eh? Well, there’s no shortage of fighters in Vaes Dothrak. But the man you want... that’d be Khal Drogo.”

The name again. Drogo. Arren clenched his fist, a faint flicker of recognition dancing on the edge of his mind. There was something there—an image, a memory—but it remained just out of reach.

“When will he be here?” Arren asked, his voice betraying no emotion.

“Could be weeks,” the vendor replied with a shrug. “Drogo comes when he pleases. He’ll return eventually, though. Always does.”

Arren nodded and turned to leave, the vendor’s words swirling in his mind. Weeks. He would have to wait.

As he moved through the city, his senses heightened, Arren could hear the whispers growing around him. The story Belenar had spread was taking on a life of its own. People were talking about him in hushed tones, casting glances his way as he passed.

“He’s here for Drogo,” one merchant whispered.

“The cursed warrior,” said another. “He challenged the gods and lost his sight.”

Arren ignored the rumors, though he couldn’t help but wonder how much they had already changed the way people saw him. He hadn’t asked for any of this, but the legend of the blindfolded warrior seeking redemption had spread like wildfire. And all the while, in the back of his mind, that faint, nagging memory of Khal Drogo wouldn’t leave him.

Days stretched into a week, and Arren found himself falling into a strange routine. He spent his time exploring Vaes Dothrak, always listening, always watching with senses sharpened by years of blind training. He asked about Drogo when he could, but the answer was always the same—Drogo would return, but no one knew when.

In the meantime, Arren lived off the coin Belenar had paid him, eating sparingly and avoiding unnecessary confrontations. The whispers continued to follow him, but he paid them no mind. The rumors of his supposed curse were everywhere now, but Arren was focused on one thing: waiting for Khal Drogo.

But the more he waited, the more the strange familiarity with Drogo gnawed at him. It was like a distant echo from another life. Arren had always felt a sense of displacement since he had awoken in this world, a vague feeling that things weren’t quite as they seemed. Drogo’s name only intensified that sensation, like a thread pulling him toward something important, something he had forgotten.

As the days passed, Arren couldn’t shake the feeling that his meeting with Khal Drogo was inevitable—destined, even. Whether or not it would lift some imaginary curse didn’t matter anymore. Drogo was the warrior he sought, the challenge he needed to face.

But there was something more. Something buried deep in his mind, tied to the man he had been before.

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