Game of thrones: The blind warrior

The blistering heat of Vaes Dothrak beat down relentlessly, but Arren lay comfortably in the shade of a merchant's stall, half-asleep. The merchant had allowed him to rest there, more out of a desire to attract curious customers than from any real kindness. The blindfolded warrior had become a curiosity—a legend spun by Belenar, the merchant who had brought Arren here. Whispers of the "cursed swordsman" floated around the city, and Arren had heard them all in the past two days. It amused him, but he paid it no mind.

The soft murmurs of the market, the occasional clinking of metal, and the smell of roasted meat all melded into a dull hum that lulled Arren into a light doze. He had been waiting for Khal Drogo, the strongest Dothraki warrior, to return to Vaes Dothrak, but until then, all he could do was pass the time.

His peace was broken by the faint sound of silk brushing against leather armor—footsteps that carried a different rhythm from the usual heavy thudding of the Dothraki warriors. His senses flared; someone important was passing through the market. He didn’t move, keeping his relaxed posture as he listened.

The newcomer was a woman. Her voice, though soft, held a quiet authority. She moved gracefully, and the small entourage accompanying her spoke in hushed tones. Whoever she was, she was not like the typical traders or warriors who filled the market.

Arren remained motionless beneath the shade, allowing the sounds and scents of the market to wash over him. It wasn’t until he heard a merchant’s voice—too eager, too insistent—that his muscles tensed.

The voice belonged to a wine seller, offering a cup of wine to the woman. There was something wrong in the way he spoke, the way his words oozed false charm. Arren’s instincts, honed through years of brutal training in the pit, screamed at him that something wasn’t right.

Then it hit him. The faint, almost imperceptible scent of poison, masked beneath the usual smells of the market. His heart quickened as memories of the pit came flooding back—training that had forced him to recognize poisons by smell alone. The scent was unmistakable. He inhaled deeper, confirming what he already knew.

Poison.

Arren's body moved before he could fully process what he was doing. His hand shot out, fingers finding a small stone on the ground beside him. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the stone, the years of practice making the movement second nature. The rock flew through the air and struck the cup in the woman’s hand, shattering it and sending the poisoned wine spilling to the ground.

The market fell silent, the sudden commotion drawing the attention of everyone nearby.

“What just happened?” the woman asked, her voice sharp but controlled.

The wine seller stammered, his voice frantic. “Khale—my lady! It must have been an accident! A trick of the wind, surely! Please, let me pour you another cup!”

Arren pushed himself up from where he had been lying and spoke, his voice calm but firm. “The wine was poisoned.”

A ripple of shock spread through the crowd. The woman, whoever she was, stared at the shattered cup, her brow furrowing in confusion. Her guards tensed, the scrape of their weapons barely audible as they prepared for trouble.

The wine seller’s panic grew as he frantically denied the accusation. “No, no, my lady, it’s a lie! I would never do such a thing! The wine is perfectly safe!”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she regarded the wine seller, her suspicion growing. She held up a hand, silencing his protests. “If it isn’t poisoned,” she said evenly, “then drink it yourself.”

The wine seller paled. His hands trembled as he looked down at the spilled wine, fear flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but could only stammer.

Her guards didn’t wait for an answer. They seized the wine seller, dragging him away as he shouted for mercy, but no one in the crowd seemed to care. The tension eased, but all eyes were now on Arren.

The woman, calm despite the events that had just unfolded, turned her gaze to him. “You saved my life,” she said, her tone less harsh now, though still cautious. “Who are you?”

Arren was about to answer when a voice from behind the woman spoke instead.

“This is the blindfolded warrior,” Jorah Mormont said as he stepped forward. “They call him the cursed swordsman. Legend says he once challenged the gods and lost his sight. Now, he wanders the world blind, seeking redemption.”

Arren stood still, his face unreadable beneath his blindfold. He didn’t care for the story Belenar had spread, but he didn’t bother correcting Jorah. Let the story be what it was.

Jorah continued, his voice filled with both caution and intrigue. “And it is said that he wishes to fight and defeat your Khal, Khaleesi.”

The crowd stirred at Jorah’s words. The Dothraki in the marketplace murmured to each other, their hands instinctively going to their weapons. To challenge Khal Drogo was to invite death, and for a blindfolded foreigner to make such a claim was madness to them.

The woman raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering on the blindfold wrapped around Arren’s head. She studied him for a long moment, then spoke again, her voice curious. “You can see through the blindfold, then?”

Arren shook his head, his expression calm. “No. I cannot.”

A faint smile touched the woman’s lips, though it wasn’t one of amusement. “Then remove it,” she said. “If you truly wish to fight my Khal, prove your skill. Fight one of my guards—with your eyes closed. Show me that you are worthy of such a challenge.”

Arren felt the weight of her words settle over him. The crowd was watching, and there was no doubt that everyone here wanted to see if the legend was true. But the woman’s tone held something more—a challenge, an invitation. He could feel her testing him, seeing if the story held any merit.

“What do I gain from this?” he asked evenly, though his mind was already preparing for what was to come.

The woman didn’t hesitate. “You gain the chance to fight Khal Drogo.”

The crowd stirred again at the mention of Drogo’s name. Arren remained still, considering her offer. This was the very reason he had come to Vaes Dothrak. Khal Drogo was the greatest warrior among the Dothraki, and if Arren wanted to prove his skill, there was no better opponent. But first, he had to show this woman—whoever she was—that he was worth her time.

Slowly, Arren reached up and untied the blindfold. The fabric slipped free from his eyes, though he kept them closed. Sight wasn’t something he needed anymore. His other senses—his hearing, his smell, his instincts—were sharper than most could imagine.

The crowd watched in silence as the woman gestured to one of her guards. A tall, muscular Dothraki warrior stepped forward, his arakh gleaming in the midday sun. He twirled the blade confidently in his hand, clearly eager to test his skill against the blindfolded foreigner.

Arren remained motionless, his eyes still closed, as he listened to the sounds of the marketplace fade into the background. All that mattered now was the fight.

“Begin,” the woman said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

The Dothraki warrior wasted no time. He lunged at Arren, his arakh slicing through the air in a powerful arc. Arren’s body moved instinctively, ducking beneath the blow with practiced ease. His movements were fluid, each step measured and precise. The crowd gasped as Arren dodged strike after strike, his eyes still closed.

For a moment, it seemed as though the blindfolded warrior would live up to the legend. He sidestepped another swing and, with a quick jab, landed a blow to the Dothraki’s side, causing him to stumble.

But the Dothraki warrior was not a fool. He had been watching, learning, and now he was ready to exploit Arren’s weakness.

As the warrior charged again, Arren dodged to the side, but this time, the Dothraki feinted. Arren misread the move, and before he could recover, the warrior swept his leg out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the Dothraki guard pressed the flat of his arakh to Arren’s throat, grinning triumphantly.

The fight was over.

Breathing heavily, Arren remained on the ground, his eyes still closed. He had lost. The woman’s guard had outmaneuvered him, taking advantage of his blindness. The crowd cheered for the victorious warrior, but Arren could feel the eyes of the woman still on him.

She stepped forward, her voice calm and measured. “You fought well,” she said, though there was no mockery in her tone. “But if you wish to fight my Khal, you will need more than what you showed today.”

Arren opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the brightness of the sun. He looked up at her for the first time.

“I am Daenerys Targaryen,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “And if you still wish to challenge Khal Drogo, you will have your chance."

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