Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

**Missandei's Perspective**

Missandei stood by her queen's side, as she had done every day since being freed from her former master. Astapor was now a city of freedmen and freedwomen, but the transition had not been easy. There was still so much work to be done, and Daenerys had taken it upon herself to lead them.

Missandei admired her queen's strength, her compassion, and her determination. She had watched as Daenerys ordered a survey of the former slaves, asking for their names, their skills, their trades. There was no more whip cracking over their heads, no more cruel commands. Daenerys wanted to build a society where every person had a role, where they could work for themselves and not for a master.

And it was Missandei's job to help her.

She followed Daenerys throughout the day, translating the orders her queen gave to the Unsullied, to the former slaves, to the council she had begun to form. Every command, every question, passed through Missandei's lips, her voice a bridge between Daenerys and the people she had freed.

Ser Arren was often by their side, his presence calm and steady as he advised Daenerys on how to organize the city's defenses and supplies. Missandei could see the respect that Daenerys had for him, and she often found herself looking to him for guidance as well. He had a way of speaking that made her feel like she could trust him, like he had seen and experienced things far beyond her understanding.

As the day faded into evening, Missandei continued to teach her queen the High Valyrian language. Daenerys was a quick learner, and she had picked up much of the language already, but there was always more to learn. They would sit by the fire in Daenerys's tent, going over the words and phrases, practicing until Daenerys could speak them fluently.

But once their lessons were over, Missandei would retire to her own room, just beside Daenerys's tent. And it was there, in the quiet of the night, that Missandei's thoughts would begin to wander.

She could hear them—the sounds of passion from Daenerys's tent. Her queen, the warrior Arren, and the handmaiden Doreah, their voices mingling in the heat of the night. Missandei's heart would race, her core heating with a desire she did not know how to control. She would lie awake, restless, as their moans and whispers filled the air, her own body responding to the sounds despite her efforts to suppress it.

But she never acted on those feelings. She was Daenerys's translator, her loyal servant, and nothing more. She had no place in the passion that burned between her queen and the warrior.

Still, the nights were long, and Missandei found herself listening more often than she cared to admit, her own desires simmering beneath the surface.

#### **Missandei's Perspective (Continued)**

As the city of Astapor slowly settled into the rhythm of its new, chaotic freedom, Missandei struggled to quiet the turmoil within herself. Every night the sounds from her queen's tent grew louder in her ears, making it difficult to focus on anything else. The soft murmurs, the stifled gasps, the unmistakable heat of desire that radiated from behind those tent walls—it was all-consuming.

She told herself it wasn't her place. She had been freed, but the boundaries between queen and servant remained. She was loyal to Daenerys, grateful beyond measure, but the ache in her own body wouldn't relent. There was no space for such thoughts, not while they were rebuilding a city, not while so much was at stake.

Missandei rose from her cot and paced her small room, trying to shake off the restless energy. Her fingers traced the thin walls of the tent, hearing every intimate sound beyond it. She knew she wasn't supposed to listen, but how could she not? Her queen, so powerful and commanding during the day, now became something else entirely. She shared her nights with Arren and Doreah, giving herself over to passion that seemed unrestrained, wild, free in a way Missandei never imagined freedom could be.

It was impossible to ignore.

Missandei moved to the small basin of water in the corner of her tent, splashing her face, hoping the coolness would calm her racing heart. But as she dried her face, she heard Daenerys's soft laughter from the other side of the wall, followed by a low, hushed murmur from Arren. Even though Missandei couldn't make out the words, their closeness was undeniable, and it made her core twist with longing.

She shook her head and forced herself to breathe. *No. You are her translator. Nothing more.*

Yet, every day she found herself more and more drawn into the web of emotion surrounding Daenerys, Arren, and Doreah. It was impossible to be so close to it all and not feel something. But what could she do? What role could she possibly play in their lives beyond the duty she was given?

Missandei lay back down on her cot, closing her eyes and pressing her hands tightly against her body, willing the tension to fade. Tomorrow would be another day filled with orders, with council meetings, with new tasks to help the city. She had to focus on that, on serving her queen.

But as she drifted into an uneasy sleep, the soft sounds of passion from Daenerys's tent lingered in her ears, warming her despite herself.

---

#### **Arren's Perspective (Continued)**

The days had become a blur for Arren as he worked alongside Daenerys to turn chaos into order. The freed slaves needed guidance, a structure to fill the void that the fall of the Masters had left behind. Astapor, once a city of chains and cruelty, was slowly beginning to stand on its own legs.

But the burden of leadership weighed heavily on Daenerys. He could sense it in the way her voice softened when she thought no one was listening, in the rare moments of doubt she allowed herself when only he was near. Arren had never known what it was to rule—his life had been one of servitude and violence—but he recognized the loneliness that came with power.

He had helped her draft the foundations of a new government, organizing the freed slaves into groups based on their skills. Blacksmiths, farmers, builders—every one of them had a role to play. Daenerys had chosen representatives from each group to form a council, ensuring that the voices of the people would be heard even after she left.

But it wasn't enough. Arren could feel the cracks forming. They had given these people freedom, but freedom without purpose could be dangerous. Many of the freed slaves didn't know how to live without orders, without the structure that had dictated their lives for so long. And the whispers of rebellion still lingered, faint but persistent.

As Arren walked through the streets, guiding groups of Unsullied to patrol the city and keep the peace, his mind wandered back to the pit. The helplessness he had felt there, shackled and beaten, wasn't so different from what the people of Astapor were going through now. They were free, but freedom was its own kind of prison if one didn't know how to use it.

He could still hear those words, buried deep in his mind: *"You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer."*

The same words that had haunted his every step, driving him forward, pushing him to survive. Those words had shaped him, broken him, and rebuilt him into the warrior he was today. And now, as he stood in a city where chains had been shattered, he wondered if any of them would ever truly be free from the past.

Arren stopped in the city square, listening to the hum of activity around him. He felt the ground shift as hundreds of feet moved across the dusty streets. He could sense the confusion, the uncertainty, the fear of what the future might hold.

Daenerys was doing everything she could to guide them, but even she wasn't sure how long her influence would last once she moved on. She needed to know that she wasn't alone in this—that her burden didn't rest solely on her shoulders.

That night, after their usual conversations around the fire, Arren had thought about sharing his past with her. He had thought about telling her what it had been like in the pit, how the chains of his past still clung to him. But as he opened his mouth to speak, she had turned her attention to Doreah, and the moment passed.

As the evening faded into night and Daenerys and Doreah's soft laughter filled the tent, Arren pushed the thought aside. Perhaps one day he would tell her, but not now. Not when so much still hung in the balance.

---

#### **Grey Worm's Perspective (Continued)**

Grey Worm stood over the body of a Master, his spear still dripping with blood. The man's eyes were wide with shock, as if he hadn't believed his own death until the moment the spear pierced his heart.

It was fitting, Grey Worm thought. These men had never believed in the possibility of their own downfall. They had ruled with cruelty and arrogance, and now, they were paying the price for it.

Astapor was no longer theirs.

The city was aflame with rebellion, the slaves rising up against their former Masters. Grey Worm had led his Unsullied through the streets, killing those who had once whipped them, those who had broken their backs for the smallest mistakes. He had no pity for these men. They had never shown mercy to the Unsullied, and they would receive none in return.

But what surprised Grey Worm most was that many of the Masters were already dead by the time the Unsullied reached them. The slaves, the very people they had oppressed for so long, had turned on them. Blood stained the streets, but it was not just the Unsullied's doing. The people had risen up, emboldened by Daenerys's victory, and they were claiming their own justice.

Grey Worm stood in silence for a moment, watching as a group of former slaves dragged another Master into the street. The man screamed for mercy, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The slaves showed him none, just as he had shown them none.

In that moment, Grey Worm understood why he would follow Daenerys Targaryen, even without the whip of control. She was the only one who had ever looked at him and his fellow Unsullied and seen more than soldiers. She had freed them—not just from their chains, but from the destiny that had been forced upon them. She had given them the choice to follow her, and they had done so willingly.

As he watched the flames of rebellion spread through the city, Grey Worm knew that he would follow Daenerys wherever she led. She had given him a purpose beyond the battlefield, and for that, he was loyal. Not to the whip, but to her.

---

 **Missandei's Perspective (Continued)**

Missandei awoke the next morning with the sounds of the city stirring outside her window. The rebellion had been fierce, but it was over now. The city was theirs. And today, her queen would continue the work of building a new future for Astapor.

Missandei dressed quickly and joined Daenerys as she began another long day of meetings, surveys, and orders. The freed slaves were slowly finding their places in the new world they had been given, but there was still much to be done.

As she stood beside Daenerys, translating her commands to the Unsullied and the council, Missandei found herself admiring her queen more and more with each passing day. Daenerys was young, but she carried herself with the strength and wisdom of someone far older. She never faltered, never wavered, even when the weight of leadership bore down on her.

Missandei had never known a leader like Daenerys. She had served cruel masters, men who saw her as nothing more than a tool. But Daenerys was different. She listened. She cared. And Missandei would follow her to the ends of the earth.

As the day came to a close, and the lessons in Valyrian began, Missandei found herself glancing at Daenerys with a growing sense of awe. This woman was not just a queen. She was a force of nature.