Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

**Irri's Perspective**

Irri walked through the camp with quick steps, her mind clouded with confusion and frustration. The golden rays of the evening sun stretched across the horizon, bathing the city of Astapor in a warmth that felt misplaced in the chaos of her thoughts. Her hands absentmindedly clutched at her skirts, wringing the fabric as she berated herself under her breath.

"Stupid," she muttered, her voice barely audible. "How could I have been so stupid?"

She had heard the whispers from the other handmaidens, the way they giggled when they spoke of Missandei. She had joined her khaleesi and Ser Arren in those intimate moments, offered her loyalty in more ways than just service. Irri felt a pang of jealousy, but more than that, regret. She had served her khaleesi with devotion, yet she had never imagined that she could have been a part of that closeness, that intimacy.

The thoughts spiraled in her mind as she made her way toward Daenerys's tent, her heart heavy with the realization of what she had missed. She hit herself lightly on the side of the head, her lips twisted in a frown. "Why didn't I see it sooner?" she whispered, a mix of anger and self-pity swirling inside her.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice the figure approaching her until it was nearly too late. A tall, emotionless Unsullied soldier stepped in front of her, his silent presence making her stop abruptly.

"Letter," the Unsullied said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He held out a piece of parchment, sealed roughly with wax. "For the one called Arren."

Irri blinked, the weight of her previous thoughts momentarily slipping away as she accepted the letter with a confused frown. "For Arren?" she asked, glancing at the seal. The soldier offered no further explanation, simply nodding before turning and disappearing back into the camp without another word.

Irri held the letter in her hands for a long moment, her mind swirling with curiosity. What message could be so secretive that it had to be delivered by an Unsullied? She tucked it carefully into her belt and hurried toward Daenerys's tent, her thoughts once again divided between her duties and her regrets.

---

#### **Arren's Perspective**

The council chamber was small, the air thick with dust and tension. The freed slaves of Astapor sat around the rough-hewn wooden table, each representing a vital skill needed to keep the city functioning. Their faces were worn with exhaustion, but there was a spark of determination in their eyes. These were the people Daenerys had entrusted with rebuilding the city, and Arren stood at the center of it all, his presence both a guide and a reminder of what had been won.

"The houses of the Masters are empty now," Nador, the former blacksmith, said, his voice gravelly. "But who decides who gets to live in them? Some of the freedmen were skilled, others… weren't."

The tension in the room was palpable. This was not just a question of shelter—it was a question of worth, of status, of who had a right to the spoils of a city built on slavery. Arren clenched his jaw, the weight of the decision heavy in the air.

"No one owns anything," Arren said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "The houses will belong to the city. They'll be gifted or leased based on service. No one is more valuable than anyone else here."

There was a murmur of agreement, though some of the council members exchanged uncertain glances. The city was on the brink of something new, something untested, and fear of the unknown lingered in every corner.

Half of the Unsullied had been assigned to police the streets, ensuring that the newfound freedom didn't descend into chaos. The other half had begun training former slaves, men and women who had no skills beyond the labor they had been forced to endure. Arren had insisted that everyone, no matter their background, be trained in combat. No one should feel powerless, not anymore.

After the final decisions were made, Arren dismissed the council, his mind heavy with the responsibilities that weighed on his shoulders. He could feel the city pulling itself together, but just barely. And while he worked to keep the foundations stable, something inside him was breaking down.

The blindfold he wore wasn't just a symbol anymore. It was a prison. A reminder of what he had been, what he had suffered in the pit. The words that had been beaten into him still echoed in his mind, haunting his every step. *"You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer."* No matter what he did, no matter how far he had come, those words still held him captive.

Arren stepped out into the cool night air, his senses heightened as always. He needed to fight. He needed to face someone who could push him, who could test him. Without that, without the battle, he feared he would lose everything he had built. He would go soft, he would lose his edge, and the blindfold would never come off.

He had to find someone strong enough to face him, or he would never be ready.

---

#### **Arren's Tent – Later That Night**

The fire crackled softly in the corner, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the tent. Arren sat in silence, his mind racing, his body tense. Daenerys and Doreah sat across from him, their faces illuminated by the fire's warm glow. They had seen him like this before—quiet, withdrawn—but tonight, there was something different. Something heavier.

"I can feel something pulling at you, Arren," Daenerys said gently, her voice breaking the stillness. She leaned forward, her violet eyes searching his blindfolded gaze. "What is it?"

For a long moment, Arren didn't speak. He didn't know how to begin, how to let them see what he had been carrying for so long. But the weight of it had become unbearable.

"I need to tell you about the pit," he said finally, his voice low, rough. "About what it did to me."

Doreah's hand found his, squeezing gently as she leaned in closer. "We're listening," she whispered. "You don't have to hide anymore."

Arren's breath hitched as he began to speak. He told them everything—the endless beatings, the brutal training, the overseers who had stripped away his humanity piece by piece. He spoke of the fights, the blood, the pain. He told them about the words that had been drilled into his mind, the constant reminder that he was never good enough. *"You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer."*

As the words spilled out, Daenerys's eyes filled with tears. She had known he was haunted, but hearing it, feeling the weight of his suffering, was more than she had expected. Doreah's grip on his hand tightened, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"You don't have to prove anything to them anymore," Daenerys said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "You're free, Arren. You've done more than enough."

Doreah nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "You don't need that blindfold anymore. You've already proven your strength."

Arren tensed as they moved to remove the blindfold, panic seizing him. The memory of the pit, the overseers, the pain—it all came rushing back. He pushed them back, his voice shaking with fear and desperation. "No! I'm not ready! I'm not ready for the pit yet!"

Daenerys, without hesitation, leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, her touch calming him, grounding him. "You don't have to be ready," she whispered. "Not yet."

Doreah moved behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her voice soft and soothing. "We're here, Arren. We won't let you fall."

Arren's breath steadied, the panic ebbing away as the warmth of their presence surrounded him. He felt the weight of their care, their trust, and for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to lean on them. The pain of the pit, the fear of not being enough—it all began to fade, just for a moment.

The fire flickered softly in the darkness, the night growing still as Arren closed his eyes beneath the blindfold. Tomorrow would come, and with it, new challenges. But for now, he was here, with them. And that was enough.

---

The next morning, as the sun rose over Astapor, Arren woke with a sense of clarity. He knew now that his place was by Daenerys's side, protecting her, guiding her as she rose to power. He didn't need to seek out battles—warriors would come. They always did. And when they came to test Daenerys, Arren would face them.

"I'll fight them all," he whispered to himself, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "And one day, when I've proven my strength... I'll be ready."

For now, he would stay. And he would fight.

One day, the blindfold would come off.

But not today.