The morning sun was merciless.
Hyūga Aranji sat on the edge of his cot, head pounding, eyes half-lidded. His body was fine his chakra had already begun repairing the minor damage but his mind felt like it had been dragged through a swamp.
"Westerosi alcohol," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Tasteless. Brutal. And absolutely not worth it."
Back in his own world, he'd never been a drinker. Chakra-enhanced metabolism burned through toxins too fast for any real effect. But here, the brew lingered. It didn't numb it gnawed.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a bundle of dried herbs chakra-infused plants from his homeland. He chewed them slowly, letting the bitterness settle under his tongue. The headache began to fade, replaced by a slow, grounding warmth.
As he sat there, his thoughts drifted back to the night before.
Daemon Targaryen.
Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Arrogant. Sharp. Dangerous. Aranji had seen his type before young, powerful, and utterly convinced of their own greatness. He'd intended to avoid him.
But fate had other plans.
He remembered the moment clearly. Daemon had approached, flanked by Gold Cloaks, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement.
"What is a blind man doing here?" the prince had said, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Lose your way to the sept, old woman?"
Aranji had turned slowly, meeting the prince's gaze without flinching. His voice was calm. Flat.
"My prince," he said, "I do not understand. I see you perfectly."
Daemon blinked, caught off guard by the unimpressed tone. Aranji stood, brushing off his robes.
"I'll take my leave."
But one of the Gold Cloaks stepped forward, hand on hilt. "You don't walk away from a prince, foreigner. Show some respect."
Aranji didn't respond.
He moved.
To the onlookers, it was a blur. One moment he was walking, the next, the Gold Cloak was on the ground, groaning, legs tangled beneath him. Aranji hadn't even drawn a weapon. Just a subtle shift of weight, a twist of the foot, and a flicker of chakra through the soles of his sandals.
The man had tripped over nothing or so it seemed.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Daemon's eyes narrowed.
Aranji didn't look back.
Now, in the quiet of morning, he reflected on it with a shrug. "Could've handled it better," he admitted. "But I don't care."
Most people were avoiding him now. The foreigner who insulted the Crown Prince. The blind-eyed warrior who moved like a shadow. All except Dagon Wythers.
"For you to be this loud," Aranji said as Dagon approached, "it has to be something good."
Dagon laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "You look different today. Hair up, chest out. You finally trying to look like a man?"
Aranji smirked.
He wore a black kimono today floral patterns stitched subtly into the fabric, the collar loose enough to expose part of his muscular chest. His hair was tied into a high ponytail, the strands falling like ink down his back. A Aikuchi rested at his side, sheathed but ever-present.
"I figured it was time to stop confusing the locals."
Dagon grinned. "Too late for that. You've already got half the camp wondering if you're a ghost or a goddess."
Aranji sat down beside him, the tension from the night before fading into the morning breeze.
Then the announcer arrived, voice booming across the field.
"First round of the archery contest begins shortly! All competitors, report after breakfast!"
Dagon stood, stretching. "Now my friend, I know you don't have any skill in this. Come watch. I'm going to split an arrow."
Aranji raised a brow. "You're getting into this culture fast."
"One arm in the kimono," Dagon said proudly, mimicking Aranji's relaxed posture. "That's how you do it, right?"
Aranji chuckled. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're about to be impressed."
They walked toward the archery field together, the sun rising behind them, the day full of promise and tension yet to come.