Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The morning sun was merciless, already high in the sky by the time The Boy trudged into the training yard. His body still ached from yesterday's grueling session, and the bruises across his ribs and shoulders pulsed with every movement. But as he crossed the yard, he set his jaw in determination. Today would be different. He had learned something the previous day, something that had shifted in him. He was not just enduring anymore—he was starting to understand how to endure with purpose.

The overseer stood in the same spot as always, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on The Boy as he approached. The other boys had already begun their drills, but none of them paid The Boy any attention. He had become a fixture here—always training, always testing his limits, but never yet reaching the threshold of the pit. He was a ghost to them, not worth acknowledging until he either proved himself or vanished entirely.

"Good," the overseer said, nodding slightly as The Boy arrived. "You're early."

The Boy said nothing, simply standing at attention. He could feel the familiar tension in his muscles, but his mind was sharper now, focused. The lessons of the previous day still clung to him like the welts on his skin: endurance wasn't just about taking the pain—it was about controlling it.

The overseer stepped forward, pulling a chain from his belt. "Today, we're adding more weight."

The Boy swallowed hard, eyeing the chain. He had barely survived yesterday's training, and the thought of carrying even more weight made his stomach twist. But he knew there was no room for refusal. There never had been.

The overseer fastened the heavy chain around his waist, the iron links cold against his skin. The added weight immediately pressed down on him, and he could feel his legs strain beneath the burden. The overseer stepped back, crossing his arms once more.

"Start with footwork," he ordered. "Keep your movements precise. Don't let the weight slow you."

The Boy nodded, already feeling the sweat bead on his forehead. He shifted his stance, lifting his feet slowly at first, then faster, trying to stay light despite the dragging sensation of the chain. His legs burned with each step, his calves tightening as he moved across the yard. Every time his foot hit the ground, the weight pulled at him, but he forced himself to stay upright, to keep moving.

"Faster," the overseer called out. "You need to be quicker."

The Boy gritted his teeth and picked up the pace, his feet sliding through the dirt, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The chain around his waist tugged at him, its weight relentless, but he pushed harder, focusing on the rhythm of his steps.

He could feel the strain building in his legs, creeping up into his back and shoulders. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not if he wanted to survive what was coming next.

After what felt like an eternity, the overseer finally called out, "Enough."

The Boy slowed to a halt, his body shaking with exhaustion. His legs felt as though they would give out at any moment, but he forced himself to stand tall, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

The overseer approached, eyeing him carefully. "You're learning to carry the weight," he said, almost as if speaking to himself. "But you need to keep it off your mind as well. Pain and burden—if you think about them too much, they'll control you."

The Boy nodded, though he wasn't sure how to do what the overseer was asking. How could he not think about the pain when it was all he felt? The chain was a constant reminder of his limits, dragging at him, pulling him down. But the overseer's words rang in his ears: Don't let the weight control you.

The overseer gestured toward the training dummies once more. "Now, with the sword."

The Boy's heart sank. He had barely managed to stay on his feet during the footwork drills, and now he was expected to fight? His arms already felt heavy, but he took a deep breath and walked toward the rack of practice swords. The wooden weapon felt awkward in his hands, the added weight of the chain making every movement feel sluggish.

But he wouldn't give up. He couldn't.

He took his place in front of the dummy, adjusting his stance, gripping the sword tightly. The overseer stepped back, watching closely.

"Strike."

The Boy swung the sword, but the chain dragged at him, slowing his strike. The blow was weak, barely grazing the dummy's surface.

"Again," the overseer ordered, his voice sharp.

The Boy adjusted his grip and swung harder, but the result was the same. His arms trembled with the effort, and his legs screamed under the weight. His breath came in ragged gasps, but still, he swung again, and again.

Each strike felt weaker than the last, each movement more labored. He could feel the overseer's eyes on him, watching, judging. The other boys continued their drills, oblivious to his struggle, but The Boy knew that failing here meant something far worse than just pain. It meant falling further from his goal.

You're not ready for the pit, the words echoed in his mind, almost as if the overseer was speaking them again. But he wasn't. He had only said it once today, but the weight of it was heavier than the chains around his waist. You're getting closer. Was he?

The Boy swung again, this time putting everything he had left into the strike. The wooden sword cracked against the dummy with more force than before, and the overseer nodded slightly.

"Better," the overseer said, but his voice was still flat, giving nothing away.

The Boy stood there, panting, his body drenched in sweat. His arms felt like they were on fire, his legs ready to collapse under the weight of the chain. But he had landed a solid strike. It wasn't much, but it was progress.

The overseer stepped forward, eyeing him closely. "You still think too much about the weight," he said. "The pit won't give you the luxury of focusing on one thing at a time. The weight, the pain, the fight—they all come at once. You have to be ready for all of it."

The Boy swallowed hard, his throat dry. He didn't know how to balance it all. The pain, the pressure, the endless training—it was overwhelming. But he nodded, knowing that he didn't have a choice. He would have to figure it out. Somehow.

"Tomorrow," the overseer continued, "we'll add more. Today was about learning to move with the burden. Tomorrow, we'll see if you can fight with it."

The Boy's heart sank. More weight. More pain. He wasn't sure how much more his body could take, but he had survived this long. He would survive tomorrow.

The overseer turned to leave, but before he did, he glanced over his shoulder. "You're still not ready for the pit," he said, his voice low. "But you're getting closer."

The Boy watched him go, the words sinking into his mind like stones. They followed him, haunted him, but somewhere deep inside, there was a flicker of hope. The overseer had said it again, but this time, there had been something different in his tone. A hint of belief.

The Boy wasn't ready for the pit.

But maybe, just maybe, he was getting closer.

As the yard began to empty, the Boy stood alone in front of the dummy, the weight of the chain still pressing down on him. His muscles ached, and his mind was fogged with exhaustion. But tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow, he would add more weight. And tomorrow, he would keep fighting.

Because that was the only way to get closer.

Without another word, The Boy walked slowly back toward the barracks, his body heavy but his mind already preparing for the next day's trial.

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