Game of thrones: The blind warrior

Years had passed since The Boy first felt the weight of the chains pull him down, leaving him broken on the floor of the training yard. He had grown since then—his body stronger, his mind sharper. The endless drills, the pain, the exhaustion had become his world, molding him into something more than just a child struggling to survive.

Now, at the age of ten, The Boy was no longer the smallest in the yard. His muscles, hardened through relentless training, moved with a grace and precision that had once seemed impossible. The weight of the chains was no longer unbearable, and the bruises from the strikes no longer slowed him. He had learned what the overseers had always intended for him: how to use the pain, how to fight through it.

In these years, he had faced Urek many times. Each bout had taught him a new lesson, not just about combat but about himself. In the beginning, Urek had always bested him with raw strength and sheer aggression. But now, as The Boy stood across from Urek in the yard, there was no fear, no hesitation.

The sun beat down on the yard as the overseer gave the signal to begin. The other boys gathered around to watch, their eyes filled with quiet anticipation. Most of them had seen Urek and The Boy fight before, but something was different today. This time, The Boy’s movements were more confident, his body poised in a way that spoke of experience, of readiness.

Urek, older and still just as strong, smirked. He had always enjoyed these fights, enjoyed the idea of crushing The Boy beneath his might. But as the fight began, something changed.

The Boy moved first. His steps were quick, precise, each one calculated. Urek swung his wooden sword in a wide arc, aiming to overpower The Boy with brute force, but The Boy saw it coming. He ducked low, slipping past Urek’s strike, and brought his own sword up in a sharp jab toward Urek’s ribs.

The impact was solid, the force enough to make Urek stumble back, eyes wide with surprise.

Before Urek could recover, The Boy was already moving again, closing the distance. His strikes came fast, each one carefully aimed to exploit Urek’s overcommitted movements. Urek swung wildly, trying to regain control of the fight, but The Boy was relentless, his strikes landing with precision and power.

It was over faster than anyone expected.

With a final, decisive blow, The Boy knocked Urek’s sword from his hand, sending it clattering to the ground. Urek stood there, stunned, his chest heaving with exertion as The Boy leveled his sword at him, the point hovering inches from Urek’s throat.

The yard fell silent.

Urek’s eyes flickered with disbelief. For years, he had dominated The Boy, besting him in fight after fight. But now, he stood defeated, and it had been easy. Too easy.

The Boy stepped back, lowering his sword, his breathing steady. There was no pride on his face, no arrogance in his victory. He had simply done what he had trained to do—what he had become capable of over years of grueling effort.

The overseer stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the scene. He looked at Urek, then at The Boy, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

“Good,” the overseer said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “You’ve improved.”

The Boy nodded, the weight of the victory settling over him, though it felt more like a step forward than a triumph.

But then the overseer’s next words made him pause.

“Now,” the overseer said, stepping closer, “tie your hand behind your back.”

The Boy blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes. He glanced at Urek, who was still catching his breath, then back at the overseer.

“Again,” the overseer continued, his tone firm. “You’ll fight Urek again. But this time, you’ll only have one hand.”

The murmurs from the other boys grew louder. The Boy hesitated, glancing down at the wooden sword in his hand. He had never fought with one arm before, never trained for it. This was something new—something that felt more like a punishment than a challenge.

But the overseer’s gaze was unrelenting.

With a sigh, The Boy handed his sword to the overseer and turned his back. The overseer quickly tied his right hand behind him with a length of coarse rope, leaving only his left arm free to hold the sword. The weight of the restriction was immediate, pulling at him, making him feel unbalanced.

He turned back to face Urek, who had retrieved his sword, his confidence already returning. A smirk spread across Urek’s face as he realized what was happening. Fighting The Boy with both hands had proven difficult, but now? Now it would be different. Urek’s arrogance returned in full force.

The overseer gave the signal, and the fight began.

Urek didn’t waste any time. He lunged forward with brutal force, swinging his sword in a wide, powerful arc. The Boy dodged as best he could, but the lack of balance threw him off. His movements, once fluid and precise, were now clumsy and slow. His left hand gripped the sword tightly, but it lacked the strength and control he had honed over the years with his dominant hand.

Urek’s strikes came hard and fast, and The Boy found himself on the defensive almost immediately. Every block sent a jarring shock up his arm, his left hand struggling to keep pace with the onslaught. His footwork faltered, and Urek capitalized on every mistake, every misstep.

It wasn’t long before Urek’s sword slammed into The Boy’s side, sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain flared through his ribs as he gasped for air, the wind knocked from his lungs. He struggled to get up, but Urek was already there, the tip of his sword pointed at The Boy’s throat.

The yard was silent once more, but this time, it was Urek who stood victorious.

The Boy stared up at Urek, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. He had lost, and the defeat stung more than any blow could. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the loss, of how quickly the fight had turned against him.

The overseer stepped forward, nodding toward Urek. “Enough.”

Urek lowered his sword, stepping back, but the smug look on his face said everything. He had his victory, even if it had been given under unusual circumstances.

The overseer approached The Boy, who was still on the ground, his hand tied behind his back, struggling to regain his breath. The overseer knelt beside him, his voice low but firm.

“Get used to it,” the overseer said. “In the pit, you won’t always have both hands. You won’t always be at full strength. You need to learn to fight with handicaps. To fight when you’re at your weakest.”

The Boy sat up slowly, the words sinking in. This wasn’t about humiliating him. This was another lesson—another way to push him beyond what he thought possible.

“You’ve learned to fight through the pain,” the overseer continued, untying the rope around his wrist. “Now, you’ll learn how to fight with limitations. With whatever you have left.”

The Boy rubbed his wrist, the rope marks still fresh against his skin. He didn’t say anything, but his mind was already turning, already thinking about how he would train for this. He had learned to endure pain. Now, he would learn to endure loss, to fight when everything was stacked against him.

The overseer stood, his eyes fixed on The Boy. “Tomorrow, we begin again. You’ll fight with one hand until you can win. Then, we’ll take away something else.”

The Boy nodded, determination hardening inside him. This was just another challenge. Another step on the path to survival.

You’re not ready for the pit, but you’re getting closer.

The words echoed again, but this time, they didn’t feel like a weight. They felt like a goal. And he would reach it.

He had no other choice.

The overseer walked away, leaving The Boy alone in the yard, the other boys already dispersing. The Boy stood there for a long moment, staring at the wooden dummy in the distance. He had beaten Urek once. He would do it again, even with one hand. Even with more handicaps.

Because that was the only way to truly survive.

Tomorrow, he would fight again.

And next time, he wouldn’t lose.

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