Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The Boy hadn't seen the world for two years.

At 14, he had become something else entirely—a creature forged by pain, training, and darkness. For two years, he had worn the blindfold, never removing it, determined to master every facet of blindness. He moved through the world guided by sound, smell, the subtle shifts in the air, and the feel of the ground beneath his feet. Every step had been a battle, every breath a reminder of what he had chosen to give up.

The blindfold had become his world, the darkness as familiar as his own heartbeat.

The overseers had thought it madness at first, to train like this without rest. But they had come to see it as his greatest test yet. The Boy had been relentless. He fought with no sight, relying only on the senses he could control, and day by day, he grew sharper, more dangerous. He had learned to walk through the yard as if he could see it, to spar with the other boys and defeat them one by one without ever glimpsing their faces.

Now, two years later, the overseer had decided it was time for him to choose his final opponent and prove himself.

The yard buzzed with the tension of an impending challenge. The Boy stood in the center, his blindfold tied tightly around his head, the weight of two years of blindness pressing down on him. The overseer's voice cut through the murmurs of the gathered fighters.

"You've trained well, but this is your final test before you complete the blind training. You'll choose your opponent."

The Boy, without hesitation, turned his head toward the strongest fighter in the yard—Darek, a towering 17-year-old who had been the undefeated champion among the trainees for as long as anyone could remember. Darek was a monster in the eyes of the other boys, standing at least a head taller than most, his muscles rippling beneath scarred skin.

"I choose Darek," The Boy said quietly, his voice steady, the blindfold still wrapped securely around his eyes. The tension in the air thickened.

The overseer blinked, momentarily surprised but unsurprised by The Boy's audacity. Darek smirked, stepping forward, his heavy boots crunching the dirt beneath him. "You've lost your mind," Darek sneered, his voice deep and full of arrogance. "You can't even see me."

The Boy stood still, calm. "I don't need to."

The crowd hushed, waiting for the fight to begin.

But before it could, the ground shook.

The sound of distant hooves thundered toward them, growing louder by the second. The Boy's head turned slightly, his body tense, every instinct suddenly screaming. Chaos erupted in the pit. The Dothraki were upon them, their attack swift and merciless. They poured into the yard like a tidal wave, their screams and war cries filling the air. The overseers shouted orders, but it was already too late.

The pit was in flames.

The Boy reacted instinctively, spinning to face the chaos. His blindfold still secure, he used the sound of clashing swords, the cries of the dying, and the thunder of hooves to move. He ducked low as a blade whistled past his head, then sidestepped, feeling the heat of the flames creeping closer.

"Overseer!" The Boy called out, trying to locate the one constant in his life. He moved through the chaos, dodging and weaving as the Dothraki tore the pit apart. His senses were heightened, every sound sharp and clear, but the confusion of battle was overwhelming.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him gave way. He tumbled down, his body twisting as he fell. He felt the cold rush of water as he hit a river, the impact jarring his bones. His head slammed into a rock, and everything went black.

The next time The Boy opened his eyes—though they remained blindfolded—he was lying on something hard and cold. His hands were bound tightly with rough rope, and his head throbbed with pain. His entire body ached. The faint smell of horse sweat and campfires drifted to his nose, and the murmur of voices reached his ears.

He was in a cage.

"Caught this one floating down the river," a gruff voice said. "Blindfolded and battered, but he'll fetch a good price in Vaes Dothrak. They love strange fighters there."

The Boy tensed, feeling the binds cutting into his wrists. Slavers. He listened carefully, his senses working overtime. The sounds of the slavers moving around him, their careless laughter, the clinking of their swords, all told him what he needed to know. He tested the ropes. They were tight, but not tight enough.

He had trained for this.

With a quick twist of his wrists, he slipped free of the bindings. The Boy moved silently, his body tense, the cage creaking slightly as he prepared his escape. The slavers were distracted, talking and laughing. In a swift, fluid motion, he forced the cage open and leaped out, his feet hitting the ground quietly.

But the slavers noticed.

"There! The blindfolded one!" one of them shouted, drawing his blade.

The Boy bolted, running faster than he thought possible. His legs burned, rocks embedded in the soles of his feet, and branches slashed at his skin. He ran through the underbrush, the desert spreading out before him. Every step was agony, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

Behind him, the slavers gave chase, their voices growing louder as they pursued him. But The Boy had learned to navigate without sight. He could hear the changes in the wind, feel the shifting ground beneath him, sense the obstacles before they appeared. He kept running, his breath ragged, the heat of the desert pressing down on him.

Hours passed. His body ached, his legs covered in cuts, the sharp rocks tearing into his flesh with every step. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since he escaped, and his strength was fading. He stumbled more than once, the heat and exhaustion dragging him down, but he kept moving.

Eventually, the slavers gave up, their shouts fading into the distance. The Boy slowed, collapsing onto the desert floor. His entire body trembled with pain and fatigue, but his mind was focused on one thing: removing the blindfold. He could feel it tugging at his thoughts, the temptation gnawing at him.

Should I? he wondered, his fingers hovering near the cloth.

He had been blindfolded for two years. The world beyond the darkness had become something he no longer knew. Part of him longed to rip the blindfold off, to see the sky, the earth, the world that had once been his. But another part of him—stronger, deeper—held him back.

If I take it off now, I haven't earned it. I'm not ready for the pit. Not yet.

The Boy clenched his jaw, tightening the blindfold instead of removing it. His mind settled. He would not remove it until he was ready. Until he had proven himself.

With renewed resolve, The Boy pushed himself up and kept moving, though his legs felt like they were on fire and the weight of exhaustion dragged at his limbs. The desert stretched endlessly before him, a harsh and unforgiving landscape. The sand shifted underfoot, each step a battle.

His throat was dry, his body aching with thirst, and his movements grew slower, weaker. The heat beat down on him, relentless and unforgiving. The Boy's strength faltered, and he stumbled again, this time hitting the ground hard. His head spun, his body failing him.

He lay there, barely able to move, the taste of death creeping up on him. The desert had no mercy.

Then, through the haze of his fading consciousness, he heard a voice. An old, gruff voice, speaking over the sound of his own labored breathing.

"Are you okay, boy?"

The Boy barely registered the words, his body too weak to respond.

"Mary, get me some water!" the old man called out.

The Boy's lips cracked as he tried to speak, but no sound came out. Darkness pressed in on him again, threatening to swallow him whole. His last thought before everything went black was simple.

I'm not ready for the pit.

But I will get closer.

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