Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

It had been years of endless training, and The Boy had grown in strength, speed, and skill, but the fight with Urek had shown him something he wasn't prepared for: how quickly balance could be lost when even a single aspect of his body was taken away. He had fought with one hand tied behind his back and had overcome the odds. But now, the overseer had a new challenge for him—one that would prove even more difficult.

The weight of that challenge was heavy on his mind as he entered the yard the next morning, his body still sore from the previous day's defeat. The other boys watched him, silent and curious, as he stood before the overseer once more. Urek had already taken his place among the others, his expression unreadable. But The Boy knew Urek still relished the victory from yesterday's fight.

Today, though, was not about Urek.

The overseer approached The Boy with a length of thick rope, just like before. But this time, instead of binding his hand, the overseer pointed to his leg. "Today, you fight on one leg."

The Boy blinked, confusion clouding his mind. How was that even possible? Fighting with one hand had been difficult enough, but without the use of his leg, how could he possibly hope to move, to strike?

The overseer's voice was firm. "In the pit, it's not just about how strong you are. Sometimes, you'll be injured—your legs will give out, your body will fail you. You need to learn to fight even when that happens."

The Boy's throat tightened. He had seen gladiators fall in the pit before, their bodies broken, struggling to stand as their enemies bore down on them. It was a brutal, unforgiving place, and he knew the overseer wasn't exaggerating. But learning to fight like this? It felt impossible.

Without a word, The Boy bent down, offering his leg. The overseer tied the rope tightly around his right thigh, binding it up and forcing him to balance on just one leg. Immediately, he felt his body shift, the weight pulling him off balance. His left leg trembled under the strain, and he had to lean on his sword just to stay upright.

The overseer stepped back, nodding to one of the other boys who had taken Urek's place as a training partner. His name was Kargan, a solid boy with a reputation for brute strength. The overseer's voice cut through the air. "You'll fight Kargan. Don't focus on winning. Focus on staying up."

The Boy's heart raced. He knew Kargan well—his strikes were slow but powerful, each blow landing with enough force to send most boys stumbling. Fighting him on two legs was hard enough, but now, with only one leg to stand on? The thought alone made his stomach twist.

Kargan stepped forward, gripping his wooden sword, his eyes sizing up The Boy with a flicker of amusement. The others watched from the edge of the yard, their whispers barely audible. This was a test, one the overseer had never set before. It was an experiment, and The Boy was the subject.

The overseer's signal came. "Begin."

Kargan moved first, his heavy sword arcing toward The Boy's chest. With one leg, The Boy stumbled as he tried to dodge, barely managing to raise his sword in time to block the blow. The impact sent a jolt of pain up his arms, and he felt himself wobble, his balance faltering.

Kargan pressed the attack, his strikes coming in slow, deliberate waves. The Boy tried to sidestep, but every movement was awkward and unsteady. He couldn't move as he usually did—couldn't pivot, couldn't shift his weight. His left leg trembled under the strain, and with every swing Kargan delivered, The Boy felt closer to falling.

Then it happened.

Kargan's sword came down with a heavy blow, and The Boy's left leg finally gave out. He tumbled to the ground, his sword slipping from his grip, the dirt beneath him soft but unforgiving. Kargan stood over him, breathing heavily but victorious.

The overseer didn't react. His eyes remained cold, watching The Boy struggle to push himself back up.

"You will fall," the overseer said calmly, stepping closer. "But the fight isn't over until you stop standing back up."

The Boy clenched his fists, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. His leg still tied, he shifted awkwardly, trying to get back to his feet. The weight of his body felt heavier than ever, the strain on his left leg unbearable, but he wouldn't stop. Not yet.

He stood, wobbling, his balance barely holding, and raised his sword again. Kargan blinked in surprise but readied himself once more.

"Again," the overseer commanded.

Kargan swung again, and The Boy tried to dodge, but the weight of his body made him too slow. The blow hit his arm, sending him spinning to the ground once more. His leg throbbed, his arms shaking, but the overseer's words echoed in his mind: You will fall, but you must get back up.

And so he did. Again and again, the same routine played out. Kargan's strikes were slow but devastating, and The Boy could do nothing but fall and rise, fall and rise, his body aching, his mind screaming at him to stop. His leg was burning, his breath ragged, but each time, he forced himself to stand.

Hours passed, the sun climbing higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard. Sweat poured down The Boy's face, his entire body trembling with exhaustion. His left leg was swollen, the muscles twitching from overuse, but still, he pushed himself back up.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the overseer called for the end. Kargan stepped back, his chest heaving, while The Boy remained on the ground, too exhausted to stand.

The overseer walked over, looking down at The Boy with a rare flicker of approval in his eyes. "Good," he said quietly. "You're learning. It's not about avoiding the fall. It's about learning how to get back up."

The Boy nodded weakly, his breath shallow, his chest rising and falling with effort. His body was screaming for rest, but there was something else, too. A small spark of understanding. He hadn't won the fight, hadn't even come close, but he had learned something far more valuable—how to survive in the worst conditions.

The overseer untied the rope from his leg, allowing blood to rush back through his limb. The Boy gasped as the pain of relief hit him, his leg feeling heavy and swollen. He barely managed to stand, wobbling as he tried to get his balance back.

"Tomorrow," the overseer said, his voice steady, "we'll continue. You'll fight with one leg until you learn to win."

The Boy glanced at the other boys watching him. There was no laughter, no mockery in their eyes. Only a quiet understanding of the struggle he had faced. This was not a lesson of strength or speed. It was a lesson of endurance—one that they would all face eventually.

As the yard began to empty, The Boy limped back toward the barracks, his body aching but his mind already preparing for the next day's challenge. He knew this was only the beginning. The overseer had no intention of stopping with one leg. There would be more handicaps, more limits to push through, until he could fight in any condition, in any situation.

But the words that had haunted him for years came back, quieter now, but still present: You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer.

The Boy clenched his fists, pushing through the pain with each step. Closer wasn't enough. He had to be ready. Ready for the pit, ready for the fight of his life. He had no other choice.

As he lay down that night, the ache in his leg throbbing, he thought of the next day's challenge. He would fight again with one leg, and again, he would fall. But the falling didn't scare him anymore. It was the getting back up that mattered.

And tomorrow, he would stand again.

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