Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

Months of relentless training had brought The Boy to a new kind of exhaustion. He had fought on one leg for what felt like an eternity, struggling to maintain his balance, falling countless times, only to rise again. He had learned to anticipate his opponent's strikes, using his limited movement to his advantage. Now, he could fight standing on a single leg as if it were second nature, but his journey wasn't over.

The overseer had been observing him more closely lately, as if waiting for something. Today, The Boy sensed it: the training was about to change once again.

The morning sun bathed the yard in a harsh light as The Boy limped toward the center, where Kargan stood, ready for their usual bout. But the overseer stopped him before he could take his stance.

"Today, you won't be standing at all," the overseer said coldly, pointing to the ground. "You'll fight from there."

The Boy blinked, uncertain what he meant. Fight without standing? He looked at his opponent, Kargan, who was just as confused. The Boy glanced at the overseer, waiting for more instruction, but none came. Instead, the overseer folded his arms, nodding toward the ground.

"Get down," he ordered.

Reluctantly, The Boy knelt, his knees pressing into the dirt, feeling the vulnerability wash over him. How could he possibly fight from this position? He had no leverage, no balance. He would be a sitting target.

Kargan watched him, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. This was going to be easy—he knew it.

The overseer raised a hand. "Begin."

Kargan moved swiftly, his sword slicing through the air toward The Boy's head. Instinctively, The Boy ducked, rolling to the side, but the movement felt clumsy and uncoordinated. His body wasn't used to fighting like this, and Kargan knew it. Another strike came down, and The Boy barely managed to roll out of the way in time, the dirt beneath him shifting as he scrambled to find his footing—or lack thereof.

He tried to block with his sword, but from his position on the ground, the blows felt twice as heavy. Kargan loomed over him, swinging with ease. The Boy's mind raced—how was he supposed to win like this?

Then, in the midst of the struggle, something shifted. As Kargan leaned down to deliver another blow, The Boy's instincts kicked in. Without thinking, he grabbed Kargan's leg with both hands, pulling him down into the dirt. Kargan hit the ground hard, his sword slipping from his grasp as The Boy twisted, using his body weight to pin Kargan beneath him.

The yard fell silent.

The overseer's eyes widened, just slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his usually impassive face. The Boy hadn't been taught to grapple, not once in all his years of training. Yet here he was, holding Kargan down with a technique none of them had ever shown him.

The overseer stepped forward, his voice quiet but sharp. "Where did you learn that?"

The Boy hesitated, breathing heavily as he released Kargan and stood. His mind was racing, fragments of memories flashing through his thoughts—vague, distant images of another life. He could almost see it, feel it: hands gripping an opponent, bodies twisting in a fight for control. But it wasn't from here. It wasn't from this world.

"I didn't learn it," The Boy replied, his voice low. "It just… felt right."

The overseer narrowed his eyes, studying him for a long moment before nodding slowly. He wasn't satisfied with the answer, but he didn't push. Instead, he gestured for Kargan to rise.

"That was unexpected," the overseer said, his tone laced with curiosity. "But this is a fight. Use whatever works."

The Boy nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. The memory of the grapple haunted him, a piece of his past life bleeding into the present. He hadn't thought about his previous life in years, not since the early days of his rebirth into this harsh world. But now, that memory—the feeling of knowing how to grapple—stirred something inside him. What else was buried in his mind? What other skills could he uncover?

But there was no time to dwell on it.

The overseer stepped forward again, his expression hardening. "Now we move on." He grabbed the ropes, and The Boy's heart sank. "This time, you fight without your arms."

The Boy's stomach tightened. Fighting without his hands, without his ability to block or strike with his sword, seemed even more impossible than fighting without legs. But the overseer gave no further instruction, offering only the cold expectation that The Boy would figure it out on his own.

The ropes wound tightly around his arms, pinning them behind his back, rendering him defenseless. His heart raced, the weight of the challenge pressing down on him.

"Begin," the overseer said, stepping back.

Kargan advanced, his confidence returning. The Boy felt the panic rise in his chest. Without his arms, how could he possibly fight? He tried to dodge, but Kargan's strikes came too fast, too strong. Each blow knocked The Boy back, sending him stumbling across the yard. The other boys watched in silence, their eyes fixed on the spectacle, knowing that in this moment, The Boy was lost.

He tried to use his legs to kick at Kargan, but it was no use. He couldn't block, couldn't defend himself, and Kargan knew it. With every hit, The Boy felt himself slipping further into defeat.

But then, amidst the flurry of strikes and the feeling of helplessness, something surfaced in his mind—something distant, a lesson from long ago.

Fight with anything you can use.

It was a lesson he had learned when he was just a boy, barely five years old. It had been one of the first things the overseers had drilled into him. He had learned to fight with chains, with rocks, with whatever was within reach. And now, with his arms tied behind his back, his mind raced to find something, anything, he could use.

His legs. They were still free.

In a flash, The Boy acted. He kicked his leg up, catching the dirt beneath him and sending a cloud of dust into Kargan's eyes. Kargan staggered, momentarily blinded, and The Boy seized the moment. He dropped low, spinning on his heel and bringing his leg around in a wide arc. His foot connected with Kargan's ribs, sending the larger boy crashing to the ground.

The crowd of boys erupted in murmurs of disbelief.

The Boy stood over Kargan, breathing hard, his chest heaving as he stared down at his fallen opponent. His arms were still tied behind his back, but he had won. He had fought without his arms, and he had won.

The overseer approached slowly, his expression unreadable, but The Boy could see it—the glimmer of pride in his eyes. The overseer stopped just short of The Boy, staring at him for a long moment before speaking.

"Well done," he said, his voice calm but carrying weight. "You used what you had. That is how you survive."

The Boy nodded, though his mind was still spinning, still processing the fight, the memories, the strange sense that there was more inside him than he had realized. The grappling, the instincts—none of it felt new. It felt like something buried deep within him, something from before.

The overseer stepped back, untangling the ropes from The Boy's arms. "You've made progress, but remember this: the pit doesn't care about how clever you are. It only cares about survival."

He paused, his eyes locking onto The Boy's. "You're not ready for the pit," he said, his voice echoing the same words The Boy had heard for years. "But you're getting closer."

The Boy held the overseer's gaze, his chest tightening. The words still felt heavy, a constant reminder of how far he had to go. But today, there was something different in them. They weren't just a judgment—they were a promise.

The overseer turned and walked away, leaving The Boy standing in the yard, the other boys still murmuring among themselves. The Boy looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers now that they were free. His body ached, but there was something new burning inside him—a feeling he hadn't had in years.

He was getting closer.

And as he walked back to the barracks, his mind raced with the memory of the grapple, of the instincts that had surfaced during the fight. He could feel the past trying to break through, trying to remind him of something important, something that might save his life in the future.

There was more buried in his mind—more that he didn't fully understand yet. But he would find it. He would dig deeper.

Because one day, he would face the pit.

And when that day came, he would be ready.

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