Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The Boy woke to the faint sound of voices, low and murmuring. His body ached, bruised and battered from the river, the cuts and scrapes on his skin still raw. His head throbbed, but the familiar pressure of the blindfold against his eyes was comforting, a reminder of the discipline he had spent years mastering.

He lay still, his senses sharpening in the quiet. The voices drifted from nearby—two people, a man and a woman, deep in conversation. He strained to listen, his body tense, unsure of where he was or what had happened after the Dothraki raid had destroyed the pit. All he remembered was the fall into the river and the cold, rushing water before everything had gone dark.

"He's still just a boy, Jorik," the woman said, her tone soft but firm. "We can't just leave him out there. He'd die."

"I don't know, Lysa," the man—Jorik—grumbled. "We don't know who he is or where he's from. Could be trouble."

"He was half-dead when we found him. Whoever he is, he needs help."

The Boy's heart pounded in his chest. He remained silent, his body still, but his mind raced. These people had saved him, taken him in after the river had nearly claimed his life. He didn't know them, didn't know if they could be trusted, but he could hear the concern in the woman's voice.

"And what if he's dangerous?" Jorik continued, his voice low. "You've seen the scars on his back and the way he swatted away your hand when you tried to remove his blindfold. It's unnatural."

"He's hurt," Lysa insisted. "He needs rest. Let's give him a chance. It's not like we'll lose much if we help. The farm could use another pair of hands."

Jorik sighed heavily. "I don't like it. But... I suppose we'll see how he turns out. He looks strong so we might as well use him as a mule"

The Boy felt a flicker of relief at Jorik's grudging acceptance. He wasn't sure why they had saved him, but he knew he wasn't in a position to refuse their help. Not yet.

The conversation ended, and the room fell quiet again. The Boy shifted slightly under the blanket, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of the small bed beneath him. He wasn't sure how long he had been unconscious, but his body felt weak, his limbs heavy.

The door creaked open, and light footsteps approached him. The scent of herbs and fresh bread filled the air, a comforting change from the harsh, blood-soaked world he had known in the pit.

"He's awake," the woman—Lysa—said softly. "Are you all right, dear?"

The Boy sat up slowly, his head spinning as he adjusted to the movement. His body protested, but he ignored the pain. The blindfold stayed firmly in place, the darkness as familiar as ever.

"Yes," he rasped, his voice dry and weak. He winced, his throat parched from days without water.

Lysa pressed a cup into his hands. "Drink. You need it."

He hesitated for a moment before accepting the cup, taking small, careful sips of the cool water. His senses were heightened, as they had always been since he'd begun training blind, and he could feel the woman's gaze on him, studying him carefully.

"Thank you," he murmured, handing the cup back once he'd finished.

Lysa sat down beside him, her voice soft and full of concern. "What's your name?"

The Boy tensed. His name. He hadn't had one in years, not since the pit had claimed him. There, he had been nothing more than a fighter, a tool for survival. A name didn't seem important in that world. But here, in this quiet farmhouse, it felt like something he should have.

"I don't... have one," he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lysa's brow furrowed in concern, but she didn't press him. "Well, we'll have to fix that," she said with a gentle smile. "Everyone needs a name."

From the doorway, Jorik's gruff voice cut in. "Can't keep calling him 'boy' forever."

The Boy turned his head toward the sound of Jorik's voice. He could sense the man's skepticism, the wariness in his tone, but there was no malice. Just caution.

"What do you think?" Lysa asked, looking over at her husband. "What should we call him?"

Jorik grunted, stepping into the room. "Something strong. He looks like he could handle himself."

The Boy remained silent, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't know what to expect, didn't know if a name would change anything, but the idea of being called something other than boy stirred something deep inside him. Something he hadn't felt in years.

Suddenly, a new voice joined the conversation. A small, excited voice full of curiosity. "What about Arren?"

The Boy turned his head toward the sound of the voice—a young girl, no more than eight, standing in the doorway. Her bright eyes gleamed with excitement, her hands clasped in front of her as she beamed up at him.

Lysa smiled warmly at the girl. "Arren?"

The girl—Mary—nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Like the hero in the stories! He was brave and strong. I don't know if he is brave but he does look strong"

The Boy tilted his head slightly, the name echoing in his mind. Arren. It was simple, strong, and something about it resonated with him. It felt right, as if it had always been waiting for him.

Lysa looked at him, her smile soft and encouraging. "What do you think? Does 'Arren' suit you?"

He nodded slowly. "Arren," he repeated quietly, testing the sound of it on his lips. It was the first time in years that he had called himself anything other than the boy.

"Arren it is, then," Lysa said, her voice full of warmth. "Welcome to our home, Arren."

Life on the farm was unlike anything Arren had ever known. In the pit, every day had been a battle for survival, a struggle to keep breathing, to stay on his feet. Here, there was peace. A slow, steady rhythm to the days that felt foreign but comforting. The work was hard, but it was the kind of hard work that made sense, the kind that left him feeling like he had accomplished something good by the end of the day.

Jorik put him to work quickly, though always with a cautious eye. The man didn't trust him completely—Arren could sense that—but he appreciated the extra hands. The farm needed tending, and Arren was strong, despite the bruises and the aches that still lingered from his fall into the river.

Lysa, on the other hand, was kind and gentle, always offering a smile or a kind word. She had tried, more than once, to ask him about his past. About where he had come from, why he wore the blindfold. But each time, Arren had shaken his head, his jaw tight.

"I'm not ready," he had said, the same response every time.

Lysa never pushed. She seemed to understand that whatever darkness he carried with him, it wasn't something easily shared.

Jorik, on the other hand, was more practical about it. "Boy doesn't need to see to work," he'd said one afternoon as they repaired the fence around the livestock. "If he can do his job, I don't care if he's got a blindfold or not."

Mary was endlessly fascinated by Arren's blindfold. The young girl followed him around the farm, asking him all sorts of questions about how he managed to do things without his eyes. She had even tried to mimic him, tying a cloth over her own eyes and stumbling around the yard.

Arren had laughed softly when she tripped over a bucket. "It's not as easy as it looks."

"I'm trying to be like you!" Mary had said with a wide grin, clearly proud of herself.

Arren knelt down, gently untying the cloth from her eyes. "It's better if you be you instead. Trust me."

Mary giggled but nodded, her eyes bright with curiosity. "But you make it look easy!"

Arren didn't answer, his smile fading slightly. For him, moving without sight was a necessity, a skill honed through years of fighting and surviving in the pit. But here, on the farm, it felt different. He wasn't fighting for his life anymore. He was simply living.

As the weeks passed, Arren began to experience flashes of memories from his past life—fragments of the world he had once known. They came to him at odd times, usually when he was doing something mundane, like fixing a fence or tending to the animals. A fleeting image of a celebration, a song, or a smell would stir something deep inside him.

One evening, as they sat around the small table in the farmhouse, one of those memories surfaced. He remembered celebrations—namedays—and the sweet taste of cake. The memory was faint, but it was there, tugging at the edges of his mind.

"How do you celebrate namedays here?" Arren asked suddenly, surprising himself.

Lysa looked up from her meal, curious. "We mark them, yes. But it's not much more than a small gathering."

Mary perked up, her eyes wide with excitement. "What do you do for namedays, Arren?"

Arren hesitated, the memory flickering in his mind, blurry but still strong enough to stir something deep within him. "We used to make cakes," he said slowly, feeling the weight of the past pressing down on him. "For namedays. It was... a tradition. A way to make the day special."

Mary's eyes lit up with excitement. "A cake? What's that? Can we have one for my nameday?"

Jorik grunted, amused but clearly skeptical. "How much are these cakes? We're farmers. Can we afford one?"

But Lysa smiled warmly, her curiosity piqued. "Tell us about these cakes. How do you make them?"

Arren hesitated, the details of the recipe eluding him. He could remember the sweet taste, the feeling of joy and celebration, but the ingredients were hazy, slipping through his memory like sand. "It's sweet," he said, his voice uncertain. "You bake it with flour, eggs, and sugar. You can put berries on top. It's... soft, and you light candles on it."

Mary gasped, her excitement spilling over. "Sweets? I want that for my nameday! Please, Mama?"

Lysa chuckled softly. "We'll see if we can make something like that, Mary. But it might not be exactly as Arren remembers."

Arren nodded, his chest tightening. The memory was faint, but it was one of the few good things he could recall from his past. For the first time in years, he wanted to bring a piece of that old life into this new one, if only for Mary's sake.

The next few days were spent in quiet anticipation. Lysa and Arren worked together to gather what ingredients they could, improvising where his memory failed. The village didn't have all the luxuries he remembered from his past, but they made do. Mary helped, too, her small hands eager to stir the mixture and taste the sweet batter.

The result was far from perfect—it was more a dense loaf than the fluffy cakes of his memory—but when Mary's nameday arrived, and they placed the makeshift cake in front of her with a few wildflowers instead of candles, her eyes shone with joy.

"This is the best nameday ever!" she squealed, clapping her hands.

Lysa beamed at Arren from across the table. "Thank you," she said quietly, her voice filled with genuine warmth. "You've brought something special to our home."

Arren's heart swelled at her words. He hadn't done much, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt like he had contributed to something more than just survival. He had created a moment of happiness for someone else. And in that moment, surrounded by Lysa's gentle smile, Jorik's quiet approval, and Mary's infectious joy, he almost felt at peace.

The farm settled into a steady rhythm, and Arren found himself growing more comfortable in his new life. The villagers had initially been wary of him—his blindfold made them uneasy, and they whispered about him behind his back. Some wondered why he refused to remove it, while others speculated that he had something to hide.

But over time, they came to accept him. He worked hard, helping Jorik with the farm, fixing things around the village, and even teaching the children simple games and tricks. His grace without sight unnerved some, but the villagers began to see him as an odd but useful part of their community.

However, not everyone was so accepting.

The older boys in the village—teenagers full of pride and insecurity—found Arren's blindfolded presence strange and unsettling. They couldn't understand how he moved so effortlessly without seeing, and it scared them. Fear, as Arren knew all too well, often turned into something darker.

One afternoon, as Arren was walking back from the fields, a group of those boys approached him. They had been watching him for weeks, their suspicion growing with every graceful movement he made. Today, they had decided to confront him.

"You think you're better than us, blind boy?" one of the boys sneered, stepping into his path.

Arren stopped, his body immediately tensing. His senses flared, every sound and movement around him becoming sharp and clear. He didn't want trouble, not here, not in this village that had taken him in. But the pit had taught him never to back down from a confrontation, and the memory of that life still lived deep within him.

"I'm just walking," Arren said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "Let me pass."

The boys didn't move. Another stepped forward, his voice dripping with malice. "You think we're scared of you because of that blindfold? You're just a freak."

Arren clenched his fists at his sides, trying to stay calm. His mind raced, flashes of the pit coming back to him—the blood, the fights, the pain. He had learned to fight blind, to survive in darkness, and his body responded before his mind could stop it.

One of the boys shoved him, a light push meant to provoke.

To the boy, it was a harmless gesture. To Arren, it was the trigger.

In an instant, Arren's training took over. His movements were swift and precise, years of fighting without sight guiding him as he grabbed the boy's wrist and twisted sharply. The boy's scream echoed through the quiet village as his arm snapped, the sound of breaking bone cutting through the air.

The other boys froze, their bravado evaporating in an instant. They stared at Arren, wide-eyed and terrified, as their friend crumpled to the ground, clutching his broken arm and sobbing in pain.

Arren stepped back, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. His hands were still trembling from the force of his reaction, his body tense and ready for a fight that never came. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, but the memories of the pit—the instincts—had taken over.

The boys turned and ran, leaving their friend writhing on the ground.

Arren stood there, his chest heaving, his mind racing. He hadn't meant to do it. He hadn't wanted to be that person again. But the pit had never truly left him, and in that moment, it had taken control.

Later that evening, after the sun had set and the farm had quieted, Lysa found him sitting by the small river that ran behind the house. The water's gentle rush was calming, but it did little to soothe the turmoil in Arren's heart.

"Arren?" Lysa's voice was soft as she approached, careful not to startle him. She sat down beside him, her presence warm and steady. "Are you all right?"

He didn't answer at first, his mind still replaying the scene from earlier. The boy's scream, the snap of his arm—it echoed in his head, louder than the sound of the river. His hands shook in his lap.

"I hurt him," Arren said finally, his voice raw. "I didn't mean to, but... I hurt him."

Lysa sighed quietly, her expression filled with concern. "I know. I spoke with the boy's mother. He'll heal, but... it frightened them."

Arren hung his head, guilt and shame coursing through him. "I don't belong here."

"Why would you say that?" Lysa asked gently. "You've done so much for us, for the village. One mistake doesn't change that."

"I can't control it," Arren whispered, his voice shaking. "The things I've learned... the things I've done. They don't belong here. This isn't my world."

Lysa placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Arren, we all have things in our past we aren't proud of. But that doesn't mean you don't deserve a future."

Arren shook his head, the weight of the past pressing down on him. "You don't understand. I... I don't know how to be anything else."

Lysa was quiet for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the dark water of the river. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but firm. "You're not defined by what you've done, Arren. You're defined by what you choose to do now. You don't have to be the person you were before."

Arren's jaw clenched, his emotions a tangled mess inside him. He wanted to believe her, but the shadows of his past still clung to him, whispering in the back of his mind.

"I don't know how," he said, his voice barely audible.

Lysa smiled gently. "Then we'll figure it out together."

For the first time in a long time, Arren felt a small flicker of hope. It was fragile, buried beneath layers of doubt and fear, but it was there. And as he sat by the river, listening to the water and feeling Lysa's hand on his shoulder, he allowed himself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, he could find a place here.

In the quiet of the night, surrounded by the warmth of a family that had taken him in, Arren realized something: he wasn't alone anymore. He didn't have to face the darkness by himself.

Maybe, one day, he would be able to take off the blindfold.

But not yet.

For now, he would stay in the darkness, waiting for the day he was ready to see the world again. And when that day came, he would be ready.

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