Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

Arren stood over the lifeless body, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air. His hands trembled, slick with warmth. He could feel the man's body beneath his feet, unmoving, the heat of life fading quickly from the flesh. His breath came in shallow gasps, the pounding of his heartbeat loud in his ears. Every sense was heightened, the world around him sharper and clearer in the absence of sight.

The man was dead.

Arren hadn't needed to see it to know. The moment he had felt the man's throat collapse under his grip, he had known it was over. But now, as the adrenaline faded, guilt washed over him. The girl, trembling and sobbing nearby, was alive, saved from the man's violence—but at what cost?

He had killed out of fear. In his blindness, when he heard the girl's desperate cries, his mind had conjured the worst image imaginable. He had imagined Mary. He had never seen her face, but her presence in his life had become so vivid, so real, that in that moment, it was as if she had been the one in danger. And in his rage, he had struck with the brutal precision that had been drilled into him in the pit.

The man had never stood a chance.

Arren stepped back, his heart heavy, the weight of what he'd done sinking in. He flexed his fingers, feeling the blood between them, still warm. The girl's quiet sobs filled the clearing, her fear palpable in the air. Arren's chest tightened, knowing that he had saved her, but it didn't feel like a victory.

It felt like failure.

The faint sound of footsteps reached his ears—multiple sets, hurried and urgent. The villagers were coming. He could smell the damp earth beneath their boots, hear the rustling of the grass as they approached. Lysa's familiar voice reached him first, breathless with worry.

"Arren? What's happened? Are you all right?"

Arren turned toward her voice, the comforting cadence of her words pulling him back from the edge of his thoughts. He nodded slightly, though he couldn't bring himself to speak. The bitter, metallic scent of blood still clung to him, and the taste of iron filled the air.

Jorik's heavier footsteps came next, the sound of his boots crunching over the gravel unmistakable. He approached slowly, the tension in his movements clear. Arren could sense the shift in the air, the way Jorik's breath caught when he noticed the body on the ground.

"By the gods…" Jorik muttered, his voice low and strained. "What did you do, boy?"

Arren swallowed hard, trying to find the words. "He… he was hurting her," he whispered, his voice thick with guilt. "I had to stop him."

There was a pause, heavy with understanding and confusion. The villagers gathered closer, their quiet murmurs filling the space as they took in the scene. Arren couldn't see their faces, but he could feel their gazes on him, their shock, their concern. The atmosphere around him crackled with tension, with emotions too complicated to name.

Lysa knelt beside the girl, her movements soft and careful. Arren could hear the rustling of her skirts, the gentle way she comforted the girl, whispering soothing words. "You're safe now," she murmured. "You're safe."

Arren clenched his fists, the stickiness of the blood still fresh on his hands. His mind raced, replaying the moments that had led to this—his blind rush into the clearing, the sound of the girl's screams, the image of Mary, so vivid and clear in his imagination that it had driven him to act without thought. He hadn't known who the man was. He hadn't even thought about it. All he had known was that someone was in danger, and his body had reacted, as it always did.

He hadn't been fighting for the girl. He had been fighting for Mary.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Arren asked, though he already knew the answer.

Jorik's boots shifted in the dirt, his sigh heavy and filled with regret. "Aye," he said quietly. "He's dead."

The villagers began to murmur again, their voices a low hum of agreement. They knew the man who now lay dead at Arren's feet. He had been a brute, a troublemaker, someone who had always caused problems in the village. No one had liked him, and many had feared that something like this would happen eventually. But none of them had expected it to end this way.

"You did the right thing, Arren," Lysa said softly, her voice trembling but resolute. "You saved her."

Arren's chest tightened at her words. The right thing? His fists clenched at his sides, the familiar darkness creeping into his thoughts. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like justice. It felt like a return to the pit, to the blind violence that had once been his only means of survival.

He shook his head slowly. "No," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "It wasn't right."

The villagers exchanged confused glances, their whispered conversations falling quiet. Arren could feel their eyes on him, trying to understand, but they couldn't. How could they? They hadn't seen what he had seen in his mind's eye—the terrified face of the girl who had become like a sister to him. The rage that had consumed him had not been about saving the girl. It had been about the fear of losing Mary, even if that fear was unfounded.

Jorik's heavy hand landed on his shoulder, firm but not unkind. "You saved her life, boy," he said gruffly. "That man had it coming. He's hurt people before. Everyone here knows it."

Arren shook his head again, the tension in his chest tightening. "I didn't kill him to save her," he said, his voice hollow. "I killed him because I thought it was Mary. I wasn't thinking. I couldn't see who he was."

The air around them stilled, the weight of Arren's confession settling over the group. The villagers shifted uneasily, their understanding of the situation deepening. They had believed he acted out of pure intent, but now they realized that the darkness within him—the violence he had been forced to hone in the pit—had taken over.

Lysa's footsteps were soft as she approached, her hand reaching out to find his. Her touch was warm, comforting, but it did little to soothe the storm raging inside him. "Arren," she said gently, "you were protecting her. You did what you thought was right. No one here blames you."

Arren's jaw clenched. "But I wasn't in control. I let my anger take over, and I killed him without thinking. That's not who I want to be."

Jorik's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Sometimes," he said slowly, "doing the right thing doesn't feel right. But that doesn't mean it wasn't necessary."

Arren turned his face toward Jorik's voice, though he couldn't see him. "But it wasn't my place. I lost control."

The villagers stood quietly around them, their support evident in the stillness, but Arren could sense the undercurrent of fear. They weren't angry with him, but they were unsettled. They had seen the calm, helpful boy who had lived among them turn into something darker, something dangerous.

"I can't stay here," Arren whispered, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. "Not like this."

Lysa's breath hitched, and he could feel her sorrow radiating off her in waves. "You don't have to leave," she said softly. "We're your family now. We can help you."

Arren shook his head, pulling his hand from hers. "I need to face this on my own. I need to finish my training, and I can't do that here. I have to learn to control this... before I hurt someone else."

Mary's small footsteps rushed toward him, and he felt her arms wrap tightly around his waist. Her voice was thick with tears. "Arren, you can't leave! You promised we'd make more toys together. You promised you'd stay!"

Arren's heart broke as he knelt down, pulling her into a gentle embrace. Her hair smelled of the wildflowers she often picked near the farm, and the familiar scent tugged at his already fragile heartstrings. "I'm sorry, Mary," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I have to go."

"But you saved her!" Mary cried, her voice desperate. "You're good, Arren! You don't have to go!"

Arren pressed his forehead gently to hers, his chest tightening. "I need to," he said softly. "There's something inside me... something dark. I need to conquer it. I need to fight without losing control."

Jorik knelt beside them, his large hand resting on Arren's shoulder once more. "You do what you need to do, boy. But you come back to us when you're ready. You hear me?"

Arren nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He could feel the weight of their support, the warmth of their presence, but it wasn't enough to quiet the storm inside him. He had let his fear and anger take control, and until he could face that darkness and conquer it, he couldn't stay.

"I will come back," Arren said quietly, standing to face the village one last time. "But not until I've faced what I need to face." Arren's voice trembled with conviction, though his heart weighed heavily in his chest. "I won't return until I've conquered a great foe, blindfolded. When I do, I'll take this blindfold off."

The villagers remained silent, but Arren could feel their presence, their support despite the fear that lingered beneath the surface. The sound of their breathing, the shifting of their feet in the dirt—it all painted a picture of their emotions, a mix of concern, sadness, and unease. He could sense their uneasiness, not from anger but from a deep-rooted uncertainty about what might happen if the darkness inside him wasn't controlled.

Lysa stepped forward, her hand reaching out to touch his arm gently. "We'll be waiting for you," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "You're part of this family, Arren. Don't forget that."

Arren's chest tightened at her words. He didn't deserve their forgiveness, not after what he had done. But there was no turning back now. He had made his decision. He couldn't stay. Not when the pit still haunted him, clawing at his mind, threatening to pull him back into the person he had been forced to become.

With a trembling hand, he squeezed Lysa's fingers briefly, feeling the warmth of her skin, the gentle reassurance she offered. Then he let go.

Jorik's heavy footsteps approached, his presence as steady and solid as always. "You're a good lad," Jorik said gruffly, his voice low. "But if you think leaving is what you need, then do it. Just make sure you come back when you've found your peace."

Arren nodded. "I will."

Mary's sobs echoed in the clearing as she clung to his side, her small hands clutching at his tunic. "Please don't go, Arren," she begged, her voice breaking with each word. "I need you here."

Arren knelt down again, his fingers brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks. He could feel her pain, her desperation, and it tore him apart. He wanted nothing more than to stay with her, to be the brother she deserved. But he couldn't. Not yet.

"I'll come back," he whispered, his voice soft but firm. "But I have to go for now, Mary. I need to make sure I can keep you safe. All of you."

Mary shook her head, her tears falling harder. "You're already strong! You don't need to go!"

Arren smiled faintly, though his heart felt like it was being ripped in two. "I need to be stronger. For you."

With that, he stood, his body feeling heavier than ever. He turned away from the village, away from the people who had taken him in and made him feel like he belonged for the first time in his life. The warmth of the clearing began to fade as he stepped forward, each footfall bringing him closer to the unknown, to the path he knew he had to take.

The villagers watched in silence, their gazes following him as he disappeared into the trees, the soft rustle of leaves and the crunch of his boots on the forest floor the only sounds that broke the stillness. Arren could sense their sadness, their quiet hope that he would return one day, stronger, in control. But he could also feel the weight of his own resolve. He wouldn't come back until he had faced his greatest challenge—until he had conquered the darkness within him.

And when that day came, he would return without the blindfold.

The forest stretched before him, endless and vast. Each step Arren took felt like he was moving farther away from the only home he had ever known, but it was necessary. The smell of earth and pine filled his senses, the soft rustle of animals moving in the underbrush a constant reminder of the life that surrounded him, even in his isolation.

His heart still ached with the weight of his decision. Mary's sobs echoed in his mind, the warmth of Lysa's touch lingering on his skin, the firmness of Jorik's hand still resting on his shoulder in memory. But he knew he couldn't stay—not after what had happened.

Arren tightened the blindfold around his eyes, feeling the rough cloth press against his skin. It had become a part of him, a symbol of his resolve. He wouldn't take it off, not until he had earned the right to see again. Not until he had fought a great foe and proven to himself that he could control the darkness inside him.

The pit had shaped him, trained him to be a weapon, but here, outside of it, Arren knew that survival alone wasn't enough. He needed more than the ability to fight. He needed control—over his instincts, over his fear, over the rage that still threatened to consume him.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grew cooler, and the sounds of the forest shifted as night creatures began to stir. Arren's senses remained sharp, his ears attuned to the slightest movement, the scent of the earth and the trees guiding him through the darkness.

He didn't know where his journey would take him. He didn't know what great foe he would face. But he knew that he wouldn't return to the village until he had fought, until he had proven that he was more than just a boy from the pit.

Arren's thoughts drifted back to the man he had killed, the sound of his life slipping away still fresh in his mind. The villagers had believed it was justice, that Arren had done the right thing. But Arren couldn't see it that way. He had acted out of fear, out of anger. He had let the pit control him.

And that was why he had to leave. He couldn't let that happen again.

As the forest grew darker, Arren's footsteps slowed. He paused for a moment, listening to the quiet rustle of leaves above him, the distant chirping of crickets. The cool night air brushed against his skin, and for the first time in hours, he allowed himself to breathe deeply.

This journey, wherever it led, would be long and difficult. But it was the only path he could take.

Arren tightened the blindfold once more, his resolve firm. He would fight his way through the darkness—blindfolded. And when he returned, it would be without the blindfold. Only then would he allow himself to see again.

And when that day came, he would return home.

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