Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

Arren felt the rhythmic sway of the wagon beneath him, the warm air of Essos heavy with dust and the faint scent of spices from the merchant's wares. The caravan plodded along the winding road to Vaes Dothrak, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows on the cracked earth. For Arren, the world was always shadows. The blindfold he wore had long become a part of him, tied to a past he didn't like to speak of but couldn't escape.

Belenar, the merchant who had hired him, sat beside him, always eager for conversation. Belenar was a man of stories—half for his own amusement, half for the amusement of others. He had hired Arren out of curiosity more than necessity, offering him half the pay of the other sellswords, not because he doubted his abilities, but because the story of a blindfolded swordsman would make for good tavern talk when he reached the markets of Vaes Dothrak. And in the merchant's mind, that was worth as much as the goods in his wagons.

"So, tell me, Arren," Belenar's voice broke the steady hum of the caravan. "Why the blindfold? I've seen plenty of swordsmen, but none who thought fighting blind was a good idea."

Arren turned his head slightly toward Belenar, though his eyes were hidden behind the worn cloth. He could hear the merchant's curiosity, but beneath it, there was a note of amusement—a man who thought this was all part of some grand act. It didn't matter. Belenar, like most people, wouldn't understand the truth. But if he wanted a story, Arren would give him one.

"You want to know about the blindfold?" Arren's voice was low, calm, but there was a weight behind it. "It's not a choice. It's a consequence."

Belenar leaned in, intrigued. "A consequence? Now you've got me interested, blind swordsman. Go on, tell me your tale. Something dramatic, I hope."

Arren let out a breath, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. He was in no mood to share the truth, but a story—an epic, dark story—that, he could tell. After all, there was truth in it, even if not all of it could be spoken aloud.

"I was once a warrior, greater than any you've ever seen," Arren began, his voice steady and measured, each word carrying the weight of something ancient and forgotten. "I led armies, toppled kingdoms, and sought to rise above all men, to conquer where others feared to tread. But in my arrogance, I wanted more than victory over mere mortals. I sought to face something greater."

Belenar chuckled softly. "And what, pray tell, is greater than kings?"

Arren's smile was faint but there. "Gods."

The word lingered in the air, and for a moment, Belenar stopped laughing. The tone in Arren's voice had shifted, darker, deeper, and Belenar could almost feel the weight of the tale pressing down on them both.

"There was a time," Arren continued, "when men believed they could challenge the divine. I was one of those men. My pride was unmatched, and I thought that if I could defeat even the gods, I would be invincible. So, I set out on a journey. A journey to find the highest peak, the most sacred ground, where the veil between men and gods was thinnest."

Arren's fingers flexed on the hilt of his sword, the memory of that journey surfacing in his mind like a forgotten dream.

"And you found this place?" Belenar asked, his voice quieter now, the amusement gone. He was listening—truly listening.

Arren nodded slowly. "I found it. At the edge of the world, where the land meets the heavens, I stood before a presence so vast, so incomprehensible, that no words can describe it. I came seeking to challenge what lies beyond mortality. I came seeking to defeat God."

The air between them seemed to still, the weight of the story sinking into Belenar's chest.

"And then?" Belenar asked, his voice almost a whisper.

"I was a fool," Arren said softly, the words laced with a deep, quiet sorrow. "I thought I could strike down what I could not understand. The moment I stood before Him—before the presence of the divine—I saw Him. And in that instant, I knew true despair. The light of His gaze alone was too much for me to bear. My eyes... my eyes burned with the fire of all creation. I was blinded, not by His hand, but by the sheer force of His existence. In the presence of a god, my own humanity was laid bare. I lost my eyes the moment I saw Him."

Belenar swallowed, his throat dry, the image Arren painted vivid in his mind. "And that... that's why you wear the blindfold?"

"Yes," Arren replied, his voice quieter now, more resigned. "But the story doesn't end there. My punishment was not blindness alone. The gods don't give mercy so easily. He spoke to me—not in words, but in the way the wind speaks to the trees, or the ocean to the shore. He told me that if I wished to regain my sight, if I wished to be whole again, I would have to face the greatest warrior the world has ever known. Blind. I would have to defeat this warrior without my eyes, to prove that I had learned the humility I lacked."

"The greatest warrior?" Belenar repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. "And who is this warrior?"

"I don't know," Arren admitted. "No one does. The greatest warrior in the known world is not a man of legend or a king on a throne. He is somewhere, out there, living and breathing like any other. I must find him. And when I do, I must defeat him. Only then will I be allowed to see again."

Belenar sat back, letting out a long breath. His usual laughter and amusement were gone, replaced by a quiet respect—or perhaps fear. "And you've been searching for this warrior ever since?"

Arren nodded once. "That is my burden. My curse. Until I face him, I will walk in darkness."

The silence between them stretched, heavy with the weight of the tale. Belenar didn't laugh this time. Instead, he shook his head, his voice filled with a kind of reverence. "That's... quite a story, Arren. You really should be a bard. But I suppose a man like you... well, legends have to come from somewhere."

Arren shrugged, letting the moment pass. "Believe what you will, Belenar."

The merchant was about to say more when the air around them changed. The peaceful sounds of the road were replaced by something darker—footsteps, quick and light, the sound of metal scraping against leather. Arren heard it immediately, his senses picking up on the faint whispers of movement from the trees.

The ravagers came swiftly, their attack silent at first, like predators closing in on their prey. Then came the screams—the hired sellswords being cut down before they had a chance to draw their blades. The chaos was immediate, brutal.

Belenar froze beside him, his breath catching in his throat. "They're here," he gasped. "The sellswords… they're all dead."

Arren remained seated, his hand resting calmly on his sword, his body still. He could hear the ravagers moving through the camp, hear their weapons slashing through flesh and bone, hear the desperate cries of men being killed in a matter of seconds.

Belenar fumbled with the dagger at his waist, his hands shaking uncontrollably. "It's over," he muttered, his voice breaking. "We're all dead. I should just end it now, save them the trouble."

Arren stood slowly, drawing his sword in a single, fluid motion. The air around him felt thick, heavy with the scent of blood and fear. "It's wasted breath, Belenar."

The merchant let out a broken laugh, his eyes wide with madness. "You're mad! Look at them—they've killed everyone! There's no point in fighting!"

Arren cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the tense air. "It's wasted breath... for you."

In a blur of motion, Arren leapt from the wagon, his sword flashing in the dying light. The first ravager barely had time to react before Arren's blade cut through his throat, the spray of blood warm against his skin. Another attacker lunged at him, but Arren moved with the grace of a dancer, sidestepping the blow and driving his sword through the man's chest.

Belenar watched in stunned silence, his eyes wide as he saw the blindfolded man move with impossible precision. The way Arren's body twisted and flowed through the chaos, cutting down one ravager after another, was like something out of the very legends he had scoffed at moments before.

The ravagers hesitated, unsure how to deal with a man who fought without sight but with such deadly accuracy. Arren felt the air shift, the faint sound of a sword being raised behind him. Without hesitation, he spun, his sword cutting through the air and cleaving through the arm of his attacker. The man screamed, but Arren silenced him with a swift, precise strike to the heart.

Belenar's laughter turned from disbelief to something almost hysterical. "You... you're really doing it!" he shouted, half mad with disbelief. "You're fighting them—blind! By the gods, you really are cursed, aren't you? A cursed warrior!"

Arren ignored the words, his body still moving with practiced grace. Each breath, each subtle shift of the wind told him where his enemies were. His senses, honed beyond normal limits, allowed him to hear the rush of blood in their veins, the scuff of their boots against the dirt, and the labored breath of men too confident in their numbers but too inexperienced to fight him.

Another ravager charged, his footsteps loud and careless. Arren waited, feeling the distance close between them. In a swift motion, Arren pivoted, his sword slashing through the air, catching the man across the chest. The ravager gasped, stumbling backward, clutching at the wound as he crumpled to the ground.

The others hesitated, unsure now. They were used to fear, used to overwhelming their victims with sheer numbers. But this—this was something else. They couldn't understand how a man, blindfolded and outnumbered, could move like a shadow, striking them down one by one with the precision of a master.

Arren turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps, two men this time, trying to flank him from both sides. He could hear their armor shifting, the soft scrape of their weapons as they readied themselves.

He smiled faintly beneath his blindfold.

The first came from the left, his sword swinging high in an arc meant to cleave through Arren's skull. Arren ducked, his body twisting as he let the blade pass overhead. With a quick thrust, his sword found the man's exposed side, cutting deep. The second attacker came in from the right, but Arren had already shifted, his senses alert to the smallest change in the air. He sidestepped, letting the man's momentum carry him forward, then delivered a swift kick to his back, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Arren sheathed his sword and crouched, reaching for something. His fingers brushed against the hard, jagged surface of a stone. Perfect.

With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the stone at the remaining ravager, striking him in the temple. The man collapsed, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

The air was still now, the sounds of battle fading into silence. The smell of blood and sweat filled the clearing, but Arren's breathing remained calm, steady. He could sense Belenar's presence behind him, the merchant frozen in shock, his mind reeling from what he had just witnessed.

Arren turned, his blindfolded face angled slightly toward Belenar. "It's done," he said quietly.

Belenar stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open. "You... you actually did it," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You killed them all... blind. I didn't believe you. I thought... I thought you were just telling stories. But no. You're real."

Arren shrugged, his grip on his sword relaxed as he wiped the blade clean. "I never asked you to believe."

The merchant let out a shaky laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. "That story you told me... about the gods, about the curse—was that true too? Did you really try to challenge the divine?"

Arren was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath the blindfold. Then, with a voice low and steady, he spoke again. "I sought what no man should seek. Power beyond my reach, a way to rise above all others. But when I stood before Him, when I stood before that which no mortal should ever see, I lost more than just my sight."

Belenar swallowed hard, his throat dry. "And now you wander, blind, searching for a way to lift the curse?"

Arren nodded. "The curse is not the blindness. It's the pride that brought me here—the pride that made me think I could stand before something as vast and ancient as the divine and win. The blindfold is my reminder. A reminder that I am not invincible, that there are forces in this world beyond the reach of even the greatest of warriors."

"And the only way to lift it... is to defeat the greatest warrior in the known world?" Belenar asked, his voice still laced with disbelief, but now tinged with something else—respect, perhaps, or fear.

Arren nodded again. "Only then will I regain my sight. Only when I've proven that I've learned from my mistakes—that I can defeat even the greatest without my eyes—will the gods show me mercy."

Belenar let out a long breath, his earlier bravado gone, replaced by a quiet awe. "I thought you were pulling my leg, you know," he admitted, shaking his head. "Just some fancy story to make the trip more interesting. But after seeing what you just did... maybe there's more truth to your tale than I thought."

Arren sheathed his sword, his face still turned toward the horizon, though his eyes remained hidden. "Believe what you will, Belenar. I've already told you—this journey is mine. The truth doesn't matter to those who don't walk it."

The merchant, still shaken, nodded slowly. "You're a strange one, Arren. But you've got my respect. And you've saved my life, so I owe you more than just a story to tell my friends."

Arren said nothing, merely standing in the silence that followed. The battle was over, the ravagers dead, but his journey—his curse—remained. His path was still long, and the greatest foe he would face was still somewhere out there, waiting.

Belenar climbed back onto the wagon, his movements stiff, still in disbelief over what had just transpired. "Vaes Dothrak isn't too far now," he muttered, half to himself. "I'll make sure you're well paid, Arren. You've earned more than half the coin."

Arren didn't respond, only turning his head slightly as the wagon began to move again, the road ahead long and uncertain.

He could feel the weight of his past, the curse that still clung to him like a shroud. But he had survived another battle, and with each step, he came closer to what he sought. The greatest warrior in the world. The one who would free him from the blindness that had been forced upon him.

And when that day came, he would face them not with sight, but with everything he had learned in the darkness.

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