Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The sun had barely risen, casting a dull red glow across the sky, when The Boy awoke to the sound of the overseer's booming voice echoing through the chambers. He rolled off the cold stone slab that served as his bed, muscles aching and stiff from the previous day's relentless training. His fingers still burned from gripping the practice sword too tightly, and his legs wobbled as he stood. But he didn't hesitate. In the arena, hesitation could kill.

He wasn't the only one awake. Around him, the other boys stirred, each moving with the same grim determination. They were all gladiators in the making, raised to fight, bleed, and die for the amusement of their masters. And like him, they had no choice.

The overseer's voice cut through the murmurs of the boys waking, sharp and unrelenting.

"Get up! You'll train until you can't stand, and then you'll train some more!"

The Boy pushed himself to his feet, biting back the soreness that gnawed at his muscles. He had long since learned to ignore the pain. Pain was a constant in his life now, as inevitable as the sunrise. His body was small, too small to match the strength of the older boys, but he had speed, and more importantly, he had endurance. He would need both if he hoped to survive the day.

Outside, the air was already thick with the scent of sweat and the stale iron tang of old blood. The training yard was a large, open space, enclosed by high stone walls that blocked out any view of the world beyond. The only escape from this place was death or victory, and neither came easily.

The older boys were already assembled in neat lines, standing tall with their wooden practice swords held at their sides. Their bodies were lean and muscled, their faces hard with the knowledge that each day brought them closer to the arena pit where they would fight for their lives. The Boy joined them, taking his place at the back of the group, his small frame a stark contrast to the others.

The overseer stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over the group like a predator assessing its prey. His presence was as oppressive as the sun, his gaunt face and scarred body a testament to the years he had spent training boys like them for the arena. He had seen countless hopefuls pass through this yard, and only a fraction of them ever made it to the pit. Fewer still survived their first fight.

"You," the overseer barked, his gaze locking onto The Boy. "Come forward."

The Boy stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He had been dreading this moment, but he knew it was inevitable. The overseer would test him, push him to his limits, and if he failed—if he showed weakness—there would be consequences.

"Show me what you've learned," the overseer commanded, tossing a wooden practice sword at his feet.

The Boy bent down and picked up the sword. The weight of it felt more familiar now, though still heavier than he would have liked. He could feel the eyes of the older boys on him, waiting, watching. Some of them hoped he would fail. Others were indifferent. All of them understood what this test meant.

The overseer nodded toward one of the older boys—a tall, broad-shouldered fighter named Vardek. Vardek had been training for years and was already strong enough to fight in the pit. He was ruthless, brutal, and liked to remind the younger boys of their place. Today, The Boy was the object of his attention.

"Vardek," the overseer said, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Teach him what it means to be a gladiator."

Vardek grinned, his teeth bared like a wolf preparing to feast. He stepped forward, hefting his practice sword with ease. "I've been waiting for this."

The Boy swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the handle of his wooden sword. He knew this wouldn't be a fair fight. Vardek was stronger, more experienced, and far more vicious. But he also knew that complaining or showing fear would do him no good. In the arena, there was no fairness. There was only survival.

The overseer stepped back, his arms folded across his chest. "Begin."

Vardek wasted no time. He lunged forward, his sword swinging in a wide arc, aiming for The Boy's head. The Boy barely managed to duck in time, the wooden blade whistling past his ear. He pivoted on his heels, sidestepping the next blow, which came down toward his shoulder with crushing force. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, and he knew if it had landed, it would have shattered bone.

The other boys watched in silence, their eyes gleaming with interest. This was the kind of test they had all been through at one point. Some had failed, their bodies still bearing the scars from that failure. The Boy couldn't afford to fail.

Vardek swung again, this time feinting left before slashing right. The Boy saw the trick a second too late, and the practice sword slammed into his ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs. He stumbled backward, gasping for air, but didn't fall. He couldn't afford to fall. Vardek's laugh echoed across the training yard, but The Boy didn't let it rattle him. Pain shot through his side, but he steadied himself, eyes fixed on his opponent.

Vardek was stronger, but he was also overconfident, too eager to humiliate him. That was his weakness. The Boy just had to last long enough for Vardek's arrogance to get the better of him.

The next strike came faster, aimed at The Boy's legs. But this time, he was ready. He leaped backward, avoiding the blow by a hair's breadth, and countered with a quick jab toward Vardek's midsection. The wooden sword connected with a dull thud, and Vardek grunted, more from surprise than pain.

The crowd of boys murmured. The Boy had struck back. Vardek's expression darkened, the grin slipping from his face, replaced by a snarl of anger. He came at The Boy with renewed fury, swinging his sword with reckless abandon. The Boy ducked, dodged, and sidestepped as best he could, but Vardek's strength was relentless.

A hard blow landed on The Boy's shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain flared up his arm, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to roll out of the way before Vardek's next strike could land. He scrambled to his feet, gripping his sword tightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Vardek advanced, his face flushed with rage, but there was no victory in his eyes—only frustration. He wanted this fight to be easy, to crush The Boy beneath his strength. But The Boy wasn't giving him that satisfaction.

In a flash of desperation, The Boy made his move. He feigned a stumble, his foot slipping on the loose sand. Vardek, seeing an opportunity, lunged forward, his sword raised for a final, crushing blow. But The Boy was faster. He dropped low, sweeping his practice sword across Vardek's legs. The larger boy's feet were knocked out from under him, and he crashed to the ground, his sword flying from his hand.

The yard went silent. The overseer, who had been watching with a keen eye, stepped forward, his face impassive.

The Boy stood over Vardek, his chest heaving, the wooden sword still gripped in his trembling hands. His body screamed in pain, but he ignored it. He had won, and he hadn't needed to rely on strength. He had used his mind, his agility, and his patience. It had been enough.

The overseer's eyes gleamed with approval as he looked at The Boy. "Good," he said, his voice low. "You used your head. That's how you survive."

Vardek scowled as he pushed himself to his feet, brushing sand off his body. His pride was wounded, but he knew better than to challenge the overseer's judgment. The Boy had won today, and in the arena, that was all that mattered.

The overseer turned to the other boys, his voice rising above the quiet murmurs. "This is what I expect from all of you. Strength is important, but it's not enough. You need to be smarter than your opponent. Only the clever live long enough to fight in the arena."

The boys nodded in unison, though many still cast sideways glances at The Boy, sizing him up. He was still the smallest among them, still a target. But today, he had proven that he could be dangerous, that he could outthink someone stronger than him. It wouldn't make him any friends, but it would buy him time.

The overseer dismissed the group for a break, and the boys scattered toward the water troughs. The Boy limped behind them, his body aching from the blows he had taken. Every step sent a sharp jolt of pain through his ribs, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. He wasn't done yet.

As he reached the trough, Vardek passed by, his eyes cold and dark. He didn't speak, but the look on his face said everything. This wasn't over.

The Boy dipped his hands into the water, the cool liquid soothing his bruised skin. He splashed his face, letting the water wash away the sweat and the dirt. His reflection stared back at him—pale, gaunt, and still so very small. But in his eyes, there was something else.

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