Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The air in the lower chamber was thick, cool, and oppressive. The flickering torchlight barely illuminated the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like specters. The Boy stood in the center, his body heavy with fatigue, his thoughts swirling in the aftermath of his defeat. Vardek's blows still echoed through his bones, but now the overseer had something different in mind—something that would shape him, break him down, and force him to rebuild stronger.

The shorter overseer stood before him, his gaze intense but not unkind. "You think survival is about avoiding pain?" he asked, his voice low but clear. "No. It's about knowing how to take it. You need to learn where to be struck, how to absorb the blows without breaking."

The Boy's heart raced, but he nodded silently. He wasn't sure what to expect next, but he knew he couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now.

The overseer stepped closer, the shadows darkening the lines of his face. "You've already felt the sting of failure today. Now, you're going to learn why that pain matters." He motioned to the iron chains hanging from the post in the center of the room. The Boy's eyes followed the movement, dread coiling in his gut.

Without another word, the overseer shackled the chains to his wrists again, their weight pulling at his arms, forcing him to tense his muscles just to remain standing. The cold iron bit into his skin, and he could already feel the strain creeping up his arms.

"We're not doing this to break you," the overseer continued. "We're doing this to make sure you understand how to endure. In the pit, your opponents will be bigger, stronger, and faster. They'll strike at you with every intention of ending your life. But not every hit needs to land hard enough to stop you."

He lifted the wooden switch, its slender form a deceptively simple instrument of pain. The Boy had felt its bite earlier, but this time it would be different. This time, it wasn't about punishment.

"This," the overseer said, tracing the air with the switch, "is to show you where to let the pain happen. Learn to control it."

The first strike came quick—across the Boy's shoulder. He grunted, but stayed silent, his arms straining against the chains. The pain bloomed, sharp and bright, but it wasn't debilitating.

"Good," the overseer muttered. "Now, focus. Not every part of your body can take the same punishment."

He tapped the switch lightly on The Boy's ribcage. "Here? A hard strike could crack bone. You protect this. If you have to take a hit, twist away." He demonstrated with a flick of his wrist, sending a light tap that brushed against The Boy's ribs but didn't land squarely. It still hurt, but not nearly as much as it could have.

The Boy nodded, trying to process the lesson through the dull ache creeping through his body.

"Arms up," the overseer ordered, striking The Boy's exposed forearms next. "You'll be hit here more often than anywhere else. You'll block with them, fight with them. Bruises are inevitable, but bruises don't kill."

The Boy winced as the strikes landed, one after another, each blow carefully placed to demonstrate the lesson. His arms were starting to tremble from the effort of holding them up, the chains adding a relentless weight that made every movement harder.

The overseer moved to The Boy's back, resting the switch against his lower spine. "Here, a strike will cripple you. Never let an opponent land a blow like this. Turn, twist, move—do whatever you can to avoid it."

Another strike followed, this time low and sharp, hitting his thighs. "Your legs will carry you, and they will fail if they take too many hits. You'll need them to move, to dodge, to stay alive."

The Boy's legs wobbled under the force of the strike, and he gritted his teeth, fighting to stay upright. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the strain of the chains pulling harder with every second. His body was growing heavier, the weight of both the physical pain and the iron making it nearly impossible to stand.

The overseer paused, observing the boy closely. "You're reaching your limit," he said quietly, more to himself than to The Boy. "But this is where you start learning what it means to endure."

He stepped in front of The Boy, his eyes locking onto his. "In the pit, they won't care if you're tired. You'll need to keep standing even when your legs are screaming for rest. Even when your arms are too weak to hold a sword. Understand?"

The Boy barely managed a nod, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. His entire body felt like it was being crushed, the chains pulling him downward as his legs trembled with exhaustion. He knew he couldn't hold on much longer, but the overseer's words kept ringing in his ears.

Endurance. That's what this was. Surviving wasn't just about being strong. It was about outlasting the pain. Outlasting your opponent.

The next strike came, harder this time, across his exposed back. The Boy's knees buckled, his body sagging forward, but he didn't fall. Not yet.

"You'll take more pain than this in the pit," the overseer said, his voice cold but not cruel. "Learn where to let it land, and you'll survive longer. Take the wrong hit, and you're done."

The Boy's arms quaked under the weight of the chains, his shoulders burning, his legs barely holding him up. He felt his strength slipping away, like sand through his fingers, and the chains tugged at him mercilessly. He tried to stand straight, but the effort was too much.

The chains pulled harder, and this time, his knees gave out completely. The Boy collapsed to the floor, his body slumping forward, the iron cuffs pulling him down as he gasped for air. His face hit the cold stone, and for a moment, everything blurred into a haze of exhaustion and pain.

The overseer stepped closer, looking down at him with an unreadable expression. "You lasted longer than I expected," he said, his voice low. "But you'll need to last even longer if you want to survive."

The Boy lay there, his chest heaving, his muscles burning from the strain. He had nothing left to give, but he knew this wasn't the end. This was just the beginning of something harder, something deeper. He had learned today where the pain could be taken, where it couldn't—and that was the first lesson in a long road ahead.

The overseer knelt beside him, his voice softer now. "You're not strong enough yet. But you have time. This is how you grow."

With a grunt, the overseer unlocked the chains from The Boy's wrists. The weight lifted, but the ache remained, and The Boy's arms fell limply to his sides. His muscles screamed in relief, but the pain was still fresh in every part of his body.

"You'll come back here every day," the overseer said as he stood. "We'll keep working until you're ready."

The Boy lay still for a moment, too tired to even move. But there was something in the overseer's words, something in the pain he had just endured, that gave him a flicker of hope. He wasn't broken—he had survived. And tomorrow, he would return.

The overseer turned to leave, his voice trailing off as he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. "Rest now. You've earned it."

The Boy remained on the cold stone floor, the air around him silent except for his ragged breaths. He had taken the pain, endured the weight of the chains, and though his body was broken and bruised, his spirit wasn't. He would grow stronger. He had no other choice.

The flicker of hope in his chest refused to die.

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