Echoes of resistance (GOT/asoiaf)

The acrid stench of urine and blood assailed my senses, a pungent miasma that permeated the vast prison chamber. Rotting bodies, their flesh decaying in the fetid air, formed a grotesque tapestry of death, while the echoes of tormented screams reverberated off the stone walls, creating a cacophony that rivaled the most hellish pits of despair.

A searing pain shot through my right shoulder, jolting me back to the grim reality of my existence. I winced as I inspected the still-healing slave brand, its jagged scar a stark reminder of my subjugation.

A sudden rustling sound from the pile of bodies drew my attention. Emerging from the macabre heap was a young boy, his dirty blonde hair matted and his face streaked with grime. He approached me cautiously, his eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of hope amidst the despair. His front tooth was missing, creating a gap in his smile that lent him an endearing innocence.

"Matthäus," I replied, eyeing him with a mix of suspicion and gratitude. He seemed to have adapted to this wretched environment, his youthful spirit seemingly unbroken despite the horrors that surrounded him.

"My name is Muck Fly," he declared with a chuckle, the nickname seemingly a badge of honor rather than an insult. "The master gave it to me because I was covered in flies when he first found me."

His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as he continued, "Are you from Westeros? I heard the master say that it's a land of uncouth savages who think themselves better than everyone else. Is it true they don't have slavery there?"

I glanced at the heavy iron shackles that bound my wrists, their weight a constant reminder of my captivity. "Not in this way," I responded.

"Our shackles are invisible," I continued, my gaze drifting to the other prisoners, their faces etched with resignation. "We may not bear the physical marks of bondage, but our spirits are equally enslaved."

A look of confusion clouded Muck Fly's face, his youthful innocence momentarily shaken by the harsh realities I had laid bare. But then, with a resilient spirit that belied his age, he reached into his tattered pockets.

"Here you go," he said, proffering a moldy piece of bread, his eyes brimming with compassion. "I saved it for myself, but you look like you need it more."

I accepted his offering, my heart was touched by his generosity. The moldy bread was a treasure in this desolate place, and I devoured it with gusto.

As I savored the last morsels of the meager bread Muck Fly had shared, a portly, grotesque man emerged from the shadows, flanked by two Unsullied soldiers, their faces as impassive as masks. His eyes swept across the squalid chamber, landing upon me with a cruel sneer. With a wave of his hand, he commanded his guards to seize me.

I was dragged through the bowels of the prison, my eyes assaulted by scenes of unimaginable cruelty. Men were subjected to unspeakable torture, while women were forced to endure the vile desires of nobles concealed beneath golden masks. Such atrocities had become commonplace, a grim tapestry woven into the very fabric of this wretched place.

After what seemed like an eternity, the guards halted their march, removing my shackles and thrusting into my hands a rusty shortsword and a battered shield. They flung open the heavy gates, revealing a sight that took my breath away – a colossal coliseum, its vast expanse dwarfing even the grandeur of Raventree Hall and Riverrun combined.

"Go, fight!" The guard's voice was a harsh bark, his spear jabbing towards me in a stark reminder of the consequences of disobedience. Without a word, I stepped into the arena, blinking against the sudden onslaught of sunlight. The Essosi sun, hot and unforgiving, beat down upon me, causing me to stumble momentarily as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. The raucous cheers of the crowd, a cacophony of bloodlust and excitement, washed over me, mingling with the cloying scent of sweat and blood that hung heavy in the air.

As my gaze swept across the arena, I witnessed a primal spectacle of human savagery. Men and women, their faces contorted in masks of desperation and ferocity, clashed in mortal combat, their bodies glistening with sweat and stained with blood. The air crackled with the tension of their struggle, a desperate dance of life and death that played out for the amusement of the frenzied crowd.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins, an instinctive response to the imminent danger. The shackles of captivity, the weight of my past, had been cast aside, replaced by the urgent need for survival. My grip tightened on the rusty shortsword, its rough surface a reminder of the battle ahead. I raised my battered shield, its scarred metal bearing witness to countless clashes. 

Survival remained my unwavering goal, a constant defiance against the cruel hand fate had dealt me. With silent determination, I approached an injured man hunched over, clutching his abdomen. He sought refuge at the edge of the arena, hoping to recuperate amidst the chaos, but the gods were not so benevolent, a lesson I had learned all too well.

I drew closer, my movements swift and silent. Before he could react, my shortsword pierced his heart, a swift and efficient end. His lifeless body slumped to the ground, his final breath mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

However, my respite proved fleeting. Two weathered men, their faces etched with experience, approached me, their movements synchronized and purposeful. They had recognized the folly of fighting alone and had formed an alliance, their tactics a testament to their years of survival.

The ensuing clash was a whirlwind of steel and grit. Our blades danced a deadly ballet, each parry and thrust a testament to our desperation to survive. I moved with a calculated ferocity, my body honed by hardship and my mind sharpened by the instinct for self-preservation.

After a series of close calls, I managed to bait one of my opponents into an overextended lunge. With a swift, precise movement, I plunged my shortsword into his face, the blade finding its mark with a sickening crunch. His body crumpled, his life extinguished in an instant.

The remaining warrior, his eyes wide with fear and resignation, fell to his knees, his voice trembling as he uttered the final words of acceptance, "Valar Morghulis." I granted his wish with a swift, merciful stroke of my blade, ending his life without unnecessary torment.

As I finished with the old men, my gaze fell upon a familiar figure in the distance - a young boy with blonde hair sprinting for his life, pursued by a towering Dothraki warrior. As I drew closer, I witnessed the Dothraki man viciously slashing the boy's ankles with his arakh, a curved sword that gleamed menacingly under the harsh sunlight.

Without a moment's hesitation, I leaped into action, using my shield to deflect the Dothraki's next attack and push him back. The warrior, caught off guard by my sudden intervention, retaliated with a powerful kick that sent me staggering backward.

Despite my momentary disorientation, I regained my footing and charged forward, my sword flashing in the air. The dothraki, caught off balance, attempted to parry my strike, but his movement was too slow. My blade pierced through his back, silencing his war cries and sending him crashing to the ground.

"Horse fucker" I spat out 

As I stood over the fallen warrior, my gaze shifted to Muck Fly, the young boy I had rescued. He lay on the ground, his face contorted in pain, his leg severely injured.

"Thanks for saving me, Matthäus," he managed to utter, his voice barely a whisper above the din of the arena.

I knelt beside him, examining the wound. It was deep, and the bone seemed to be affected. "Can you walk?" I asked

Muck Fly nodded weakly. "Yeah, I just need to rest a bit. Then we can go and survive. Master says he'll let me see my mother if I make it. I'm sure we can do this if we stick together," he said, his voice tinged with nervousness.

I regarded the boy in silence "Do you have any more bread?" I asked with a faint smile, visibly easing his tension.

"Yes, just a second!" he replied enthusiastically, rifling through his pockets. But the moment his gaze left me, I swiftly struck him down with my sword, not allowing him time to react. Tenderly closing his eyes, I laid him to rest.

"You were a bright soul in a dark world, boy," I said softly, my voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd. "Better you die now, painlessly, than after being tormented by someone. Taking you with me would make me a target for everyone, especially since you can't walk. Besides, this isn't just about surviving. The winner in the arena is the last man standing." I stated emotionlessly, retrieving the bread from his pocket and continuing on my journey.

"The greatest danger in times of turbulence is not the turbulence – it is to act with too little decisiveness" I murmured softly, heading toward my next challenge.

The Riverlands 266 AC, 10 years before the debut in the arena 

Under the shade of an ancient weirwood tree, a rare sight south of the Neck, lay a little boy of five, his dark brown hair blending with the mossy bark beneath him. His eyes, the color of the evening sky, were fixed on the ravens perched in the tree's gnarled branches, their obsidian plumage stark against the verdant foliage.

The boy, Matthäus, lived in a small village nestled near Raventree Hall, the seat of House Blackwood. His father was the bastard brother of the current Lord Blackwood, a position that afforded them little in the way of status or wealth.

As Matthäus observed the ravens, a peculiar thought struck him. These birds, known for their intelligence and cunning, seemed oddly lost, adrift without purpose. The ravens lacked the instinct to build nests, to create a home for themselves. Their existence was a paradox, a contradiction of their inherent nature.

Abruptly, his musings were interrupted by the playful leap of his older sister, Alysanne. Her laughter echoed through the tranquil forest, startling the ravens into a flurry of black feathers.

"Matthäus, it's time for luncheon!" she declared, her voice brimming with childish excitement.

With a surge of energy, Matthäus bounded to his feet, his small hand firmly grasping Alysanne's. Together, they raced back towards their humble abode.

If only the boy knew what awaited him in the future, he would have savored the tranquility of that moment, the cool breeze whispering through the leaves, the gentle sway of the weirwood tree, and the harmonious chatter of the ravens. He would have closed his eyes and allowed the cares of the world to melt away.