Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

The first sensation was the cold—the biting, invasive kind of cold that sunk deep into his bones. His body was numb, drifting weightlessly in a void that stretched endlessly in every direction. He was alone, isolated in the dark recesses of his own mind. There was no warmth, no light, no sound. Only the cold and the emptiness.

But then came the pain.

It hit him with the force of a hammer, a sudden, excruciating agony that tore through his body like a wildfire. His chest convulsed as his lungs desperately gasped for air, their first breath sharp and ragged. His heart pounded erratically, like it had only just remembered how to beat. His skin burned with an overwhelming sensitivity to the world around him, and his small limbs jerked and flailed instinctively, trying to fight back against the crushing pain.

He tried to cry out, but his voice was weak, barely a whimper escaping his throat. The world came rushing in around him—voices, rough and guttural, speaking in a language he didn't understand. His eyes, still bleary with the remnants of darkness, blinked open, and the harsh light of the world flooded his vision. Everything was a blur of shadow and light, indistinct figures moving through the fog of his senses.

He felt hands then—rough, calloused hands that grabbed him without tenderness or care. They lifted him from the hard stone slab where he had been born, holding him up as though inspecting him. His small body, no larger than a newborn's, dangled helplessly in their grip. The scent of sweat, leather, and something far more metallic filled his nostrils, thick and suffocating.

The room around him was dimly lit by flickering torchlight. The stone walls were bare and unyielding, stained with age and the grime of countless years. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the moving figures—men draped in ragged robes, their faces partially obscured by hoods. Their eyes, hard and indifferent, swept over the small, helpless figure of the newborn, cold and detached.

They said nothing to him, for what words could be spoken to a child who had just come into this world? Instead, they carried him from the room in silence, his small form swaddled in a rough, bloodstained cloth. The air outside the chamber was thick with the scent of blood and sweat, a nauseating cocktail that seemed to cling to every stone and surface.

As they passed through the narrow corridors of stone, the sounds of the arena beyond became clearer—distant, but unmistakable. It was the roar of a crowd, a deep, rhythmic chant that echoed through the hallways like the pounding of a war drum. There was a primal hunger in those voices, a lust for violence and bloodshed that permeated the very air he breathed. And beneath it all, the clash of steel on steel, the unmistakable sound of battle.

The men holding him moved with purpose, their footsteps heavy and deliberate as they descended deeper into the arena's bowels. They passed other figures along the way—slaves, most of them, their eyes downcast and their hands busy tending to weapons or cleaning the blood from the floors. None of them paid any mind to the newborn, just another life dragged into the cycle of violence.

After what felt like an eternity, they arrived at their destination—a small, circular chamber just off the arena floor. The roar of the crowd was louder here, the air thick with anticipation. The men who carried him exchanged brief, clipped words, their voices low but insistent. There was no affection, no warmth in their tone, only the cold efficiency of those who had done this a thousand times before.

One of the men stepped forward, holding the newborn up for all to see. His grip tightened as he spoke a word in a language the child couldn't understand, his tone filled with reverence and command. The other men knelt, bowing their heads as they prepared for what was to come.

In the center of the chamber, a pit had been dug—a shallow, circular basin lined with rough-hewn stone. The scent of iron and rust filled the air as the men prepared for the ritual. The pit was meant to collect something precious, something vital: blood.

But not just any blood.

Outside, the roar of the crowd reached its crescendo. The sounds of combat echoed through the narrow doorway—shouts of triumph, grunts of pain, the sickening thud of metal meeting flesh. The newborn could feel it all, the vibration of the arena seeping into his very bones. It was like the entire world pulsed with the rhythm of violence.

Then, there was silence.

The crowd's chanting ceased abruptly, replaced by a single, deafening roar. One of the men in the chamber smiled, a thin, cruel smile, as he stepped closer to the pit. The sound of a massive gate creaking open filled the chamber, followed by the scraping of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

A body.

The men carried the body into the chamber, the limp form of a defeated gladiator—his armor dented, his flesh torn and bleeding, his life extinguished on the sands of the arena. His blood dripped steadily from his numerous wounds, staining the ground beneath him as they dropped him at the edge of the pit.

The men moved swiftly, pulling the body over the edge and letting it fall into the basin below. The dull thud of the corpse hitting stone was followed by the sickening splash of blood as it pooled in the pit, its dark red color glistening in the torchlight.

The newborn was lowered toward the pit, his small body hovering above the blood-soaked basin. He had no way of understanding what was about to happen, no words to voice his fear or confusion. But something deep within him stirred—an instinct, primal and ancient, that screamed danger.

The head priest—or perhaps just a master of this cruel ceremony—spoke once more, his words like a harsh command to the gods. The men in the chamber all bowed their heads in unison, reverence filling the air. The ritual was one of blood and sacrifice, a time-honored tradition among the gladiators and their masters. Blood, in this world, was everything.

The man holding the newborn dipped him lower, until his skin was mere inches from the surface of the blood. And then, without hesitation, he plunged the child into the pit.

The blood was thick and warm, clinging to his skin as it seeped into every pore. It filled his nose and mouth, choking him as he gasped for breath. His small body writhed in the man's grip, instinctively trying to escape the suffocating heat of the blood, but there was no escape. The man held him firm, submerging him until the blood covered him completely.

This was his baptism. His initiation into the world of violence and death.

The blood of the fallen gladiator soaked into the child's skin, mingling with his own newborn blood. The ritual was meant to mark him, to bind him to the arena and its endless cycle of bloodshed. He was no longer just an infant, just a nameless, faceless newborn. He was now part of the arena, a creature born of violence, destined to die in the sands just like the man whose blood now covered him.

When the man finally lifted him from the pit, the child's body was slick with blood, his skin stained red. His tiny chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath, but he didn't cry. His eyes, wide and dark, stared up at the man holding him, filled with a strange mix of confusion and something deeper. Something darker.

The other men in the chamber chanted softly, their voices rising in unison as they completed the ritual. The blood of the defeated gladiator was absorbed into the pit, pooling around the edges of the basin as the newborn was presented to the gods of the arena. He had been baptized in blood, his destiny sealed in the most brutal of ways.

And with that, the ceremony was over.

The newborn, still drenched in blood, was wrapped in a coarse, tattered cloth and carried from the chamber. The men's footsteps echoed through the stone halls as they returned him to his new home—deep within the bowels of the arena, where the bloodied and the broken awaited their turn on the sands.

By the time he was five, the blood of the fallen had become as familiar to him as the air he breathed. It was in his hair, his clothes, his very skin. The scent of iron and rust was woven into the fabric of his existence, marking him as one of the arena's own.

They still called him "The Boy." He had no name, no family, no history. Only the blood of the fallen, the roar of the crowd, and the cold, hard reality of survival.

His life, from the moment of his birth, had been shaped by violence. He was no longer an infant, helpless and confused. He was a creature of the arena, trained to fight, to bleed, and to kill. The arena was his world, and the blood that had baptized him was his bond to it.

Every day, he trained. Every day, he fought. Sometimes it was other children, other boys like him who had been born into this brutal life. Other times, it was the older gladiators, the men whose names were spoken with fear and reverence by the crowd. It didn't matter who his opponent was. All that mattered was the fight, and the blood that would spill.

Because in the end, all things returned to the blood

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