Chapter 46: Clash of Legends

The air in Astapor buzzed with tension. Within the Unsullied training grounds, a circle of warriors and council members formed, eager to witness two titans collide: Arren, the blindfolded "Cursed Warrior," and Ser Barristan Selmy, the legendary knight of the Kingsguard.

Arren stood motionless at one end of the arena, his blindfold tight over his eyes. His calm demeanor belied the finely tuned awareness coiling within him, muscles tense beneath the surface. Every breath, every shift in the sand reached him through heightened senses. His sword, held loosely, was an extension of that awareness.

Across from him, Ser Barristan was all presence—his white cloak fluttering slightly in the sea breeze. Despite his years, his stance was solid, his grip on his sword steady, as though it had never left his hand in all those decades. The weight of history itself seemed to balance on his shoulders.

From the sidelines, Daenerys Targaryen watched with her violet eyes gleaming. Beside her, Missandei translated to the Unsullied, their spears at rest but their attention fully absorbed by the coming duel. The murmurs among the council died as Daenerys raised her hand, signaling the start of the fight.

Arren took in a breath, centering himself. His senses reached out—not just to Barristan's presence, but to the subtle winds, the muffled steps of spectators. He wasn't facing just a warrior—he was about to cross blades with a living legend.

"Are you ready, Ser Barristan?" Arren's voice carried across the arena, calm, but with an edge.

"I am," Barristan replied, the rasp of his sword sliding free like the whisper of death itself. "Don't underestimate me because of my age."

Arren smiled slightly beneath his blindfold. "I wouldn't dare."

With Daenerys' nod, the clash began.

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**The First Exchange**

Barristan was fast. His first strike wasn't aimed at Arren's midsection as expected, but a sudden feint toward the legs, followed by an upward thrust aiming for the neck. Arren's body shifted in an instant, his sword snapping down to deflect the low cut with a precise parry. The follow-up thrust scraped harmlessly past as Arren twisted sideways, avoiding it by inches.

The sound of steel rang out in sharp, rapid clinks as Barristan pressed forward, unleashing a cascade of complex, fluid strikes. He alternated his angle of attack, switching from high to low, seeking to break through Arren's defenses. But Arren's blade moved like water—never rigid, always flowing—intercepting each strike with impossibly swift counters.

Arren stepped inside Barristan's guard, attempting a quick slash aimed at the knight's flank, but Barristan twisted his wrist, bringing his sword's pommel up sharply. Arren's blade deflected upward, the impact sending a shockwave through his arm, forcing him to leap back, resetting the distance.

"You're sharper than the stories say," Barristan muttered, his breathing even despite the blistering speed of the exchange.

Arren tilted his head slightly, listening for the tightening of Barristan's armor and the shift in his boots. "You're faster than your reputation claims."

Barristan grinned. "I had good teachers."

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**The Strategy Shift**

Barristan lunged again, but this time his approach was more methodical. His swordwork became deceptive, using his mastery to set up patterns—rhythms Arren could detect. Each strike, each feint, built towards drawing Arren into a trap.

Arren parried, listening closely to the subtle breaths Barristan took before each swing, feeling the rhythm shift. Sensing the trap, he countered by changing his own timing. Instead of retreating, he advanced unexpectedly, throwing Barristan's sequence off. Arren struck low with a sweeping cut aimed at Barristan's knee, forcing the knight to leap back. He pressed forward with a diagonal slash aimed at the head, only for Barristan to intercept with a clean, efficient parry.

Suddenly, Barristan twisted his sword mid-parry, locking their blades. In a burst of speed, he rotated his hilt and yanked, trying to disarm Arren. But instead of resisting, Arren flowed with the motion, letting his blade spin in his hand as he pivoted on his heel. The momentum allowed him to whip his sword back in a lightning-fast upward slash, aiming for Barristan's exposed flank.

Barristan barely managed to step out of range, feeling the edge graze his armor.

They circled, testing each other with small, darting attacks, each reading the other. Barristan fainted a lunge, and when Arren dodged, the knight flicked his sword downward with precision, slicing toward Arren's calf. Arren sensed it coming and leaped, his foot skimming over the blade as he flipped in midair, landing in a crouch before launching a counterattack that came dangerously close to Barristan's chest.

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**The Moment of Truth**

Arren's breathing grew heavier, the constant bombardment of Barristan's skill weighing on him. Each time Arren countered, Barristan had another move ready, shifting gears from strength to technique and back again. 

As the fight intensified, Barristan pivoted and thrust hard toward Arren's sternum. Arren deflected the blade with the flat of his sword, but the force of it nearly knocked him off-balance. In a split-second decision, Barristan dropped low, sweeping Arren's legs with a rapid kick.

Arren hit the ground, hard, his sword flung from his hand.

Barristan stood over him, sword leveled at Arren's throat. The crowd's gasps echoed around the arena.

But Barristan stepped back, lowering his blade. "Get up. I don't fight fallen men."

Arren, chest heaving, felt the blood pumping in his ears. He could hear the rhythm of the fight like a heartbeat. Every muscle screamed to surrender, but something deeper refused to yield. Without a word, he sprang up, charging directly at Barristan—unarmed.

Barristan's eyes widened as Arren closed the distance, knocking his sword aside and slamming into him with raw strength. The knight staggered, and Arren's hands moved fast, wrestling Barristan's sword from his grip.

In a blur, Arren twisted, turning Barristan's own momentum against him, sending the older man sprawling into the sand. For a second, the arena held its breath.

Barristan pushed himself up, eyes gleaming with respect, sweat tracing lines down his face. He raised his hand in surrender.

---

**The End**

Both warriors stood still, the weight of the duel heavy in the air. Daenerys stepped forward, her gaze moving between them, judging the battle's outcome.

"You both have proven your worth," she declared, her voice carrying above the arena. "Ser Barristan, continue by my side. And Arren—you've earned your place."

The crowd erupted, but the two men exchanged a glance, their bond as warriors now stronger than the clash that had just ended. 

The fight was over, but in each other's eyes, they had earned far more than just victory. They had earned respect.