Game of thrones: The blind warrior

The months after the incident were difficult. Arren had broken the arm of one of the village boys, a mistake driven by instinct and fear, and it hadn’t been easy to win back the trust of the people. At first, they had grown distant, avoiding him in the market or along the paths between fields. Whispers followed him wherever he went—about his strange blindfold, about his past, about the incident. It hurt to know that even after all the time he’d spent working alongside Jorik and helping the village, his actions had put him back to square one.

But Arren wasn’t the type to give up. His life had been one of perseverance—first in the pit, where survival was everything, and now here, in this village that had taken him in. He knew he had to do more than just work the fields and fix fences if he wanted to regain the trust he had lost.

It started with a simple idea. One day, as he stood by the stream, watching the water flow, a memory from his past life surfaced. Back then, there had been inventions—simple but ingenious tools that made life easier. He remembered something about water mills, a way to harness the power of a river to help with farmwork.

Arren approached Jorik the next morning as they prepared to head out to the fields. “Jorik, I have an idea,” he began, his voice calm but filled with purpose.

Jorik, gruff as ever, didn’t look up from the scythe he was sharpening. “What now, boy?”

“There’s a way we can use the stream to help with the farm,” Arren explained. “We can build a wheel—something that will use the water to move. It could power a millstone to grind grain or pump water into the house.”

Jorik glanced at him, his expression skeptical. “A wheel, huh? Never heard of anything like that before.”

“I can build it,” Arren said confidently. “We just need wood and a few tools. It’ll save time and effort. The water will do the hard work.”

Jorik huffed, scratching his beard. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes.”

Jorik finally nodded. “All right, boy. If you think it’ll work, let’s see what you can do.”

Over the next few weeks, Arren worked tirelessly, drawing on the hazy memories from his past life. With Jorik’s help, they built a water wheel out of wooden beams and set it up by the stream. It wasn’t perfect, and there were moments when Arren doubted whether he remembered correctly, but eventually, the wheel was finished.

The first time it turned, powered by the steady flow of the stream, Jorik stood back, eyes wide with amazement.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “It’s working.”

The villagers were drawn to the strange contraption, their curiosity piqued. Some watched in disbelief as the water wheel turned, pumping water into the farm’s barrels and saving Lysa from the daily chore of hauling buckets from the stream.

“How does it work?” one of the older farmers asked, scratching his head as he studied the device.

Arren explained it simply, showing them how the wheel harnessed the force of the water to do the labor for them. Soon, other farmers were asking for help to build similar devices on their own land. Word of the water wheel spread quickly, and slowly, the village began to warm to him again.

But Arren didn’t stop there. The water wheel was just the beginning. He showed them how to create simple irrigation channels to keep their crops watered more efficiently, how to store food in ways that kept it fresh for longer. He even introduced a method to build sturdier roofs using materials from the nearby forest, ensuring that their homes would withstand the heavy rains that came each spring.

With each new invention or improvement, the villagers began to see him not as the dangerous outsider but as someone who was genuinely trying to help.

As winter approached, the village buzzed with activity. The crops had thrived, and the storage sheds were full, thanks to Arren’s ideas. Even the older farmers, who had been the most skeptical at first, had started to ask for his advice on improving their farms.

One evening, as Arren sat with Jorik, Lysa, and Mary by the fire, Mary tugged on his sleeve. “Arren, you know so many things,” she said, her voice filled with wonder. “Is there anything else you can teach us?”

Arren thought for a moment, memories of his past life flooding back. In that world, there had been festivals and celebrations—ways to mark the passing of time and bring people together. One, in particular, stood out to him: New Year’s.

“In my old life,” he began, his voice thoughtful, “we had a celebration for the new year. It was a time to look forward, to let go of the past and hope for the future.”

Lysa looked intrigued. “We don’t do much for the new year here,” she said. “We mark the seasons, but nothing special.”

Arren smiled faintly. “We used to light bonfires,” he said, the memory vivid now. “Large fires that symbolized the old year burning away. People would gather, tell stories, and make wishes for the coming year.”

“Bonfires?” Mary’s eyes widened with excitement. “Can we have one?”

Jorik chuckled, shaking his head. “A bonfire, eh? Sounds like a bit of fun.”

The idea spread quickly, and before long, the village was preparing for the new year with more anticipation than they ever had before. Arren showed them how to build the bonfires, using wood from the nearby forest. The villagers gathered in the square, collecting stones and wood to create large fire pits.

On the night of the celebration, the air was crisp, and the sky was clear. The entire village gathered near the largest bonfire, which crackled and roared with life. The flames leaped high into the night sky, casting a warm glow over everyone. Arren stood quietly by the fire, feeling the heat against his skin, the sound of laughter and conversation filling the air around him.

It was a moment of peace, of joy—a moment he hadn’t experienced in so long.

Lysa stood beside him, her eyes bright with the reflection of the fire. “Thank you for this, Arren,” she said softly. “The village needed this. You’ve given them something to look forward to.”

Arren smiled. “I’m glad.”

The villagers, gathered around the bonfire, began to tell stories—of the year that had passed, of their hopes for the future. The children, their faces lit up by the fire, danced and played in the flickering light. The adults stood together, their usual burdens temporarily forgotten, their hearts lighter.

Mary tugged on Arren’s sleeve again. “What did you wish for, Arren?” she asked, her voice full of curiosity.

Arren paused, the question catching him off guard. His wish had been simple: to find peace, to let go of the darkness that still haunted him. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he smiled down at her.

“I wished for happiness,” he said softly. “For all of us.”

Mary beamed, hugging him tightly. Arren stiffened at first, but then he placed a hand gently on her head, feeling the warmth of the moment. It was something he had never experienced before—a sense of belonging, of being part of something good.

Over the next few months, Arren settled into the village life more fully than he ever had before. The villagers, now trusting him completely, welcomed him into their homes, asked for his help with various tasks, and treated him like one of their own.

He spent his days working on the farm, helping Jorik and Lysa, while his evenings were often filled with quiet conversations by the fire or games with Mary. She had grown particularly attached to him, always eager to learn something new or hear one of his stories. He taught her how to carve simple toys from wood, how to build small traps for rabbits, and even how to make music by tapping stones together in rhythm.

The village had transformed, not just because of the improvements Arren had introduced, but because of the way he had brought people together. The New Year’s bonfire had become a new tradition, something the villagers now looked forward to each winter. And as the days passed, Arren found himself wondering if this was what he had been searching for all along—a place where he could be at peace, away from the violence and darkness of his past.

But peace, as he had learned, was always fleeting.

One warm afternoon, as the sun began to set, Arren was helping a family repair the roof of their barn. The day had been long, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed the work—it kept his mind clear, kept the shadows at bay. As he finished hammering in the last nail, a distant scream tore through the peaceful evening.

“Help! Please, someone!”

Arren’s heart lurched. Without thinking, he dropped the hammer and ran toward the sound, his body moving on instinct, his senses guiding him through the trees and fields.

When he reached the clearing near the edge of the village, he saw them—a large man, pinning a young girl to the ground. She was struggling, kicking and screaming, her voice desperate, but the man was stronger, overpowering her with ease.

Arren’s blood ran cold. For a brief moment, he didn’t see the girl. He saw Mary. The world around him blurred, and all he could hear was the sound of the girl’s screams and the blood pounding in his ears. His body moved before his mind could catch up, instinct driving him forward.

“Get off her!” Arren’s voice roared through the clearing, startling the man. Without waiting for a response, he lunged, throwing himself at the attacker.

The man barely had time to react before Arren was on him, his hands moving with a deadly precision that had been ingrained in him from years of pit training. In the blink of an eye, Arren’s elbow connected with the man’s jaw, sending him reeling backward. The girl scrambled away, gasping for breath, her terrified eyes wide as she crawled to safety.

But Arren didn’t stop.

He saw only red, his mind consumed by rage, by the memory of Mary and the thought of what could have happened if it had been her in the clearing. The man, now on his feet and stumbling, barely had a chance to defend himself as Arren’s fists rained down on him. The blows came hard and fast, and soon the man was on the ground again, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.

Arren’s hands, slick with blood, shook with the force of his fury. He didn’t see the man anymore—he saw the pit, the brutality of it, the violence he had been trained to wield without hesitation.

His knee pressed into the man’s chest, and before he realized it, his hand was at the man’s throat, squeezing the life from him. The man gasped, his eyes bulging, his hands weakly grasping at Arren’s arm in a futile attempt to stop him.

He deserves this, a voice whispered in Arren’s mind, the darkness that had always lingered just beneath the surface now fully in control. He would have hurt her. He’s no different from the others you fought in the pit.

Arren’s grip tightened, his vision narrowing until all he could see was the man’s fear-stricken face and the flash of violence in his own heart. It would be so easy to end it, to rid the world of one more monster.

And then it was over.

The man’s body went limp beneath him, the life drained from his eyes. Arren’s hands fell to his sides, trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, the world came back into focus. The girl, sobbing quietly a few paces away, stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.

Arren stood, his legs unsteady beneath him, the weight of what he had done settling over him like a crushing wave. The man lay dead at his feet, his body still and broken, his chest no longer rising and falling.

Arren stepped back, his hands slick with blood, the taste of ash and bitterness filling his mouth. He hadn’t meant to kill him. He had wanted to protect the girl, to save her from the horror she had faced, but something inside him had snapped. The pit had taken over.

And now the man was dead.

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