Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

The first hints of dawn seeped through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting a soft golden glow across the room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, wine, and spent passion.

Ros lay atop my chest, bare, her red hair a tangled mess against my skin. Her breathing was slow and steady, her body relaxed in the deepest of sleeps. Completely exhausted. Completely claimed.

I smirked, running a hand idly down her back, feeling the warmth of her skin.

I had spent the night breaking a woman who was used to breaking men. And now, as she lay against me, deep in her satisfied slumber, my mind drifted to what lay ahead.

This had been a celebration, but it was only the beginning.

Westeros was on the edge of chaos. The war hadn't begun yet, but I knew how this game would unfold.

Jon Arryn was a dead man walking.

His death would ignite the flames that would consume the Seven Kingdoms.

And I had to decide where I would stand when the war began.

Essos or Westeros?

For a moment, my thoughts wandered to the East, to the lands of Essos.

Daenerys Targaryen was still a girl, yet to hatch her dragons, yet to rise from the ashes as the Queen of Fire and Blood.

If I sailed to Pentos, I could ingratiate myself into Illyrio Mopatis' inner circle, gain favor with Viserys, and position myself at Daenerys' side.

A Targaryen Queen, with dragons at her command, would be a valuable investment.

With my skills, I could rise in her ranks, become her blade, her protector, her first lover.

She would come to depend on me.

Trust me.

And when she took Westeros, I could be standing beside her.

It was tempting.

But then…

Then, I thought of her.

Sansa Stark.

My Desire for the North

In my past life, before I became Damon Waters, Sansa Stark had been one of my greatest desires.

I had watched her grow from an innocent, naive girl into a hardened woman who survived against all odds.

She had been beautiful in the show, but here? Here, she was real. A noble-born redhead, highborn and pure, untouched by the filth of this world.

And I wanted her.

No—I would have her.

The idea of devouring a noble beauty, taking her from the world of lords and ladies and turning her into mine—it made my blood run hot.

And it wasn't just about lust.

If I played my cards right, I could take control of the North itself.

Sansa was the key to Winterfell.

If I had her, if I claimed her, made her mine, I could wield her name and status like a weapon.

And with the North under my influence, I wouldn't need to serve Daenerys or any king.

I could carve out my own kingdom.

A smirk tugged at my lips.

Yes.

This was the better path.

The War of the Five Kings would be my stage.

I wouldn't fight in the shadows like some common mercenary.

I would scheme, manipulate, and carve my way through the battlefield until I stood above all the players.

And Sansa Stark would be my prize.

The North Calls

Ros stirred in her sleep, her body still draped over mine, her soft curves pressing against my chest.

She had been a pleasant distraction, a night of indulgence, but she was not my goal.

The real conquest lay ahead.

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly.

I had the strength, the skills, the wealth.

Now, I needed to lay the groundwork.

To worm my way into Northern politics, gain favor, make allies.

I could win the trust of Ned Stark, become a respected warrior in Winterfell, position myself close to his family.

Close to Sansa.

And when the war came?

When the wolves were scattered, when chaos reigned, when Sansa was alone and vulnerable?

I would be the one to pick up the pieces.

She would have nowhere else to turn.

And I would be waiting.

With one final glance at Ros's sleeping, thoroughly ruined form, I smirked to myself.

The game had begun.

And I was ready to play.