Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

The morning air was crisp as our hunting party rode through the dense forests north of Winterfell. The snow-dusted ground crunched beneath our horses' hooves, the trees whispering with the cold wind.

The men were alert, their hands near their weapons. The bandits were out there, somewhere, hiding like rats.

I rode near the middle of the group, keeping my presence measured. I had already made my way into Stark's ranks through deceit, but now, I needed to do more than just exist among them—I needed to prove my worth, make them see me as indispensable.

I had to make them need me.

And to do that, I needed to impress them.

Reading the Land

Ser Rodrik rode at the front, his brow furrowed in thought as he scanned the forest. He was a veteran warrior, but not a hunter.

The soldiers were trained to fight in formation, not to track ghosts in the woods.

That's where I came in.

I slowed my horse and glanced at the ground, my sharp eyes scanning the snow-covered earth. Footprints, uneven patterns in the frost, disturbed leaves.

Signs of movement.

I smirked. Amateurs.

"Ser Rodrik," I called out.

The old knight pulled on his reins, turning toward me with a raised brow. "What is it?"

I dismounted, kneeling by the disturbed snow.

"They were here," I said, tracing my fingers over the impressions. "Not long ago. No more than a few hours. See how the frost hasn't fully settled into the prints?"

The men leaned forward, some exchanging glances.

"You can track them?" one of the younger soldiers asked skeptically.

I smirked, standing. "I can do more than that. I can tell you how many there are, what direction they're moving, and how prepared they are for a fight."

Ser Rodrik crossed his arms. "Prove it."

I gestured to the uneven patterns in the snow.

"There are at least ten of them, maybe twelve. You can tell by the varying depths of the prints—multiple sizes, different gaits. Some are heavier, some lighter, meaning a mix of armed men and possibly younger recruits."

I pointed toward a few scattered disturbances in the frost.

"See these? They're dragging something heavy. Most likely supplies stolen from their last raid."

The soldiers murmured among themselves. Even Rodrik looked mildly impressed.

"And their direction?" he asked.

I turned to the dense tree line ahead. "They're moving northeast, toward the deeper woods."

Rodrik studied the tracks, then me. After a moment, he nodded. "We follow your lead."

I hid my smirk. Good.

Stalking the Prey

We moved carefully, following the path the bandits had unknowingly left behind. Every step was deliberate, every movement calculated.

The deeper we went, the quieter the forest became.

Then, I caught it—the faint smell of smoke.

I raised a hand, signaling for the group to stop. "They're close."

Rodrik's expression hardened. "How close?"

I closed my eyes briefly, listening to the wind, the distant rustle of movement.

"Less than two hundred paces ahead. A small clearing." I opened my eyes, a smirk forming. "They think they're safe."

Rodrik nodded, signaling for the men to ready their weapons.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked.

I considered. We could charge in, steel against steel, and cut them down in a direct fight. But that was wasteful and sloppy.

No. I wanted to control the fight.

I grinned. "Let's make them panic first."

Striking First

I crept ahead, moving like a shadow through the underbrush while the soldiers positioned themselves around the clearing.

The bandits were exactly as I expected—drunk on stolen ale, laughing like fools.

They had set up a makeshift camp, their weapons leaned lazily against tree stumps, their stolen goods piled up in the center.

Idiots.

I found my target—the bandit closest to the fire, sharpening a rusty dagger.

With practiced precision, I drew a knife from my belt and threw it.

The blade whistled through the air before burying itself in his throat.

He gurgled, his body twitching before collapsing.

For a second, the bandits froze.

Then—chaos.

"AMBUSH!" one of them shouted.

Before they could grab their weapons, I was already among them, sword flashing.

One tried to draw his blade, but I was faster—I slammed my knee into his gut, grabbed his head, and drove it down onto a rock.

Skull cracked, blood splattering against my boots.

The Stark soldiers charged in from all sides, steel clashing, men screaming.

But I wasn't done yet.

I spotted the biggest of the bandits, their leader, trying to mount a horse to escape.

Not happening.

I sprinted forward, grabbed a discarded spear, and hurled it.

The spear pierced his thigh, sending him crashing to the ground.

I was on him before he could react, planting my boot on his chest, my sword pressed against his throat.

"You're not going anywhere," I growled.

The Aftermath

By the time the dust settled, the camp was littered with corpses.

The few surviving bandits were either bound or bleeding, their reign of terror ended in less than an hour.

The Stark soldiers were breathing heavily, some nursing minor wounds, but victorious.

And I?

I was barely winded.

Ser Rodrik approached, surveying the destruction. He eyed the bodies I had personally taken down before looking at me.

"You fight like a demon," he muttered.

I smirked, wiping my blade clean. "I told you I was worth bringing along."

He nodded, his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he said the words I had been waiting for.

"You'll ride back with us to Winterfell. Lord Stark will want to hear about this."

I hid my satisfaction behind a neutral nod.

Finally.