Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

The chamber they gave me was simple, but comfortable. Stone walls, a wooden bed with thick furs, a sturdy table, and a small hearth that kept the cold at bay.

Compared to the places I had slept over the years—muddy tents, the deck of a ship, damp caves, and brothels with stained sheets—this was a luxury.

A soldier's wage had been promised—five silver stags a week. Enough to keep a man fed and clothed, though I had enough gold of my own to last lifetimes. Hidden away in my personal storage—a space accessible only to me—were hundreds of thousands of gold dragons. The wealth I had accumulated over nine years of war, contracts, and carefully executed schemes made me richer than some lords.

I wasn't here for coin.

I was here for power, influence, and a place within the Stark household.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind already planning my next moves.

Tomorrow, my training with the Winterfell guards would begin.

And I would show them exactly why I belonged.

Training with the Wolves

The next morning, the training grounds of Winterfell bustled with activity.

✔ Soldiers clashed swords in sparring matches.

✔ Young squires ran drills, their faces red from the cold.

✔ The clang of steel against steel rang through the air.

I stepped onto the grounds, rolling my shoulders, feeling the cold bite at my skin.

Standing nearby were Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy, and Jon Snow.

✔ Robb was already a warrior in the making—strong, disciplined, his stance firm.

✔ Theon had skill but carried himself with arrogance, his movements looser, cockier.

✔ Jon was silent but focused, his eyes sharp, his footwork better than most.

Above us, watching from the wooden walkway, was Lord Eddard Stark.

His expression was unreadable, but I knew one thing—he was here to observe.

And I intended to impress him.

Sparring with the Soldiers

Ser Rodrik Cassel called for partners, and soon, I found myself facing off against one of the seasoned Stark guards.

The man was larger, older, stronger. He expected an easy fight.

He was wrong.

The moment he swung, I sidestepped effortlessly, letting his blade slice through air.

I didn't block—I redirected.

✔ His movements were predictable.

✔ His weight was off-balance.

✔ He fought with brute strength, but little finesse.

I moved smoothly, countering each strike with precise, efficient motions.

By the time the spar ended, my opponent was sweating, breathing heavily.

I?

I was calm, measured, barely winded.

The other guards murmured among themselves. Some impressed, others wary.

Ser Rodrik gave a curt nod. "Good technique. You fight like a man who has seen real battle."

I inclined my head. "I've had my share of fights, Ser."

Above, I could feel Lord Stark's gaze still on me.

He wasn't sure what to make of me yet. But he was watching.

That was all I needed.

A Test of Strength

I overheard one of the soldiers mutter, "He's quick, but can he handle real force?"

A challenge.

Ser Rodrik must have heard it too, because he turned toward me.

"Damon, how are you with heavier weapons?"

I smirked. "Give me a blade, and I'll make it dance."

That earned a few chuckles.

A greatsword was brought forth—a weapon twice the size of a standard longsword.

One of the bulkier soldiers, Hareth, stepped forward.

The smirk on his face told me he thought he'd break me.

I took the sword, feeling its weight. It was heavy, but nothing I couldn't handle.

I adjusted my grip, rolled my wrists—and swung.

CRACK.

The wooden training post in front of me split clean in two, the top half crashing to the ground.

Silence.

Then, muttered curses.

Ser Rodrik grunted in approval. "Not bad."

Robb and Theon, who had been watching, exchanged glances.

Theon smirked. "Well, well. Maybe you're not just another sellsword after all."

Robb nodded. "That was impressive."

Jon Snow, who had remained silent up until now, spoke. "Your movements are precise. Not just brute strength."

I smirked. "Strength alone doesn't win battles."

Jon studied me for a moment, then nodded slightly, respecting the answer.

Above us, Ned Stark's expression remained unreadable.

But I knew one thing—

He was paying attention.

And that was exactly what I wanted.