Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

Winterfell had started to accept me, but acceptance was not enough.

I needed trust.

Not from the soldiers, not from Theon or Robb—but from Eddard Stark himself.

And more importantly, I needed to know what made Sansa Stark tick.

If I was going to win her, seduce her, make her mine, I had to understand what she wanted.

A girl like her—a noble, a lady of high station—wasn't swayed by simple strength or wealth.

She had dreams, desires, expectations crafted by the world she grew up in.

And I intended to learn them all.

At the same time, the whispers of politics reached my ears.

Jon Arryn was dying.

And with his death, chaos would begin.

Building an Image with Lord Stark

Eddard Stark was a hard man to impress.

Honor bound him. He was a lord who respected loyalty, skill, and honesty.

Which meant I had to craft an image that appealed to his nature.

I took every opportunity to be near him, without making it seem like I was forcing myself into his presence.

✔ I trained daily with the soldiers, ensuring word of my skills continued to spread.

✔ I joined hunting expeditions, proving my ability with a bow and blade in the wild.

✔ I volunteered for patrols, always taking the most dangerous routes, returning unscathed.

Each small action added to the foundation of my reputation.

Soon enough, Lord Stark took notice.

One morning, after I returned from a successful hunt, I found myself standing before him in the Great Hall.

He studied me with those cold, assessing grey eyes.

"You handle yourself well," he said finally. "Few sellswords stay in one place so long without seeking gold."

I inclined my head. "Gold is easy to come by, my lord. A place worth calling home is not."

A half-truth.

Ned exhaled, studying me for a long moment.

"You are not like most of your kind," he admitted.

Good.

I was carving out my place, little by little.

But trust was not given freely by a man like Ned Stark.

I would need to prove myself further.

And what better way than to show concern for his daughter?

Learning About Sansa Stark

Sansa Stark was thirteen.

A child by my world's standards, but in Westeros, she was nearly of age, being groomed for marriage.

And she was utterly devoted to the idea of being a perfect noble lady.

✔ She adored songs of knights and fair maidens.

✔ She fantasized about chivalry, about love, about a future where she would be courted and adored.

✔ She idolized Queen Cersei, seeing her as the embodiment of grace and nobility.

That was my way in.

I started small.

I would position myself near her when she walked through the courtyard, ensuring she saw me training.

I subtly praised songs and stories when speaking to her handmaidens, allowing whispers to reach her.

And most importantly, I listened.

✔ Jeyne Poole talked of Sansa's love for courtly dances and her longing to see the South.

✔ Beth Cassel scoffed at how Sansa wanted a gallant knight, not a warrior.

She wanted romance. Elegance. Nobility.

Not brute force. Not a soldier.

A sellsword meant nothing to a girl like her.

But a knight, a warrior with honor, a man who embodied both strength and refinement?

That was who she dreamed of.

And so, I would become exactly that.

As I wove my way deeper into the fabric of Winterfell, news arrived from the South.

Jon Arryn was sick—his condition worsening with each passing day.

✔ The Maesters whispered of poison, but no one dared say it aloud.

✔ King Robert was growing restless, sensing the weight of the inevitable.

✔ Soon, Jon Arryn would be dead.

And with his death, the first spark of the coming storm would ignite.

I estimated no more than two weeks before the news of his passing spread across the Seven Kingdoms.

And once that happened?

Robert Baratheon would come north.

✔ In one month, the King himself would be in Winterfell.

✔ And with him, the true game would begin.

The pieces were moving.

But I had one final piece to claim.

Sansa Stark.