Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

The morning light seeped through the wooden shutters, casting a soft glow over the small chamber. The embers in the hearth had long since faded, leaving only the warmth of Ros' bare body pressed against mine.

She lay with her head on my chest, her fiery red hair a tangled mess across my skin.

Her breathing was slow, steady—but she wasn't asleep.

I could tell by the way her fingers drew small, absentminded circles on my stomach, her nails barely grazing my skin.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, she murmured, "I never took you for the type to stay the night."

I smirked, running a hand through her wild hair. "And what type did you take me for?"

She exhaled a soft laugh. "The kind who takes what he wants, then vanishes into the night."

I chuckled, my fingers trailing along her bare shoulder. "That's what most men do, isn't it?"

Her head tilted up slightly, her green eyes meeting mine. "And you're not most men?"

I let a slow, knowing smile cross my lips. "I think you already know the answer to that."

She studied me for a moment, something unreadable in her gaze.

Then, she sighed, shifting slightly so that she was resting more comfortably against me.

"You're different," she admitted, almost to herself.

I said nothing.

Silence was a weapon when used correctly.

Let her fill it.

And she did.

"Men come and go," she murmured. "Knights, lords, merchants. They all think they're special. That they're different."

I traced my fingers lightly down her spine, feeling the slight shiver that followed.

"And yet, here you are, still lying in my arms," I mused. "Talking to me. Thinking about me."

She exhaled sharply, as if annoyed by how easily I had turned her own words against her.

But I could see it—the flicker of something in her eyes.

Doubt?

No.

Curiosity.

She wanted to know why I was different. Why she felt different around me.

And that was exactly where I wanted her.

Weaving the Web

I shifted slightly, rolling onto my side so I could face her fully.

She didn't pull away.

Instead, she let her fingers trail along my chest, absentmindedly tracing the scars that lined my skin.

"You never told me," she said softly. "Where exactly did you come from?"

I exhaled, letting my gaze drift to the ceiling as if recalling distant memories. "Does it matter?"

She gave me a small, knowing smirk. "It does when a man like you walks into my life."

I let the silence stretch between us for a moment before I spoke.

"I've fought in wars no one sings songs about. Seen men kill for less than a loaf of bread. I've lived as a sellsword, a ghost moving from battlefield to battlefield, never staying in one place long enough to be remembered."

My voice was calm, even.

Not tragic. Not boastful. Just truth.

Her brows furrowed slightly.

"That sounds... lonely."

I turned my gaze back to her, studying her. "It is."

She bit her lip, as if hesitating. Then, "And now? Why are you here?"

I reached up, cupping her cheek gently, my thumb brushing against her lower lip.

"Because I don't want to be a ghost anymore."

Her breath hitched slightly, her eyes searching mine.

I had given her exactly what she needed to hear.

Ros was a woman who had seen men at their worst—drunk, violent, careless.

She had spent her life being used and discarded, treated like nothing more than a plaything.

And now?

Now, she was looking at me like I was something else.

Something more.

Sealing the Connection

She swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly against my chest.

"I think you enjoy being a mystery," she whispered.

I smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And you enjoy trying to solve them."

Her lips curled into a small smile. "Maybe."

I let my hand slide down her back, pulling her closer. "Then keep me around a little longer."

Her breath was warm against my neck as she exhaled softly.

For a woman who claimed to never let men matter, she was already letting me in.

She didn't say yes.

She didn't have to.

Her body—relaxed, trusting, curled against mine—said enough.

I had planted the seed.

And Ros?

Ros was no longer just a whore I visited.

She was mine.