Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

Winterfell was never silent. The wind howled through the courtyards, the clang of steel rang from the training grounds, and the scent of roasting meat drifted from the kitchens.

But on this day, something felt different.

Tension ran through the castle like a coiled viper, unseen but unmistakable. The air was heavy, thick with whispers and uncertainty.

And when the news came, it confirmed what I had already known was coming.

Jon Arryn was dead.

The Death of a Hand

The news arrived at dawn, carried by a rider from the South, cloaked in dust and exhaustion.

I wasn't there when Lord Stark received the message, but the effects rippled through Winterfell almost immediately.

✔ The servants spoke in hushed voices, glancing nervously at one another.

✔ The guards exchanged uneasy looks, knowing that change was coming.

✔ The Stark household was tense—Lady Catelyn was seen pacing in the halls, her lips pressed into a tight line.

I learned the details over the next few hours:

✔ Jon Arryn had died suddenly, of a sickness.

✔ King Robert was coming north, bringing his entire royal party.

✔ The King was expected to arrive in less than two weeks.

And with him, the Game of Thrones would truly begin.

Sansa's Growing Awareness

While the political tension swirled, I had my own personal game to play.

Sansa was beginning to notice me.

Not openly. Not obviously.

But I saw it in the small things.

✔ She lingered just a little longer when she saw me training in the yard.

✔ Her gaze flicked toward me when she thought I wasn't looking.

✔ She asked subtle questions—through Jeyne Poole, through Beth Cassel—about the 'mysterious sellsword' who had settled in Winterfell.

She was curious.

And curiosity was the first step toward interest.

The Godswood Encounter

I had positioned myself carefully, making sure to always appear just within her world, but never forcing my way into it.

Then, one afternoon, fate played into my hands.

Sansa had gone walking in the godswood, accompanied by her usual handmaidens.

It had rained that morning, and the paths were still damp, the scent of wet earth filling the air.

As I passed near the entrance, I saw them walking—and I saw Sansa slip.

It was nothing dramatic—just a misstep on the slick stones.

But instinct took over.

Before she could catch herself, I was there.

My hand shot out, grasping her waist, steadying her before she could fall.

She gasped, eyes widening in surprise as she looked up at me.

And for the first time, I saw her truly see me.

Not as a soldier.

Not as a faceless guard.

But as a man.

Her breath hitched slightly, her lips parting—but then she quickly stepped back, clearing her throat.

"Thank you," she said, her voice quieter than usual.

I gave her a small, easy smile. "You should be more careful, my lady. The paths are slick today."

She nodded, but she was still looking at me, as if trying to figure something out.

Jeyne Poole smirked behind her, exchanging a knowing glance with Beth Cassel.

Sansa straightened, regaining her composure.

"We should go," she said to her friends, and they continued on their way.

But as they left, her gaze flicked back to me—just for a second.

Just enough.