Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

Damon Waters knew what had happened before the whispers spread.

The moment he saw Jaime Lannister standing near the First Keep that afternoon, wearing that easy, self-assured smirk, Damon had a gut feeling. And in Westeros, gut feelings were rarely wrong.

Then came the sound—the sickening, distant thud of a body meeting stone. The gasps. The hurried footsteps. The shouts of the guards.

Bran Stark had fallen.

Damon didn't rush forward like the rest of the castlefolk. He didn't need to. He already knew how this story went. He had read it, watched it, and now, he was living it.

Bran had climbed the tower. Bran had seen something he wasn't supposed to see. Jaime Lannister had pushed him.

And now, the game of thrones had truly begun.

Observing the Chaos

From the shadows of the courtyard, Damon watched as the boy was carried inside. His small body was limp, head lolling to the side, face too pale. Lady Stark ran beside the guards, her hands hovering as if afraid to touch her broken son. Lord Stark followed, his silence heavier than steel.

The direwolves howled, their cries echoing through the walls of Winterfell.

The castle was gripped by chaos, but amidst the panic, Damon remained still, thinking.

I could speak up.

He could tell them that Jaime was near the tower before the fall. That the boy hadn't simply slipped. That the golden lion had, in all likelihood, attempted to silence a witness.

But what good would that do?

Accusing the Queen's twin brother without proof? The Starks were already wary of the Lannisters. This would only accelerate the inevitable bloodshed. And Damon was not a Stark. He had no loyalties here—only his own survival.

No, he wouldn't speak. Not yet.

Instead, he would watch. Listen. Understand the currents shifting beneath the surface. Because in this world, knowing when to act was just as important as knowing when to stay silent.

And right now, silence was his best weapon.

Sansa's Shock

Later, as the castle settled into uneasy quiet, Damon found Sansa Stark alone in the godswood.

She sat on a stone bench beneath the weirwood tree, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her usually bright blue eyes were dull, swollen from crying. She was still wearing her finest dress, the fabric wrinkled as if she hadn't moved in hours.

She doesn't know how to deal with grief yet.

Sansa had always dreamed of being a queen, of wearing silks and gold, of a life filled with songs and dances. This was her first true taste of the harsh reality of Westeros.

"He was going to be a knight," she whispered, barely audible. "Bran… he always said he wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard."

Damon sat beside her, not too close, but close enough that she knew he was there.

"He still might," he said, though the words felt empty even to him.

Sansa let out a bitter, broken laugh. "He can't even move. The maester doesn't know if he'll wake up."

Damon stayed silent. He could have offered hollow reassurances, told her that everything would be fine. But he wasn't in the business of pretty lies.

Instead, he said, "Knights aren't just the ones who hold swords, you know. A true knight is someone who protects those who can't protect themselves."

Sansa turned to look at him then, searching his face. "Do you really believe that?"

No, Damon thought. But you do, and that's what matters.

He simply nodded.

Sansa swallowed hard and looked away. She wasn't ready to talk more. That was fine. Damon had planted the seed. She would remember this moment. And in time, when she looked at him again, it would be with something more than just sadness.

He stood, brushing off his cloak. "Don't stay out here too long. It's colder than it looks."

And with that, he left her to her thoughts.

A Drink with Ros

The tavern was warm, a stark contrast to the somber chill in the castle above. Damon had always liked warmth. It reminded him he was still alive.

Ros, ever perceptive, slid a cup of ale in front of him before he could even ask. The red-haired woman smirked as she leaned against the table. "You've got that look, Damon. The one you wear when you know something the rest of us don't."

He smirked back, lifting the cup to his lips. "And here I thought I was unreadable."

She chuckled. "To most, maybe. But I've seen enough men like you to know when you're holding something close to the chest."

Damon leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear. "The boy's fall wasn't an accident."

Ros's smile didn't waver, but her eyes sharpened. "You're sure?"

"I'd wager my last silver stag on it."

She studied him for a moment before tilting her head. "And yet, you've said nothing. Why?"

"Because silence is worth more than words," he said simply.

Ros tapped a finger against the table thoughtfully. "So, what's next?"

Damon smirked, finishing his drink. "I wait. And when the time is right, I act."

She watched him for a long moment before speaking again. "And what about the girl? Sansa?"

Damon set his cup down and met her gaze. "I need you to keep a close eye on her. Make her trust you."

Ros arched a brow. "That won't be hard. She's a girl who wants to believe in kindness."