Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

The day had started with the slow grind of duty. Lord Eddard Stark, ever the honorable man, was delving deeper into the secrets of King Robert's children, piecing together a puzzle that had already cost Jon Arryn his life. His investigations had taken him through the halls of the Red Keep, from musty ledgers to hushed whispers of informants, and now, as evening approached, he emerged into the city streets, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the truth.

But the truth was dangerous in King's Landing. And danger was never far behind.

The news had spread like wildfire—Lady Catelyn Stark had arrested Tyrion Lannister. The Imp, taken prisoner on the road, accused of attempting to murder young Bran Stark. And if there was one thing anyone knew about the Lannisters, it was that they did not forgive slights lightly.

As we stepped out into the warm evening air, I could already feel the change in the atmosphere. The streets were quieter than usual, eyes flickering toward us from shadowed corners. Something was coming. Something inevitable.

And then I saw him.

Jaime Lannister stood at the far end of the street, his golden armor gleaming under the fading sunlight. The Kingslayer, handsome and deadly, leaned against a post as though he had all the time in the world, his men standing behind him like wolves waiting to pounce.

Ned halted beside me, his face hardening as he met Jaime's gaze.

"Lord Stark," Jaime drawled, stepping forward with an easy grace. "I hear my brother is a guest of your wife. A rather rude host, I must say."

Ned's jaw clenched. "Your brother will answer for his crimes."

Jaime smirked, but there was something sharp in his expression. "Crimes? My dear lord, you do realize what you've done, don't you? My father will not take this kindly. And I… well, I take it even less so."

The tension thickened, suffocating in its weight. I kept my hand close to the hilt of my sword, my eyes flicking toward Jaime's men. There were at least ten of them, heavily armed, and every one of them looked ready for blood.

"Step aside, Kingslayer," Ned said, his voice like steel. "I have no quarrel with you."

Jaime chuckled. "Oh, but I have one with you. I can't have my dear little brother being taken like a common thief. It sets a bad precedent, wouldn't you say?"

The air cracked with tension.

Jaime's hand moved in a blur, drawing his sword in a single elegant motion. "I think a lesson is in order."

Ned barely had time to parry the first strike.

Their blades met with a clang that sent sparks flying, and the street exploded into motion. Ned was a strong fighter, but Jaime was faster, smoother, deadlier. Each swing of his sword was precise, every step calculated. It was not an even fight.

And then—a notification flashed in my vision, bold and urgent.

Task Issued: Protect Ned Stark from Injury and Defeat Jaime Lannister.

A surge of adrenaline hit me like lightning. This was it. A defining moment.

Jaime twisted his sword, forcing Ned back. The old wolf was strong, but he was fighting on reflex, still caught in his own sense of honor.

I stepped in.

With a single motion, I drew my blade and struck, forcing Jaime to shift his footing. His eyes flickered toward me, golden and sharp, assessing.

"Ah, the sellsword speaks with steel," he mused, stepping back lightly. "Let's see what you're made of."

I didn't wait.

I lunged, striking fast and hard, forcing him onto the defensive. Jaime was faster, but I had something he didn't—I knew how this fight played out. And I wasn't going to let history repeat itself.

His sword darted toward me, quick as a viper, but I twisted my blade, deflecting it. The clang of steel rang through the air, the fight turning into a dance of steps and strikes. Jaime's confidence faltered for just a second—he had expected an easy fight.

But I wasn't easy prey.

Jaime's style was elegant, refined—a duelist's grace honed through years of noble training. He fought with efficiency, wasting no energy, his blade always precisely where it needed to be. He danced around me, waiting for an opening, testing my defenses. But I had trained for this. I knew his rhythm, the flow of his attacks. I stayed just out of reach, my blade meeting his with a calculated counter each time.

He feinted left, then twisted his sword, coming in for a low cut toward my ribs. I barely managed to pivot in time, my own sword flashing up to block the attack. The force of his strike sent a jarring tremor up my arm, but I held firm.

"Not bad," Jaime admitted, smirking. "You're quick. But are you quick enough?"

He surged forward, his attacks becoming relentless. I was forced back, my feet sliding across the dirt as I parried his rapid strikes. He was testing me, pushing me to the edge, trying to find the crack in my defense.

Then I saw my opening.

Jaime overextended, his overconfidence making him sloppy for just a fraction of a second. I turned my blade sharply, angling my body just right—and struck.

My sword slashed across the gilded plate on his shoulder, cutting through the fine metal and drawing the first hint of blood. Jaime hissed, his golden armor now marked with a thin crimson line.

I pressed the attack, forcing him back with a rapid series of strikes. Jaime blocked, but he was losing his momentum. His men hesitated, watching their leader falter. If I pressed harder, I could end this here and now. But I wasn't foolish—I knew what that would mean. Killing Jaime Lannister in the streets would be the same as declaring war on the Lannisters immediately.

So instead, I pivoted, knocking his sword aside and forcing him to step back, disarmed but alive.

Jaime's eyes burned as he steadied himself. "Not bad."

The moment stretched between us, heavy and uncertain.

Then, as if deciding it wasn't worth it, Jaime smirked and took a step back. "This isn't over," he said lightly. "We'll have another dance, sellsword. And next time, I won't be so polite."

With a sharp nod to his men, he turned and walked away, his confidence bruised but not broken. The Lannister guards followed, leaving us standing in the aftermath of the fight.

I turned to Ned. He was watching me with something between surprise and calculation.

"You fought well," he said simply.

I sheathed my sword. "I keep telling people that."

He shook his head but let a small smirk touch his lips before turning away. "Let's go. There's still work to be done."

As we left the scene, I exhaled slowly.

Task Complete.

The game had changed. And so had my place in it.