Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

The morning air in Stoney Sept was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly baked bread and damp earth. The town was already alive with movement—merchants setting up their stalls, blacksmiths hammering steel, and stable boys rushing to tend to horses.

I rolled my shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache in my muscles from the night before. My first taste of Westerosi pleasure had left me thoroughly satisfied, but now it was time for something more important—gold, power, and a purpose.

I needed work.

Being a sellsword wasn't a glamorous life, but it was the fastest way to earn coin, experience, and recognition. The wars that would reshape Westeros hadn't started yet, but conflict was never far away in the Seven Kingdoms. There were always lords hiring swords, always bandits to be put down, always coin to be made through bloodshed.

I fastened my sword belt, adjusted my worn leather armor, and made my way toward the local recruiting square, where mercenaries and soldiers-for-hire gathered in search of contracts.

A Band of Brothers-in-Arms

The square was filled with all kinds of men—grizzled veterans, fresh-faced young men desperate for coin, and hardened killers who looked like they'd slit a throat for a single copper.

I scanned the crowd, my eyes settling on a group that looked organized and disciplined—an actual company rather than a band of cutthroats.

They wore matching leather jerkins with the emblem of a black vulture stitched into the chest. Their weapons were well-kept, their boots sturdy, and their leader—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and sharp eyes—was watching the square like a hawk.

I approached.

"You looking for work, boy?" the bearded man asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

I nodded. "I can fight."

The man looked me over, taking in my lean build, my worn but well-maintained sword, the confidence in my stance.

"You don't look like much," he mused. "But I've seen lads your size cut down men twice their weight if they're quick enough."

I smirked. "I'm quick enough."

The man studied me a moment longer before nodding. "Name's Garrett Kane. I lead the Black Vultures, a free company of sellswords. We take contracts across the Riverlands and the Crownlands. No loyalty to any lord—only to coin."

That suited me just fine.

"You got a name?" Garrett asked.

"Damon Waters."

His eyes flickered with interest. "A bastard's name. You from the Riverlands?"

"Something like that," I lied. It didn't matter where I was from—only where I was going.

Garrett grunted. "We just took a contract. A lord wants a bandit group raiding his trade routes dealt with. We leave by sundown. You can prove yourself then."

I nodded. "Fine by me."

"Good," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Black Vultures, Damon."

Preparing for My First Battle

I spent the rest of the day learning about the company.

The Black Vultures were fifty men strong, experienced but not a major force. They took guard duty, raiding jobs, and the occasional noble dispute, but they weren't the kind of group that would fight in major wars—not yet, at least.

Their men were a mix of ex-soldiers, cutthroats, and seasoned mercenaries. Some were in it for the gold, others for the thrill of battle, and some simply had nowhere else to go.

I trained for a bit, getting a feel for my sword again, practicing against the others. My Dexterity and Endurance were decent, but I lacked experience. I needed to fight, to push myself in real combat, to grow stronger.

As night fell, the company gathered at the edge of town, ready to move out.

My real journey in Westeros had begun.

I was no longer just an observer. No longer just a traveler.

I was a sellsword, and the first drops of blood I spilled in this world would be the first steps toward something greater.

With my hand resting on my sword, I followed the Black Vultures into the night, toward my first battle in this brutal world.