Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

The transition from the cold, disciplined halls of Winterfell to the chaotic, intrigue-laden court of King's Landing was jarring. Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, now sat as Hand of the King, and from the moment he stepped into the Red Keep, it became clear that his honor and principles would be tested at every turn.

Ned wasted no time in assuming his duties. He had barely settled into his chambers when he began investigating the death of his predecessor, Jon Arryn. His instincts told him that the old Hand had not simply succumbed to illness, and that thought alone pushed him into action. But he was a man used to straightforward battles, and this war—fought in whispers, rumors, and veiled threats—frustrated him to no end.

I found myself serving as one of his personal guards, a role that allowed me to observe his meetings firsthand. While I had no official rank in the Stark retinue, I was skilled, and that made me useful. Ned, a practical man, valued those who could be trusted over those with titles.

A Web of Lies: Ned's First Meetings

The first days of his tenure were spent in endless meetings. First, with Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger, the Master of Coin. A man whose every word dripped with amusement and hidden intentions. Then, with Lord Varys, the spymaster who spoke in riddles, his soft voice carrying more weight than a knight's sword. And finally, with Grand Maester Pycelle, who appeared frail but was anything but weak.

Littlefinger always had a smirk when he spoke to Ned, weaving his words like a fisherman casting a net. "You seek the truth, my lord? In King's Landing, truth is a rare and costly thing. The late Jon Arryn found that out the hard way."

Ned's face remained stony, but I saw his jaw tighten. "I want records of Arryn's final days. His meetings, his writings, anything he might have left behind."

Littlefinger chuckled, as if enjoying a private joke. "Of course, my lord. I'll have them sent to you. Though, do remember—secrets are a currency here. Spend too freely, and you'll find yourself in debt."

Later that day, in another meeting, Varys spoke in his careful, almost whispered tone, his fingers steepled as he regarded the new Hand.

"The late Lord Arryn was asking questions, Lord Stark. Dangerous questions. About the legitimacy of a certain boy."

Ned leaned forward. "Which boy?"

Varys merely smiled. "Ah, but that would spoil the mystery. Let me only say this: your predecessor's fate was sealed the moment he started looking where he shouldn't. I do hope, my lord, that you have more caution."

I watched as Ned exhaled slowly, his patience thinning. The North was a place of hard truths and blunt words. King's Landing, on the other hand, was a nest of snakes.

A Word with the Hand

One evening, after a particularly frustrating council session, Ned sought a moment of respite in the Hand's solar. He dismissed most of his men, but as I turned to leave, he gestured for me to stay.

"You've been quiet, Damon," he said, pouring himself a cup of wine. "You listen well. What do you think of all this?"

I met his gaze carefully. This was the moment where words mattered. If I told him too much, I risked revealing my knowledge of things I shouldn't know. If I said too little, I would seem useless.

"I think," I said slowly, "that truth here is a blade. One that cuts the wielder as often as the enemy."

Ned frowned but nodded. "Go on."

"You are looking for answers in a city that thrives on deception. The moment you start pulling at threads, someone will try to cut your hand off." I took a measured breath. "Trust no one, my lord. Not entirely. Every man here plays a game, and the ones who smile the most tend to have the sharpest knives."

He sighed, rubbing his temple. "And yet, I must trust someone. I cannot do this alone."

"Then trust carefully," I said. "Trust in what people do, not in what they say. Watch their actions, not their words."

He studied me for a moment before nodding. "I will consider that."

Encounters with Sansa

While the political turmoil unfolded, my interactions with Sansa Stark continued. She was adjusting to the life of a noble lady at court, enamored with the grandeur and splendor of King's Landing.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she said one afternoon as we walked through the castle gardens. "Everything here feels like a song come to life."

I smirked. "Songs have happy endings. King's Landing rarely does."

She frowned. "You're always so cynical."

"Just realistic."

Sansa sighed, glancing toward the training yard where knights sparred. "Joffrey says I'll be a queen one day. That we'll rule together."

"Joffrey says many things."

She gave me a sharp look. "He is the prince. He will be king."

"A king should be just," I said. "And kind."

She hesitated before turning away. "You don't understand."

Perhaps not. Or perhaps she didn't yet understand the game she was stepping into.

The Game Moves Forward

Ned Stark's days as Hand of the King were filled with obstacles. The deeper he dug, the more enemies he made. His honor was his strength, but in this city, it could just as easily become his undoing.

I watched. I listened. And when the time came, I would act.

Because while Ned was playing the role of the honest man in a den of liars, I had the advantage of knowing exactly how this story unfolded.

And this time, I intended to shape it to my benefit.