"What?!" His voice cracked with disbelief, jerking him out of his daze.
No way. No goddamn way. This fat oaf scored Lyanna Stark? I guess tall guys do live it easy.
"Pfft…" Lyanna wheezed and wrapped her lean belly with her arms, laughing her lungs out. "Hah! You actually believed me?"
She howled louder at his annoyed expression, loving every second of teasing him.
She's going to fry my brains at this rate.
Wylis groaned, snatched the brush back from her hand, and started brushing the horse again. "Go away."
"Really?" She smirked, poking the soft part of his arm. "Because I was about to take you out, like we planned."
Wylis shot an eager glance at her. That was what he craved. "And Lord Stark…"
"Oh, he's more excited than I am," she grinned. "He's even sending a guard with us. Lend us practice swords, too."
Of course, he did. A growing giant like me with sword skills? Lord Stark must be drooling at the thought.
"Let's go then, my Lady," he said, his mood shifting as he fastened the saddle on her mare. He had no horse himself—but that was fine. He needed to walk, to work this body into shape.
Sure, it was unfortunate that he didn't wake up as a lord or a knight. But even then, he had the advantage of knowing some of the future events. In some years, the realm would be in turmoil, with houses waging wars against each other, and that would be the best time to stand out.
So what if he was a stableboy? He had a body that would grow to at least seven feet. In chaos, there will be his ladder. Battles were where merit could be won. In victories, he could win his rise.
Soon, he followed Lyanna as she rode her mare slowly enough for him to walk beside. He looked at her excited face, eyes lit. Annoying as she was, she had unknowingly become his greatest blessing. Without her, Lord Stark would never have agreed to his training. Of course, Lyanna only used that excuse to get her own practice in.
If I can mold this body to match what I learned in the past, I'll be unstoppable with my full height.
Feeling that excessive fat jiggle with his fast steps, he looked down at his belly.
It's going to take a lot of work.
But that was only the beginning for the Stableboy. Unbeknownst to him, a far grander, greater, infamous career lay ahead for him. Waking up in that body was the first of many miracles to come.
This was a world where titles weren't bought—they were earned through cold steel. Serving as someone's sworn sword would never satisfy his heart. Not when he finally had the chance to be something more.
The first step had been taken. For the future tyrant to awaken.
####
The coin clanked in his pouch as he came to a halt in front of the small building in Winter Town. As he measured the building with his piercing, sharp, blue eyes, he smelled the scent of various incense and more.
His fingers twitched at his sides, his hands itchy and his loins warm. For years, he'd waited for this day to come. Day and night, months of fasting, stealing chicken eggs, meat to feed himself protein.
For four years, he lived like an animal. He trained like his life depended on it, which it did. He made tools out of stones to train every muscle of his body. From his neck to his calves, not a single spot was left alone. He carved himself into what he now stood as.
A pure, bulking machine of muscle, standing at six foot eight already, just a little more before he'd peak. But this was good enough for an eighteen-year-old lad like him. His shoulders were broad enough to eclipse Brandon Stark, his arms mighty enough to push the future Stark Lord to heel with a sword strike.
He gulped and took a step inside. Instantly, the feminine scents attacked his senses. In his previous life, he never bothered chasing women, as his name and wealth promised the finest ladies would throw themselves at him. But in this life, he craved some.
Despite being someone who could best almost anyone in a sword fight, he still remained relatively obscure to the feminine gaze. To his dismay, there was a limit to tall guys winning. Once he grew beyond six-foot-five, the female gaze turned from sultry to shock or fright. Not all were interested in a young man of his size, other than men seeking to challenge him.
But he didn't care… he liked to believe that.
For the last four years, he focused on carving himself into a warrior. Now, after defeating the Winterfell master-at-arms, he'd earned a hefty reward. Enough silver to pay a visit and see a woman who he considered among the most desirable in the realm.
"Where's Ros?" He asked the madam of the brothel, a woman of advanced age.
"Oh, gods," the woman gasped, eyeing him closely. She'd watched him duck under the doorframe as he came in, big as a bear and twice as broad. "I'll leave it to her if she's wantin' to take ye on, lad."
Over the past few years, he'd tried to look for Ros in Winter Town. He hoped to find her before she threw herself into prostitution. She was certainly pretty enough to date. Too bad, he only found her recently when she'd just started at the brothel.
Quickly, he followed the old woman into a small chamber with a large bed in the middle. It was far from luxury, but it was the best he could afford. One thing he'd learned over the years was that whores were absolutely expensive.
Confident and eager, he went over and sat down on the bed's edge. He was still a little anxious, however. But not for sexual reasons.
Ugh… I hope Lyanna doesn't come looking for me. That crazy bitch.
At first, he'd only tolerated her because she helped him train. But over the years, they'd grown into best friends. Enough so that whenever Lyanna messed up pranking someone, he'd be called to back her up. She knew well how to take advantage of his height to scare others.
And Lyanna also loathed whores. It started when her betrothed was announced with Robert Baratheon a year after he woke up in Westeros. After learning what sort of man Robert was, Lyanna grew to detest every man who slept with whores.
He'd tried to defend single men like himself. In the end, he decided to just do it without telling her.
"Ehm…"
"Ah… by the gods!" Wylis exclaimed, having taken up Westerosi slang. "You're gorgeous."
There stood Ros at the room's open door. Although she was young, the same age as him, her curves were to die for already. The swells on her chest bumped out well in her skin hugging gown of silk, the wide neck showing him all he needed, making his cock swell. Her fiery auburn curls spilled over her porcelain shoulders, skin pale as fresh cream, eyes emerald, inviting sin—a perfect woman for a first, he felt.
Ros smiled sultrily, but she lacked the overly sensual persona she'd grow into in a few years. Her voice was young, full of life, hope, and dreams.
"So we finally meet."
"You know me?" Wylis asked in surprise.
Ros chuckled and strolled further into the room, locking the door behind. "Who doesn't know the giant of Winterfell? But I'm afraid I don't know your name."
"Wylis… Just Wylis." He replied, and started opening his money pouch. "I will be gentle with you, so don't be worried about it."
"Shhh…" Ros reached him and placed her soft, velvety hand on his, stopping him from opening the pouch. "Pay after the service, Wylis. First, show me what I'm dealing with today."
Ros pursed her lips, a slow, sultry smirk curling at the corners. With sensual grace, she turned and climbed onto the bed, her movements fluid and erotic, made to be watched. The silk of her gown rippled as she slid backward, the fabric gathering in soft folds over her thighs, creasing just enough to hint at the curves beneath. She leaned back against the cushions, one hand drifting lazily through her thick locks, fixing them so they framed her face in the most enticing way. Her gaze lingered on Wylis, waiting.
"Alright," he murmured, the word coming out rougher than intended.
Too used to being the one in control, Wylis found himself hesitating. He reached for his tunic, the sturdy fabric worn but well-made, stitched with care by Old Nan's hands. It had taken an abundance of cloth to fit his massive frame, but now, under Ros's eye, it felt almost restrictive.
He pulled it off slowly, the full sleeves brushing against his skin before he let the garment fall to the floor, baring the breadth of his chest. His torso, thick with muscle, was now exposed. He stood there for a moment, half-naked, uncertain, as Ros's gaze traveled over him with a kind of appreciation that made his pulse thump a little harder.
Wylis stood tall, a lethal figure of raw strength. His shoulder-length hair, slightly overgrown, framed a face as rugged as the North itself. His jaw was sharp and clean. The thick cords of his neck flowed into mountainous shoulders, his biceps bulging larger than most men's heads. His chest, wide and sculpted, bore the marks of a warrior.
His body was the kind that stories were told about, each muscle sculpted with years of relentless labor.
"Umm… You should walk around the town bare-chested, Wylis. You won't have to pay anyone." Ros complemented, licking her lips with a teasing smile.
He let out a deep chuckle, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. Then, without hesitation, he tugged off his breeches and let them fall, standing at last in his full, unrestrained glory.
He hid nothing. He was proud of it.
His thick cock stood rigid, swollen with years of unspent craving. It jutted forward, proud and demanding, its sheer size a challenge. Long enough to draw gasps, thick enough to fill a woman's hand beyond comfort, it was a thing of virile power, built not just to pleasure but to claim, to make a woman feel every inch. The veins along his wide girth pulsed along its hard length, his broad crown flushed red with heat, glistening slightly in the flickering light.
He looked up, catching Ros's expression, the way her mouth had fallen open slightly, her breath caught in her throat.
Pleased, Wylis placed his hands on his waist, standing firm as she exhaled, regaining her composure.
"Aye, please be gentle, Wylis," she finally whispered.