Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

The sky burned with hues of crimson as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, its light piercing through the thick canopy of trees, casting elongated shadows across the thorny, mud-laden path.

The dense woodland seemed like an abyss with its heavy darkness, and the cold wind whispered ominously, carrying the unsettling sensation of unseen eyes lurking in the mist.

Only when they emerged from beneath the vast shadow of a towering weirwood tree did the oppressive gloom finally lift. Before them stretched a rolling landscape of gentle hills and brown earth, bathed in the golden glow of dusk.

The world was painted in breathtaking shades of amber and violet, a stark contrast to the eerie depths of the forest.

At last, they could breathe easy.

The cursed Wolfswood was every bit as unsettling as the haunted forests beyond the Wall.

The endless expanse of open land led them to an abandoned manor at the forest's edge—one of the Night's Watch's southern strongholds. Relief settled over the group as they spotted the structure. Here, at least, they would not have to fear the creatures that stalked the wilderness.

Tyrion Lannister was led forward by his attendants, unable to ride unassisted. When he finally dismounted, his legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing him to lean on Morrec for support.

"From here on, there'll be more villages and travelers," Yoren remarked as they pressed on. He had walked this road for nearly twenty years, but never had the journey been this perilous.

In the past, direwolves had never been sighted this far south of the Wall.

Cole sat in silence, his eyes closed as if lost in thought. The others assumed he was still recovering from the battle's toll.

That night, they made camp within the manor's crumbling walls, lighting a fire to cook a simple meal of wild greens and rye bread. With their hunger satisfied, they settled onto straw piles to rest.

Cole, the hero who had driven off the wolves, was spared from standing watch. He slept soundly and woke groggily the next morning to find the others already packed and waiting by the fire.

Scratching his head, he offered a wry smile. Truthfully, he hadn't expended much physical strength. It was the strain of using the Eye of Time that left him so drained. The exhaustion seemed to be an inevitable aftereffect of the ability.

The days that followed were far less treacherous. By the second day beyond Wolfswood, they reached a village and spent the night in a farmer's house. Tyrion, ever the scoundrel despite his injuries, wasted no time in charming the local women.

As they continued south, the terrain grew flatter, and the biting northern winds subsided. For Cole, who had spent his life on the Wall, the absence of the relentless cold felt liberating, as if he had shed an invisible weight. He longed to race across the plains but restrained the impulse.

Tyrion's condition had improved considerably. Once again, he rode his mare—a gift from his brother Jaime on his naming day. He spent much of the journey scribbling in his journal, sketching designs that piqued Cole's curiosity.

Peering over his shoulder, Cole recognized the outlines of a contraption, no doubt intended for young Brandon Stark. After all, Tyrion had promised Jon Snow that he would help the boy. Cole himself had also vowed to visit the child.

Brandon—an old name steeped in Stark history. The legendary Brandon the Builder had borne the same name, a fact not lost on Cole. Unlike in the distant lands of his past life, where ancestral names were treated with reverence and avoided, Westeros families honored their forebears by bestowing their names upon new generations. The Starks alone must have had hundreds of Brandons throughout the ages.

"Winterfell is just ahead," Yoren said, pointing toward the towering stone fortress in the distance. Cole had never seen such a sight before—not in this life, nor in the one before it.

Winterfell's origins were tied to Brandon the Builder, a time when men, the Children of the Forest, and giants had still coexisted. Together, they had constructed both the castle and the Wall itself.

Now, no trace of the Children or the giants remained south of the Wall, their fate entangled with the Andal invasion—an event largely omitted from the records in Castle Black's library.

Beyond Winterfell lay Winter Town, a settlement that, despite its modest bustle, felt eerily empty. Nearly half its homes stood vacant, waiting for the arrival of winter to bring them back to life. As its name suggested, the town only thrived in the colder months.

The party rode through the streets, drawing cautious glances from passersby. Some watched them curiously before losing interest at the sight of their black cloaks. Compared to the lavish procession of the king's retinue, the ragged company of Night's Watchmen looked unimpressive.

"Crows," they called them—a derogatory term for the sworn brothers in black.

One of Tyrion's attendants stepped forward to announce their arrival. With a groan of iron chains, the massive gates swung open. The guards had already gone ahead to inform their lord of the visitors.

Robb Stark received them in the great hall.

Maesters, knights, and attendants filled the chamber. Seated atop the high seat of Winterfell, Robb regarded them with a measured expression. He wore a thick leather surcoat over his mail, his presence commanding as he observed the newcomers.

Flanking him stood two young men clad in armor, their postures rigid, their expressions unreadable. The atmosphere in the hall was tense, charged with an air of expectation.

Tyrion looked around, his face full of confusion.

At that moment, Lord Robb said, "As long as you are a brother of the Night's Watch, you are welcome here."

Yoren and his companions bowed in response. Cole, though clad in dark attire, was not technically a sworn brother of the Night's Watch.

"So, as long as you're a Night's Watch brother, I don't count? Is that what you mean, boy?" Tyrion asked in a mocking tone.

The two exchanged sharp words, their argument escalating until Robb drew his sword. Tyrion, unwilling to waste time squabbling with a hot-headed Stark, quickly stated his purpose.

Robb hesitated when he heard Tyrion wished to see Bran. Nevertheless, he ordered the massive Hodor to carry Bran into the hall. The boy's legs had twisted unnaturally; he would likely never walk again.

Tyrion retrieved the designs he had spent days preparing. He had no desire to linger in Winterfell, knowing he was unwelcome here.

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and a small figure strode in, followed by a pack of direwolves. A chill settled over the hall as the great beasts padded forward, their presence both majestic and menacing. Tyrion instinctively recoiled, shrinking back as the wolves bared their teeth at him.

He hurriedly moved closer to Cole, whose hand had already tightened around the hilt of his sword, Winter Night. Unlike the wolves of Wolfswood, these young direwolves were not nearly as intimidating.

One of the guards, Harras Moorland, observed the scene keenly. To draw a blade in Winterfell took a certain kind of nerve.

Robb eventually ordered the wolves away.

The maester examined the blueprints and whispered something into Robb's ear. Moments later, Robb reluctantly extended an invitation for Tyrion to stay.

Tyrion sneered. "Boy, stop pretending to be hospitable."

Without another word, he turned and strode away, his guards following. As he neared the exit, he glanced back at Cole and asked, "Are you coming with us, or staying?"

"I have reached my destination, Tyrion," Cole answered with a trace of sadness. He had considered journeying south, but his growing admiration for House Stark—especially Robb—convinced him to remain in Winterfell.

A wise bird chooses a strong tree. In the grand scheme of the Seven Kingdoms, it was rare to find both ability and opportunity aligned so perfectly. If Robb Stark could avoid his fate at the Red Wedding, how far might he rise? Perhaps the next time they met, they would be on opposite sides of a battlefield.

The War of the Five Kings was his best chance to advance. With both strength and ambition, he had no intention of hiding in the shadows.

Tyrion merely nodded, his expression unreadable. "Do as you wish. But it seems Stark only welcomes the Night's Watch."

They watched as the dwarf's small figure disappeared through the great doors of the hall.

Once outside the castle, Tyrion's mask of indifference slipped, replaced by quiet sorrow. He had refused to display any emotion before the Starks, but parting ways always carried a certain sadness—especially in a world where reunions were never guaranteed. The slow pace of horses, the distant creak of carriage wheels… sometimes a farewell meant never meeting again.

Born into loneliness, Tyrion had few true friends—only Cole, Jon, and his elder brother Jaime.

His debauchery and sharp tongue were merely armor against a world that looked down on him. He treasured the few genuine bonds he had. In the Seven Kingdoms, almost no one saw past his stature to befriend him. And now, he owed Cole his life.

"Jack," he called to his attendant. "Send a message to Cole for me: 'A Lannister always pays his debts.'"