Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

"Enough!" Ser Alliser Thorne's voice cut through the air like a blade of Valyrian steel.

He was berating a group of young men engaged in a scuffle. As a trainer at the Wall, this was something he did whenever new recruits arrived. Cole disliked his scornful tone. He believed knights should uphold the virtue of humility, just as Baelor the Breaker of Spears had—willing to fight for the weak.

But this was not something a cook should concern himself with, especially not a cook at the Wall, where survival was a constant struggle.

Maester Aemon had taken him in from the Kingsroad on a bitter winter night. The maester had told him that, at the time, his face had been so pale from the cold that he couldn't even cry. Everyone thought he wouldn't survive the night, but by some miracle, his wails had echoed through the tower at dawn, waking the entire Night's Watch.

Lord Commander Mormont had once joked, "This one has a loud enough voice to be a ranger."

But those words had proven almost prophetic in a cruel way. The winter had not claimed his life, but it had left him frail. Whenever he stood atop the Wall, it felt as if the wind might sweep him away. His body was too thin, too weak—he would never be a ranger.

A gust of icy wind blew through, making him shiver uncontrollably. He was already wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, yet no amount of clothing could shield against the knife-like cold at the edge of the world.

Noticing him staring blankly at the training yard again, Clydas, the steward, called out, "Oi, little ranger! Maester Aemon will starve if you keep dawdling."

Cole snapped back to reality and gave him an apologetic look. Clydas was short and bald, with dark red eyes, hunched shoulders, and a round face that barely had a chin. His sheepskin cloak was patched all over. Though not thin himself, perhaps his position as steward had afforded him a slightly better diet.

Since he had not yet taken the black, Cole held no official rank at Castle Black. His fifteenth name day was approaching, and then he could swear his vows before the gods and join the Night's Watch.

For years, he had assisted Maester Aemon, effectively serving as a junior steward. While he lacked the physical ability to become a ranger, Cole had a knack for cooking. Even the Lord Commander had praised his roasted meats.

The brothers in black were always amazed by his ability to find strange ingredients and turn them into remarkably delicious meals. Cole himself didn't understand where this knowledge came from—it felt instinctual.

Once, he had asked Maester Aemon about it, but the old man had only smiled and shaken his head. "There are many strange people and stranger things in this world, Cole," he had said. "Even the greatest libraries cannot hold all their secrets."

Everyone at Castle Black knew Cole made the best food. For the men of the Night's Watch, the highlight of the day was drinking the broth he prepared. Those unlucky enough to be on duty at mealtime often spent the rest of the day sulking, knowing they would be left with nothing but hard rye bread and a bowl of watery vegetable soup that tasted like cow piss.

With hundreds of mouths to feed, Cole was mostly assigned the simpler tasks—stirring pots of stew and preparing meals for Maester Aemon.

He and Clydas walked up the narrow corridor. Maester Aemon's care was left to the three of them—Clydas, Cole, and Chett. Clydas served as the maester's assistant, Cole ensured he ate well, and Chett tended to the ravens.

The maester was very old now. He had always been fond of children and had raised Cole himself. In recent years, his health had worsened, and his blindness had become absolute, yet his words remained full of wisdom. The black brothers listened to his guidance as eagerly as Cole had once listened to his stories of Targaryens in his youth.

As Cole pushed open the door, Maester Aemon's keen hearing recognized his footsteps at once. "Is that you, little Cole?" he asked softly.

"It's me, Maester," Cole answered, setting the food tray down beside the bed.

The old man reached out, running a frail hand through Cole's hair. "You no longer call me Grandpa Aemon. It seems they have trained you well."

In fact, a short dwarf had come to him for soup the previous day and had shared a few words in passing. Cole sympathized with the man. Perhaps their physical shortcomings created a mutual understanding. People called him the 'little devil,' but Cole thought Tyrion Lannister was a man of great knowledge—perhaps not as wise as Maester Aemon, but impressive nonetheless.

The little devil had spoken of the eight tenets of knighthood. Yes, Cole was a cook, but he dreamed of becoming a knight, even though he could never be a ranger. He longed to embody the honor of Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold.

He should understand honor and disgrace. Maester Aemon was a revered figure among the Night's Watch, and Cole knew he ought to address him with respect.

When Cole finally called him 'Maester,' a flicker of disappointment crossed the old man's face, but it quickly faded into understanding.

"Clydas," Maester Aemon called softly. "Were any letters delivered today?"

Clydas shook his head. "None came."

Cole handed the maester a bowl of porridge. Aemon had no teeth left for chewing, so he sipped carefully. Unlike the other Night's Watch brothers, who devoured their meals with open mouths, he ate with dignity.

Perhaps age played a part, but Cole liked to believe Maester Aemon was simply an honorable and well-bred man.

Nobility and knighthood were intertwined, and Cole found himself drawn to nobles. Sometimes, after hearing a crude joke from a black brother, he would dream of knighthood—of capturing the heart of a noble lady. But reality always returned with the morning, and he would have to wash his pants.

That night, as he lay in his tower room, his mind drifted back to what Tyrion Lannister had told him. Every time he learned something about knighthood, he etched it onto the tower wall like a sacred text:

Humility. Honor. Sacrifice. Bravery. Mercy. Spirit. Honesty. Justice.

Above Castle Black, the night sky was covered in thick clouds. A meteor streaked across the darkness, splitting the chaos to reveal the moonlight and stars beyond. Even the wisest stargazers in the Citadel could not divine its meaning.