Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

Its scales shimmered like ice crystals, glowing as brightly as torches, with blue flames burning within. It bore no malice, and the sparks from its breath flickered and danced, as if performing a magic trick for Cole.

Once his initial fear subsided, he couldn't resist reaching out to touch its massive body. The scales looked icy, but beneath them was a warmth like a hot spring.

At that moment, the ground beneath him suddenly gave way. Before he could grab hold of anything, he plummeted into an abyss, falling endlessly—until a massive bubble emerged from the void, enveloping him.

Within it, he glimpsed another person's memories and a place he had never heard of—Earth.

When Cole awoke, his sweat had soaked through the entire bedsheet. He sat up in confusion, taking in the small, dimly lit room—the wooden bed, the gray walls, the heavy door. This had once been the quarters of Commander Qorgyle, but after the new Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont, moved into the King's Tower, the room had been given to Cole.

His name, Cole, had been given to him by Qorgyle—a common naming custom in Westeros. Originally, Maester Aemon had wanted to name him 'Aemon.'

But now, he remembered his true name—Ying An.

Fourteen years of sealed memories had finally resurfaced. In his past life, Ying An had been an overworked corporate drone who met an untimely death. He had no one to blame but himself—years of staying up late, reading novels, playing games, binge-watching shows… he had practically danced on the edge of death with reckless abandon.

He was both Cole and Ying An. But in this world, he would live as Cole. He knew this world well—he had seen the movies, read the books. And not just once.

Looking back on the scattered fragments of his fourteen years here, it wasn't that he had taken over Cole's body. The original Cole had perished one winter long ago. Their memories had merely merged. But with Ying An's adult mind, he couldn't help but bring his old self into his new identity.

A knight's dream… Cole couldn't mock it. Who in Westeros didn't dream of becoming a knight?

But the world of ice and fire was no peaceful paradise. It was an arena where noble houses played their deadly game of power.

The Iron Throne may change hands, but the Seven Kingdoms remained. For the common folk of Westeros, the identity of the king mattered little. They swore loyalty only to their lords. As the saying went, "The vassal of my vassal is not my vassal."

From ancient times to the present, Westeros had always been divided into its Seven Kingdoms. Though they were no longer independent, they were now vassals under the Iron Throne.

To the far north, the Wall stood tall, beyond which lay the unknown dangers of the frozen wilderness. It was under the rule of House Stark, and it was the Starks who would set this world ablaze.

The bastard son of Stark would soon step onto the stage as the protagonist, rewriting history with his rise.

Cole searched his memories for any trace of himself, but no matter how hard he looked, he found nothing. It seemed he was just a minor character—a nameless extra in this grand tale. He had no idea whether he would survive to the end. The Night's Watch had many battles ahead.

As for kings and lords? To hell with them. He couldn't even wield a sword properly. What did he have to fight for? Right now, his only priority was staying alive.

The Night's Watch was no place to linger. With Benjen Stark missing, it was only a matter of time before Lord Commander Mormont led an expedition beyond the Wall. A doomed mission. A fool's errand.

Luckily, Cole had yet to take his vows. If he left now, he wouldn't be hunted as a deserter.

Where he would go next, he wasn't sure. But one thing was certain—sticking with the main characters wasn't a safe bet.

Just then, someone came to fetch him. After all, he still had work to do. Cooking for the brothers of the Night's Watch. Six hundred men in Castle Black needed feeding, and that meant boiling countless pots of stew.

Cole got up, rolled up his bedding, and stepped outside—only to be hit by the biting cold. He had forgotten he'd taken off his coat the night before.

The one calling him was Virgil, a fellow brother of the Night's Watch. They were about the same age, though Virgil wasn't very tall—most of the stewards weren't. He had arrived last year, sentenced to the Wall for allegedly peeping on a noble lady while she bathed.

Though, according to him, he had only been imprisoned because he caught the lady and the stable boy in the act. His father had been a castle blacksmith, which had likely spared him from execution.

Virgil was Cole's cooking partner, though the stew he made had earned an unfortunate nickname among the black brothers—vegetable water.

"Cole, where's your coat? Why are you dressed so lightly?" Virgil asked with concern.

The discipline at Castle Black was strict, but in the Mole's Town taverns outside the Wall, some Night's Watch brothers desperate to gamble would pawn their coats for a few coins.

Only then did Cole realize he wasn't wearing his coat. Strangely, he didn't feel the cold at all.

He stepped back inside and grabbed his sheepskin coat. It had a strong, musky odor—no one at the Wall bothered washing their clothes. Everyone smelled the same, so no one complained.

Once dressed, he and Virgil made their way to the kitchen in the great hall. They were the first to arrive. The fires were still out, and a few Night's Watchmen coming off their shift were just returning from the Wall.

Cole struck a flint to light the fire, set a pot over it, and started chopping meat. There was no need for precision—just hack it into chunks and toss it in. Whoever managed to grab a piece while eating was lucky. He sprinkled in some salt, added wild greens and wheat grains for flavor, and finished with a handful of seasoning.

Once the soup was ready, he poured it into a bucket and repeated the process, cooking pot after pot until the bucket was full.

As he lifted the heavy bucket to carry it to the hall, Virgil stepped forward to help—only to freeze in shock. Cole had hoisted the entire thing with one hand and was already striding toward the hall.

The moment he set the bucket down, the off-duty Night's Watchmen rushed in. This was the first batch of soup—the one with the most meat.

They eagerly ladled out their portions, wolfing down rye bread and steaming broth, their faces full of satisfaction. After all, they had spent half the night standing guard in the freezing wind.

Just then, someone entered late from outside—it was Jon Snow. He hesitated for a moment before finally walking up to Cole and asking, "Is there any soup left?"

Cole looked at him. This was their first real interaction. With a helpless shrug, he said, "It's all gone. If you're willing to wait, you can have some from the next batch."

The next batch, however, was Virgil's infamous vegetable soup. They took turns cooking—while Cole served, Virgil handled the next pot. And unfortunately for Jon, Virgil's soup was notoriously bad.

Jon shook his head, then silently took a seat in the corner, eating his black bread alone.

He looked lonely. His stubborn expression made him seem out of place. With his gray eyes and serious demeanor, he looked like a child trying too hard to be an adult.

"Cole, give me a hand!" Virgil suddenly called out from the kitchen, struggling to carry a bucket.

Cole hurried over to help.

"Virgil, your soup is terrible, and you can't even carry a bucket. You might as well head to Mole's Town and sell hot air!" one of the black brothers jeered.

Laughter erupted throughout the hall, making Virgil's face turn red with embarrassment.

Cooking was one of the simplest tasks for a Night's Watchman, yet he still struggled with it. Cole had tried teaching him how to mix seasonings, but he never got it right—too much of one ingredient, too little of another. Sometimes, he even forgot to put meat in the soup.

Cole helped him for a while, but soon, he found himself falling behind on his own work.