Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

"I'm actually pretty good at blowing," Virgil muttered to Cole in the back kitchen. "My father used to praise me for it."

Cole gave him a nod of approval. No one was truly useless. Hardworking people deserved respect. He patted Virgil's shoulder and said, "They're just joking. Don't take it to heart."

Seeing that Cole didn't care about the teasing, Virgil smiled sheepishly. He valued Cole's opinion more than anyone else's. He was afraid that one day, Cole might distance himself because of what others said.

"By the way," Virgil said suddenly, as if remembering something. "I noticed your strength seems... different."

Cole was momentarily stunned. He clenched his fist and flexed his fingers. Now that he thought about it, something did feel off. He had been subconsciously thinking of himself as the person he used to be, ignoring the changes in his body.

Those heavy soup buckets he had carried earlier—normally, he and Virgil would have struggled with them together. But today, he had lifted them with ease.

Throughout the day, the Night's Watchmen came and went. The kitchen was always busy, and it wasn't until nightfall that things settled. Except for those on duty, the men gathered in the hall in small groups, chatting, boasting, and playing dominoes.

By noon, most of the Night's Watch had already eaten. Cole and Virgil sat down with their own meals—pork, wheat cakes, and broth. If the hunting party had brought back a good catch, they might have something extra, but today was not one of those days.

Cole also prepared Maester Aemon's porridge and took it to him. He didn't need to help with dinner—most of the brothers preferred cider with their evening meal.

Maester Aemon often joined them in the hall at night, though he ate very little. He mostly listened as the Night's Watchmen shared their stories. Life at the Wall wasn't entirely dull—when the candles were lit, there were songs, tales, and rumors from across the Seven Kingdoms.

Men from the South spoke of their lush fields, the traditions of knighthood, and noble ladies with exaggerated beauty.

The recruits from the Westerlands always had something to say about the Lannisters. It was rumored that Tywin Lannister's shit was made of gold. Of course, his son, the dwarf Tyrion, had once denied this—but even he had joked, "The bucket might be gold, though."

The hall erupted in laughter, and Tyrion merely raised his cup and shrugged.

After delivering Maester Aemon's meal, Cole wandered over to the training yard. Mornings were for drills, and even now, in the cold night, some men still trained. The ground was slick with frozen patches of water, turning the yard into a treacherous battlefield.

His gaze fell on Jon Snow, locked in a fight with two taller boys. Their wooden swords clashed against armor, ringing with sharp echoes. Though Jon was smaller, he fought fiercely, forcing his opponents to stagger back. They struck hard, showing no mercy.

One of the boys, Hood, landed a solid blow to Jon's ribs. Cole saw the pain flicker across Jon's face, but he clenched his jaw and pushed through, his expression hardening with renewed determination.

Hood and the other boy weren't faring as well. They took blow after blow from Jon, wincing under his relentless attacks. If their swords had been real, they would have been dead a dozen times over.

The younger recruits fought with raw aggression, but the older men sparred with more control. Someone in the yard spotted Cole and called out, "Oi, come down and give it a go!"

In the past, Cole would have refused. Stepping into the yard only meant giving the others another excuse to laugh at him.

But today, something felt different.

He descended the spiral steps. He knew how important martial skill was in this world. Even if he never dreamed of slaying dragons, he still had to learn how to survive in a land where dragons were real.

"Oh, look who's finally joining us," someone called, their tone playful rather than cruel.

This kind of banter was common among the Night's Watch. It wasn't meant to be mean-spirited—just a way to pass the time.

"Give me a sword," Cole said to the trainer.

Without hesitation, the man handed one over. Around him, a few others perked up, eager to see if this would turn into tonight's entertainment. They half-expected him to flail around like some fool from the Summer Isles.

Cole hefted the sword in his hands. It felt almost weightless—like it was made of wood instead of steel. He remembered how weak his grip had felt in the past, how heavy a blade used to be. But now, something had changed.

His body was different.

And tonight, he would put it to the test.

Here's your chapter rewritten in fluent and natural English while preserving the original tone, style, and atmosphere:

"Hey, little ranger, why don't you take a swing at the stake?" someone urged.

Cole nodded, stepped forward, and gripped the hilt of the sword tightly with both hands. He could feel the rough texture of the fur-wrapped grip beneath his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he swung with all his strength.

With a sharp crack, the wooden stake split clean in two.

The black-clad brothers of the Night's Watch widened their eyes in shock, looking more astonished than if they had seen a woman standing before them. For a moment, they wondered if the young man before them was still the same cook who made their meals.

"Seven hells… You think the White Walkers replaced him with one of their own?" someone muttered.

Cole stared at the shattered stake in disbelief. He hadn't realized he was this strong.

The Night's Watchman who had handed him the sword clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Didn't expect that from you," he said, his voice tinged with surprise.

Cole hesitated for a moment, feeling a bit embarrassed. Even he hadn't expected this outcome.

"You might want to join Ser Alliser and the others for training," the man added, nodding toward the recruits. "But first, you'll have to return my sword."

Cole quickly handed it back. "Thanks."

The man patted him on the chest and smirked. "No need to thank me, Night's Watchman. Just remember to save me an extra portion of broth next time."

As Cole walked toward the corner where Jon Snow and the other recruits were sparring, the Watchman who had lent him the sword sighed. "Well, that was entertaining while it lasted."

"You sly bastard," another brother said with a grin. "You only helped him because you wanted extra meat in your stew. Come on, I challenge you!"

"Ha! Don't be mad just because you were too slow to react," the man shot back. "I'll take you all on!"

The training yard erupted in playful insults and laughter, but Cole had already slipped away, making his way toward the recruits.

Jon Snow had been watching the scene unfold. He studied Cole's lanky frame, finding it hard to believe that someone who looked so unassuming could possess such strength. No wonder they call him 'little ranger,' Jon thought.

The word ranger made Jon think of his uncle, Benjen Stark—the First Ranger of the Night's Watch. But there had been no news of him for some time now. Some whispered that he was dead. The thought gnawed at Jon, filling him with unease.

Ser Alliser Thorne's familiar, mocking voice cut through his thoughts. "Little ranger, this is no place for a cook."

Cole met his gaze without flinching. "I want to train with them," he stated plainly.

Alliser sneered. "That's not for you to decide. You're not even a sworn brother of the Night's Watch yet. But tell you what—if you can best our dear Lord Snow here, I might just put in a word with the Lord Commander myself."

The way he said it was unmistakably taunting, a challenge wrapped in scorn.

Just like Cole had been dubbed 'little ranger,' Ser Alliser had mockingly given Jon the nickname 'Lord Snow,' a name Jon despised.

Without hesitation, Cole picked up a training sword. He was eager to test himself against someone who had been trained to fight. Holding the weapon at his side, he turned to Jon and bowed slightly.

"Please go easy on me, Jon Snow."

Alliser let out a derisive chuckle. "Ah, how polite. But out there on the battlefield, that courtesy will get your head lopped off. Maybe you can trade it for a cup of wine before you die."