Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

Jon Snow hesitated as he looked at the boy holding the sword. But after a moment, he raised his own.

Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms of Winterfell, had once told him, "If someone salutes you before a fight, refusing to engage is an act of cowardice."

Jon knew the boy before him wasn't a knight, and his salute wasn't entirely proper. But here, in front of the other recruits, he couldn't afford to show weakness. He needed to prove himself—a strong fighter, a worthy ranger.

So, with a solemn nod, Jon returned the salute.

The other recruits quickly cleared a space around them, forming a loose circle to watch the duel.

Cole studied Jon quietly, hoping to learn from him. Jon moved deliberately, his sword steady, his sharp gaze fixed on Cole's every movement.

For a while, neither made a move. They stood locked in a silent standoff. When it became clear that Cole wouldn't strike first, Jon took the initiative.

He feinted, testing for weaknesses. Cole had grown up at the Wall—there were rumors about that. If they were true, he should have some skill in combat.

Jon was confident. Among his peers, he was one of the best. The only one who had ever beaten him was Robb. And after arriving at Castle Black, he had only become more certain of his superiority. These so-called recruits—thieves, bastards, and outcasts—were hardly worthy opponents.

When Cole saw Jon's blade coming toward him, he instinctively swung his own in defense. He thought sheer strength would carry him through.

But before their swords even met, Jon suddenly shifted his attack. His blade veered downward, striking toward Cole's ankle.

Damn.

Cole realized his mistake too late. He had no armor, and even with a blunted practice sword, the blow would hurt like hell. He had been careless.

Jon's sword was just inches from his ribs when something strange happened.

Everything around him seemed to slow down. The sword, the movement of the air—it was as if time itself had stretched. The blade inched forward, frozen in Cole's vision, moving at a fraction of its normal speed.

In that moment, he understood.

So this is my advantage as a traveler between worlds.

It wasn't overpowering, not in a world filled with monsters, magic, and the walking dead, but it was something.

Cole forced his body to move, dodging the blow just in time. The moment he shifted his gaze, the slowed world snapped back to normal, and his eyes burned with an aching fatigue—like staring at a screen for too long.

Jon recoiled in surprise.

He dodged it?

Jon had fought many of the recruits at Castle Black, and none of them had ever slipped away from his attack like that. Cole was different. His stance was flawed, full of openings, yet somehow, he had effortlessly avoided the strike.

Jon's missed attack left a brief opening. If Cole had been a skilled swordsman, he could have taken advantage of it and struck back immediately. But Cole was no seasoned fighter. Instead, he jumped backward, visibly shaken, sweat beading on his forehead.

Jon quickly reset his stance, raising his sword in defense. He cursed himself for being too reckless. If Cole wasn't an ordinary recruit, then he needed to take this fight more seriously.

But Cole wasn't attacking.

He stood there, sword resting on his shoulder, looking almost… relaxed.

Jon had seen that look before—on Ser Rodrik's face. A quiet confidence, the kind that came from knowing exactly what you were capable of.

Is he actually stronger than me? Jon wondered, gripping his sword tighter.

Determined, he adjusted his stance, recalling the lessons Ser Rodrik had drilled into him. His movements became measured, deliberate—flowing like water, yet precise in their execution.

Even Ser Alliser, who rarely had anything good to say about Jon, had begrudgingly admitted that the Stark bastard was a skilled fighter.

Across from him, however, Cole didn't move. He simply stood there, waiting.

It annoyed him. But Jon had no time for frustration—he needed to focus.

Then, Cole suddenly attacked.

He swung with raw, unrestrained power—like a hurricane tearing through the training yard. His attack was wild, unrefined. Anyone watching could see where his blade was headed.

But knowing where the strike would land did nothing to ease the terror Jon felt.

The sheer force behind the blow sent a chill through him.

Jon barely managed to lift his sword in time to block. The impact sent a jolt of pain up his arm, numbing his fingers. His wrist twisted painfully, nearly dislocating from the sheer force.

What kind of monster is he?! Jon cursed silently, gritting his teeth.

But Cole wasn't unscathed either. The force of his own strike had rebounded, sending pain lancing through his wrist. He winced, pulling back, shaking out his right hand. Damn it, that hurt.

With a sigh, he switched his sword to his left hand.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

Seeing Cole switch his sword to his left hand, Jon Snow felt his heart sink.

Seven Hells… he's ambidextrous.

Jon was already struggling against Cole's strength. If the boy could fight equally well with both hands, then this duel was pointless. Damn it, I'm not doing this.

But walking away wasn't an option.

Jon was a Stark, even if he was a bastard. He had the North in his blood—stubborn and unyielding. He would never admit defeat, no matter the odds. He would rather stand his ground and fight, even if it meant losing.

Gritting his teeth, Jon forced himself to ignore the pain in his right wrist. His dislocated hand trembled at his side, but he refused to acknowledge it.

Ser Alliser Thorne, ever watchful, smirked from the sidelines. He had seen Jon's injury, the way his hand shook. Just a boy who doesn't know how to control his strength, blinded by foolish arrogance, Alliser thought with disdain.

Still, Jon refused to give up.

If Cole could fight with his left hand, then so could he. He adjusted his grip, trying to wield the sword with his weaker hand. But it felt awkward, unnatural—his swings were slow and uncoordinated.

Cole wasn't faring much better. His strikes had lost their power, and the fight had devolved into something clumsy, almost childish.

Jon glanced at him in confusion—why was Cole holding back?

Then, he saw it. The slight curve of Cole's lips.

He was going easy on him.

Jon clenched his jaw, both grateful and frustrated.

It wasn't that he wanted an unfair advantage, but something about Cole's gesture reminded him of Robb. If their positions had been reversed, Robb would have used the opportunity to humiliate him—not out of cruelty, but out of brotherly teasing.

Cole, on the other hand, had chosen mercy.

Jon exhaled slowly.

Maybe… maybe losing to someone like this isn't so bad.

But before he could say anything, Cole spoke first.

"Ser Alliser, I don't think I'm a match for Jon Snow. Maybe you should find someone else. As for the training, I'd rather not waste your time."

Jon's eyes widened slightly.

Even with Jon using his left hand, Cole was still struggling. The fight had made it painfully clear—Cole was no warrior. At least, not yet.

Cole turned to leave, but not before glancing at Jon one last time.

"You're a strong fighter, Jon Snow," he said simply.

Jon hesitated, then nodded. "You too, Cole."

Cole studied Jon for a moment. So, he's not as arrogant as the stories say. The bastard of Winterfell, the so-called 'Lord Snow'—he wasn't blinded by pride. Even when facing someone weaker, he remained humble.

He really is the protagonist of this world.

Cole sighed as he walked away, climbing the spiral staircase with slow, measured steps.

It was a lie to say he didn't want to stand above others. No matter what world you lived in, power and status were always desirable. Isn't the so-called 'game of thrones' just a battle for these same things?

This world was cruel and chaotic. Human life was cheap. But where there was chaos, there was opportunity. Those who seized it could rise to the top.

As he reached the upper level, a voice called out from behind a wooden stake.

"Not bad, little cook."

Cole turned, startled, to see a short man stepping forward, a wine skin in one hand.

Tyrion Lannister..