Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

He had a disproportionately large head, one eye slightly larger than the other, and compact facial features. His golden hair marked him unmistakably as a Lannister.

He wore a black bear fur cloak, which clashed somewhat with the dark red leather doublet underneath, adorned with golden lion buttons and intricate embroidery. He looked, as some had said, like a monkey wearing a crown.

Tyrion Lannister, known as the "Imp," lacked the typical nobleman's bearing. At the very least, he was capable of conversing with a group of horse thieves and rapists without condescension.

Cole studied him carefully. If there was anyone in this world he admired, this little dwarf was one of them. Tyrion had inherited the sharp mind of House Lannister, though his father, Lord Tywin, chose to ignore it.

In a world as dangerous as this, only the clever tended to survive the longest.

"What? Do you want to challenge me? Then you've picked the perfect opponent," Tyrion quipped, noticing Cole's stare.

"I wouldn't dare lay a hand on a Lannister. I've heard your house's motto—'A Lannister always pays his debts.'"

Tyrion shrugged. "If I died in a duel, Casterly Rock might throw a feast. And my father would likely petition the king to knight you for granting his least-favored son an honorable death." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Clearly, there was no love lost between father and son.

"Care for a drink?" Tyrion offered his wineskin. He never went anywhere without wine, nor was he ever stingy about sharing it.

Cole accepted without hesitation. The wine was "Summer Red," brought from the south. Here, beyond the Wall, where cider and weak ale were the only options, such a vintage was a rare treasure.

He took a sip. It was rich and slightly sweet, a taste that could only come from the warm southern lands or Dorne.

It was more like juice than wine, with a low alcohol content. No wonder Tyrion enjoyed it so much.

"When are you leaving?" Cole asked, squatting beside the ladder.

"I might stay a few more days. Old Mormont tells me you want to be a knight." Tyrion patted Cole's chest, his hand meeting stiff bronze armor. "But I think you'd make a better cook."

"I hear you're not a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. Perhaps you'd consider coming south with me. Whether as a knight or a cook, it's bound to be better than this frozen wasteland, where even taking a piss is a battle." Tyrion smirked.

Though Cole's cooking was undeniably good, Tyrion—accustomed to the finest delicacies—wasn't offering for that reason. He was merely fulfilling the request of an old man.

Go south? Cole had considered it. The Wall was a dangerous place. While most dismissed the White Walkers as myths, he knew better. Sooner or later, they would come, and when they did, it would be on the back of a dragon. Only a fool would want to stay here. And yet, there were things he couldn't leave behind.

Cole was fourteen, and Maester Aemon was over a hundred. The old man's days were numbered. He was the only family Cole had in this world. Though Cole feared death, he wasn't ungrateful. He couldn't repay the maester's kindness, but at the very least, he could care for him in his final days.

Duty and loyalty ran deep in his blood.

"Perhaps one day I'll go south, but not yet."

Tyrion, seeing Cole's firm refusal, did not press the matter. He knew how to read a man's mood. When someone refused decisively, further persuasion was pointless and could even breed resentment.

"So, you don't intend to join the Night's Watch?" Tyrion asked.

Cole shook his head. "This place isn't my home."

"I think you're doing quite well here. Look at Stark's bastard—oh, that boy is just as stubborn as his father."

"Honorable and brave. He's a fine warrior. I imagine the Night's Watch, with their sense of honor, will accept him." Cole turned his gaze toward the training yard.

"You think highly of him. Should I tell him, 'There's a cook who likes you very much—maybe you won't be lonely at the Wall'?" Tyrion laughed, clearly pleased with his own joke. What a wretched little imp. But his amusement was short-lived—his eyes widened suddenly, and he shouted, "Damn it, leave me a mouthful!"

He snatched the wineskin and clutched it protectively as if it were some priceless treasure. Well, in truth, it was. There was still plenty of wine left, but Cole had deliberately blocked the opening just to startle him before taking another swig.

"If you joke like that with Jon Snow, aren't you afraid his wolf will bite your head off?"

At the mention of the direwolf, Tyrion instinctively shrank back. He still remembered how close he'd come to being mauled on the journey to the Wall.

"I trust the bastard to keep his wolf in check. In fact, I'm more curious about something else—how do you do it?"

"Do what?" Cole frowned in confusion.

"Like today. When I first saw you, you seemed frail. But now, it's as if you're a different person. You don't have a twin brother hiding somewhere, do you?"

"You think too much, Lannister."

They continued chatting for a while until Cole glanced at the sun. It was time to prepare food for Maester Aemon. The old man usually dined in the hall with the other Night's Watchmen. Tyrion followed Cole to the kitchen, where he discreetly sampled the food while carrying on with his endless chatter.

By the time Cole brought the oatmeal to the hall, the place was crowded with men drinking, laughing, and raising toasts. Lord Commander Mormont sat at the high table, flanked by Maester Aemon and Bowen Marsh, with Ser Alliser and other senior Watchmen nearby.

Cole placed the porridge in front of Maester Aemon and took his usual seat. Naturally, Tyrion sat at the high table—his status as the Queen's brother still commanded respect, even among the Night's Watch.

Jon Snow sat alone in the corner, as he always did these days. No one spoke to him; he seemed isolated. But this didn't bother Cole. He picked up his food and walked straight over.

"Hey, mind if I sit here?" Cole asked.

Jon, who had been eating in silence, looked up in surprise. Seeing that it was the same boy who had sparred with him earlier, he hesitated for a moment before nodding.

"This is roasted rabbit. Want to try some? Virgie traded it for me, and he gave me extra." Cole pushed the plate toward him.

Jon hesitated before taking a piece. He looked up to find Cole grinning.

How could a fourteen-year-old be so shrewd? In truth, Cole wanted to fit in, but his upbringing had made it difficult.

"You actually won today," Jon suddenly said.