Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

Cole, my brother woke up! Bran survived!"

Jon Snow hurried down from the King's Tower, his excitement barely contained.

Cole was making his way toward the hall, his sword slung across his back, when he spotted Jon approaching, full of energy and questions.

Jon thrust a letter toward him. "Look! The gods have brought him back to life."

This was the first good news Jon had received in days.

"That's truly great news."

Together, they entered the hall. Tyrion Lannister sat at the table, casually enjoying his meal. Jon dashed up to him like the wind. "He survived! Gods be good, he survived!"

Tyrion raised an eyebrow and greeted him, his expression half amused, half curious. Then he turned to Cole, as if to ask what had gotten into the boy.

Jon shoved the letter into Tyrion's hands. "Here, read it."

A few others in the hall gathered around, drawn by the commotion.

Among them was Grenn, standing at a distance, looking nervous and uneasy. His nickname might have been "Lazy Toad," but at that moment, he appeared anything but sluggish.

His injury had come from Jon Snow. Thinking back to what Ser Donal had told him and the good news about Bran, Grenn felt the weight in his heart lighten. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he had been too harsh. Cole was strong, no doubt, but he never struck with real malice.

Jon walked over. "I'm sorry about your wrist. If you'd like, I can teach you how to counter that move another day."

Grenn blinked in surprise. He had never expected this proud bastard from a noble house to offer an apology. There was no deep grudge between them, after all. He scratched his head with his uninjured hand and gave a sheepish grin. "I was being stupid. But damn, it still hurts."

Hearing Jon offer to teach others how to fight, Ser Alliser Thorne sneered and made a biting remark.

But Jon, in his good mood, didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he shot back a joke of his own. Laughter rippled through the room—except for Ser Alliser, whose expression remained sour. A shadow passed through his eyes, dark and brooding.

Cole took note. It was clear that Ser Alliser bore a deep resentment, and he wouldn't let this go easily.

As expected, over the following days, Alliser made Jon's life miserable. He forced him to spar against multiple opponents at once during morning drills and assigned him extra night watch duties. Sometimes, out of friendship, Cole accompanied Jon on his patrols along the Wall.

Cole, however, had his own plans. He knew his time at Castle Black was coming to an end. Beyond his training, he spent his remaining days preparing supply packs.

On the eve of his departure, Tyrion found him. They would be heading south at dawn.

Cole tracked down Hobb with a large bundle of supplies. The cook was crouched by the firepit, stirring a pot.

"Hobb," Cole called softly, setting down the bundle. "These are the ingredient packs I put together for you. Just add a little when you make soup. And don't forget the meat, or they'll complain it's just 'dishwater' again."

Hobb pulled out one of the packets, inspecting it with a heavy sigh. "So, you're leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

Hobb exhaled, looking downcast. "I wish I could go with you. Even as your squire."

Cole chuckled and shook his head. "I'm no knight, Hobb. I don't need a squire. If anything, I might end up serving one."

"You're smart. You'll be a knight someday, I'm sure of it."

"I hope so." Cole smiled before growing serious. "Remember what I told you—don't try to be a hero. If danger comes, run."

Hobb nodded. "I will. But… do you really think the White Walkers will come? Why not warn the Lord Commander and the Maester?"

"Even if they believe me, what difference would it make? Do you think the Old Bear doesn't know? He's heard the reports."

Cole's voice grew somber. "It wouldn't matter. The Wall barely has enough men to hold it, and even fewer who can truly fight. When the White Walkers come, this Wall is all we have."

After parting ways with Hobb, Cole sought out Maester Aemon. The old man sat in his tower, motionless but aware.

As Cole approached, the Maester spoke before he even announced himself. "Little Cole, you've come."

Cole smiled and squatted down beside him. "Grandfather Aemon."

The night was dark beyond the window, and the Wall stood silent, waiting for what was to come.

Eamonn stretched out his dry hands and gently touched Cole's face. "You've grown up, little Cole. Finally, you've grown up."

"Grandpa Aemon, I'm leaving with Tyrion Lannister and the others tomorrow."

"Young dragons must one day take flight. There's no need to cling to the past."

He retrieved a letter from his robes and handed it to Cole. "If you tire of the conflicts of the world, go to Oldtown. This is my gift to you."

It was a letter of introduction, though it bore no seal from the Night's Watch.

"Grandpa Aemon, this—"

"Go, child. And don't forget to read. Armor protects the body, but books protect the mind."

Cole pressed the envelope to his chest and knelt before Aemon. He knew the old man couldn't see him, but the gesture was one of sincere gratitude.

That night, a brother of the Night's Watch brought him the gear promised by Lord Commander Mormont—a set of gray leather armor, an iron sword, wrist guards, and leggings.

The next morning, the courtyard buzzed with activity. The three Night's Watch brothers, Tyrion, and his two attendants made their final preparations. Though they traveled light, the journey ahead required careful planning.

After leaving Mole's Town, they would follow the road for a few days before entering no man's land. There would be no signs of civilization until they neared the Wolfswood.

As Cole descended from the tower, Tyrion quipped, "You look good, young man. The ladies of the south are quite fond of a slender waist."

"Tyrion, you're up early."

"It's hard to sleep in this cursed place. Even with a fire, you're afraid your bits might freeze off."

Cole smirked. "Your jokes are truly wicked."

"That's because you're still an innocent whelp. When you finally taste the sweetness of a soft, fair-skinned maiden, you won't find my words so shocking. Heh. When we reach Winterfell, I'll introduce you to some fiery northern girls."

This little dwarf was quite the libertine. He spoke of women more freely than even the most brazen hedge knights. Start a conversation about girls with him, and he could spin tales from Dorne to the North, detailing the charms of each region's women with remarkable precision.

In this age, where kings themselves indulged in brothels, such places were perfectly legal—one of the many sins of the medieval world.

Jon Snow and Hobb joined them. Cole had borrowed some of Tyrion's wine to bribe Master Donal, the blacksmith. Besides cooking, Hobb had started assisting the forge, picking up some valuable skills that might serve him well in the future.

Their supplies were packed quickly. Jon handed Cole a letter addressed to Robb Stark. He had considered sending a verbal message but decided that a written letter would carry more weight.

He whispered, "Robb will surely let you stay. Please… go see Bran for me."

Cole tucked the letter into his pack. His belongings were few—a small bag was all he needed. Fourteen years at the Wall had left him with little of real value. His quarters would now belong to Jon, who oddly preferred living in that cold, abandoned tower. How he managed to endure it, Cole couldn't fathom.

"Don't worry," Cole assured him. "I'll carry your thoughts back to Winterfell."

The seven riders departed, their figures shrinking into the horizon. From the top of Castle Black, they became nothing more than dark specks against the snow.

Maester Aemon and Lord Commander Mormont stood together, watching them disappear into the distance.

"The boy has changed a great deal. I would have liked him to stay," Aemon murmured.

Mormont exhaled heavily. "He should see the world beyond the Wall. We are old men, but he is still young."

The Old Bear sighed. The Night's Watch was in a dire state. The Wall, once a bastion of honor, had become a refuge for the desperate, the criminals, and the broken.

"Perhaps you're right," Mormont admitted. "This is no longer the proud order it once was. Now it's filled with disheartened boys and weary old men. There's little left worth staying for."

Maester Aemon's voice was grave. "The Long Night is coming."