The two figures parted ways, and Cole turned his attention to aiding the Duke of Winterfell.
"Ser, where are you from?" Stark regarded him for a long moment, trying to discern his origins. Was he of the First Men? A Rhoynar? Or one of the Andals?
His silver hair reminded him of Rhaegar—the man Robert had hated his entire life. Even though Robert had slain him with his own hands at the Trident, where the river ran red with rubies, that hatred had never faded.
Now, Robert was dead too, leaving behind a kingdom in turmoil—a kingdom he had helped ruin.
Varys had arranged for Arya to escape with him from the dungeons. Not long after setting sail, they were caught in a storm. The gods still favored them, however; though the storm forced them back to shore, they remained within the king's domain, wandering uncertainly.
"I was raised by the Night's Watch," Cole said, recalling the Wall, the old maester, and the boy named Samwell. "I knew your son, Jon Snow. We got along well during our time at the Wall. But I never took the oath—I simply wanted to see the South, so I left."
At the mention of Jon, Ned felt a pang of guilt. His son had never even glimpsed the South, yet he had been sent to the Wall, condemned to a life of ice and duty.
"Jon… is he well?" Ned asked.
Cole thought of the stubborn boy and couldn't help but smile. "At first, he struggled. He felt deceived—believing the Night's Watch to be a place of honor, only to find it filled with criminals. Murderers, thieves, rapists… The likes of Alliser Thorne made it even harder for him. He ended up on patrol duty every night. The cold on the Wall cuts like a blade."
He noticed how Ned's expression darkened with guilt.
"But I never saw him cry," Cole continued. "Men older than him did, but not Jon. He endured it all. He was the strongest of the recruits—those older than him were no match. Yet, he never struck without reason, nor was he needlessly harsh."
As they walked from the hall toward the courtyard, Cole added, "He now serves as Lord Commander Mormont's steward. Oh, we call him 'Old Bear.' The Lord Commander is training Jon for something greater—perhaps as his successor."
That, of course, had happened after Cole left. But he knew. He knew… Ah, damn that fool Patchface, leading him astray.
Ned suddenly stumbled, his balance failing. Cole caught him just in time, steadying him before he collapsed.
Ned hissed in pain, sweat beading on his brow. Cole knelt, preparing to ease him down.
"Father!"
A sharp voice rang out. Arya, now dressed in clean clothes, rushed toward them. "What did you do to my father?"
Like an angry little wolf, she shoved Cole, but he barely moved while she stumbled back. Furious, she drew her thin blade, Needle, from her waist.
Through gritted teeth, Ned rasped, "Arya, what are you doing? Put your sword away!"
"Little sister, I mean no harm," Cole said calmly. "Before you stab me with that embroidery needle, we should get your father to the maester."
"It's not an embroidery needle—it's Needle!" she shot back.
Cole only chuckled, gently lowering Ned to the ground. "Needle, is it? I once had a sword. I called it 'Winter's Night.' Sounds rather grand, don't you think?"
Arya wrinkled her nose. "That sounds terrible—not as good as Robb's 'Grey Wind.'"
Cole raised an eyebrow. "You do know Grey Wind is a wolf, don't you?"
"My name's not 'little sister.' It's Arya. Arya Stark."
"Alright, Arya," he said with a smile. "Then come help your father."
Turning back to Ned, Cole offered, "Lord Stark, if you can't walk, let me carry you. Think of me as Jon, if that makes it easier."
Sweating and in pain, Ned still mustered the strength to say, "I can walk."
"Let me fetch something to carry you on," Cole said, heading into the castle.
Arya knelt beside her father, helping him straighten his leg. This wasn't the first time it had happened. Unlike before—when she had felt helpless, shedding tears—she now knew how to care for him.
When his leg was positioned properly, some of the tension left his face.
"Father," Arya said hesitantly, "I heard him mention Jon… Is it our Jon?"
"Jon Snow," Cole answered, returning with a stretcher. "He was my closest brother at the Wall."
"Impossible!" she bristled, looking like a lion ready to pounce.
After securing Ned on the stretcher, they carried him to Maester Pylos. The young maester, though not old in years, carried himself with a grave seriousness.
"Ser Julius, Lord Stark," he greeted them politely.
"Maester, I need you to tend to my leg," Ned said.
"Of course, my lord. But first, I must remove these bindings."
As the maester examined the injury, Cole turned to Ned. "Take care of yourself, my lord. I'll take my leave."
The prognosis was grim. Ned's leg had been crushed and never properly treated. Now, the bones had set poorly, twisted in the wrong direction.
Pylos set Ned's leg in a plaster cast and gave him poppy milk to drink, instructing him to rest and warning him not to get out of bed.
Cole took a walk along the city walls. When he descended, he happened to spot Lord Velaryon. Cole considered greeting him, but the man merely glanced his way and walked on in silence.
Swallowing his words, Cole understood the situation well enough. It seemed that men like Davos were never truly accepted by the highborn. The nobility held little regard for those who rose from humble origins.
Davos had at least been granted a small keep and lands in Cape Wrath—more than he had ever expected. He remained Stannis's most loyal knight, seeing all he had gained as a gift from his lord. The Onion Knight never sought to mingle with the nobility of his time; instead, he placed his hopes in his son and future generations.
Cole pondered his own path. He had wandered aimlessly through Westeros, once entertaining thoughts of securing a noble title—perhaps even becoming a feared and cunning medieval lord. In the Riverlands, he had come close.
But fate had other plans. Just when he thought he was within reach of his goal, everything changed—like finally paying off one's debts only to have the body give out. A cruel irony.
Still, good and bad often came hand in hand. Though he had failed to join the ranks of the nobility, the gods had granted him a dragon in return.
If Westeros history was any guide, the next step would be securing a fief and a castle, followed by a carefully arranged marriage to a noblewoman of higher birth, ensuring his bloodline appeared more distinguished. His son would one day serve as a page in a noble household, climbing the social ladder, while his daughter… well, her path would be determined by ambition or shame.
The nobility of Westeros was bound by blood. Expanding one's power required marriage, not conquest. Even the Ironborn, who scorned the customs of the mainland, did not seize castles to rule—only to pillage gold and take captives.
Even Aegon the Conqueror, with his dragons, had to conform to Westeros traditions after unifying the Six Kingdoms. In the end, Dorne had not fallen to fire and steel, but to a marriage alliance.
Cole shook his head. Westeros remained a land of turmoil, and everything he had gained could be swept away in an instant.
A dragon—only his dragon was his true strength. If Westeros became unlivable, he could always fly across the Narrow Sea. As long as he had a dragon, survival was never out of reach.
But could Stannis win this war?
Cole knew what was coming—Renly would soon be assassinated by Melisandre's dark sorcery. Afterward, Stannis would gather his forces and march on King's Landing. But in the end, "the dwarf burned the torch, pitifully scorching the earth."
Yes, the Battle of the Blackwater would end in King's Landing's favor. Tyrion Lannister would play a crucial role, but the real turning point would be the arrival of Tywin Lannister's army, bolstered by the forces of Highgarden.
The road ahead was shrouded in uncertainty. Cole no longer dared to predict what would happen. History could shift in unexpected ways.
Stannis had always stood alone, driven by his rigid sense of justice. It was little wonder he would ultimately be defeated. Cole often wondered why such brilliant commanders failed so miserably when it came to politics.
House Tyrell had no choice but to align with the Lannisters. Stannis would never forgive them, unlike Robert, who had known when to be merciful.
In that light, Robert had been the smartest of them all. He was neither as naive as Renly, who treated war like a game, nor as inflexible as Stannis, who saw the world in stark shades of black and white.
Cole returned to his tower to find Camilo polishing the armor, his eyes gleaming with admiration.
"You don't have to do that every day," Cole remarked.
"Ser, if armor isn't maintained, it rusts," Camilo replied earnestly.
"It's beautiful," he added, running his fingers over the engravings on the breastplate. "Both strong and elegant—clearly the work of a master craftsman."
"Want to try it on?" Cole asked casually.
For a moment, excitement flashed across Camilo's face, but it was quickly replaced by fear. "No, my lord. This armor is far too fine for the likes of me."
"You have a fondness for armor?" Cole asked, hanging his sword on the wall. Noting how Camilo flinched at the sight of the blade, he mused, Seems like I scared the boy.
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