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The light and rhythm of the evening sky draped over the mountains and sea like a bride's veil. Ah, but brides in Westeros do not wear red veils. He only remembered such things when he was alone—after all, he was a traveler from another world. That memory was from sixteen or seventeen years ago.
From atop the rocky cliff, he watched as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon, casting a golden glow over the waves.
He missed that world—not because it was extraordinary, but because it was simple and familiar. Compared to this place, it had been unremarkable, yet here… here felt like a dream, almost like heaven.
"Lord Cole, you are incredible!"
At some point, a plump young man had appeared behind him, approaching with admiration in his eyes.
The sunset reflected off Cole's tall figure, clad in white armor, his silver hair gleaming in the light. To the boy, he must have seemed almost godlike.
If Cole were to see his own reflection in a river, he would barely recognize himself. He hadn't looked into a mirror for a long time.
Once burned bald, his hair had now grown to his ears. His once-thin frame had become strong and sturdy.
Yet his face still carried an easy elegance, and his eyes held a quiet melancholy. With a harp in hand, he might have made a fine minstrel, beloved by noble ladies.
"Sir Duran," he greeted. Though his title was Earl, "Sir" was an honorific in Westeros, much like "Mister" in another world. However, "Sir" was reserved only for knights and nobles.
Knights, like minor lords, held the lowest rank of nobility in the feudal order. It was similar to how, in the Spring and Autumn Period of his homeland, great men called themselves "scholars" in pursuit of wisdom.
Here, they pursued the chivalric code. Different paths, yet in some ways, the same destination. If there were no men of order, perhaps his homeland would have been just as chaotic as Westeros.
But history does not entertain "what ifs." It is only in stories and legends that such thoughts take form.
Westeros was a land shaped by war, much like the West of his old world. The Andal invasion was akin to the Crusades. Aegon the Conqueror's campaign united the Seven Kingdoms, though he could not compare to the legendary figures of his own past. Still, one could study the exploits of William the Conqueror and find similarities.
To Duran Bar Aemon, Cole seemed no different from those great figures who had carved their names into history.
But such views came from the eyes of a starry-eyed admirer. In truth, those who left their mark on history were either heroes or men of ambition.
Cole was neither. He was merely a man who had won a few battles with the help of external forces. And the more accustomed he became to the battlefield, the more he despised war. Victory came at the cost of countless lives. The cries of the dying in the flames still echoed in his mind.
His white armor had long been stained with blood. Water could wash away the stains from his clothing, but not from his soul.
"My lord, how did you do it?"
Duran's eyes sparkled with admiration. He had heard the stories from knights who had witnessed Cole's feats firsthand.
It was the romantic fascination of a young noble untainted by the realities of war. Perhaps, in a few years, he would no longer look at Cole with such reverence. Perhaps he would even come to despise him.
"What do you mean?" Cole asked.
"Defeating tens of thousands with only a thousand men! You are like a warrior sent by the gods, my lord.
I always thought epic tales were exaggerated, but you... you have proven them true!" Duran was nearly trembling with excitement. To him, Cole was the embodiment of the Warrior among the Seven Gods.
"Is that what they told you?"
Duran nodded eagerly, then asked with childlike enthusiasm, "Sir, can you teach me? The knights in the castle only train me in swordplay and riding. The maester only teaches me the sigils of noble houses. But I want to learn from you!"
Cole chuckled and shook his head. Teach others? He barely understood his own circumstances. What could he possibly teach?
"Sir Duran, there is nothing I can teach you. Many things in this world are dictated by cause and effect. I merely did what needed to be done."
"Just as His Majesty Stannis was destined to win this battle, with or without my presence."
"When I arrived, my knights warned me to prepare to surrender to Renly," Duran muttered. "But I knew where my family's loyalty lay. Now, they say that because of you, His Majesty will surely win. Some even whisper that the king will wed Princess Shireen to you, just like in the old songs of gallant knights and fair maidens."
This little fat earl seemed far too naïve—but then again, thinking of Sansa, it was understandable. Not every noble could raise their heir to be a young wolf. Even the son of the mighty King Robert Baratheon had been raised into a disaster.
"The marriages of nobles are not as romantic as the stories make them seem, my lord," Cole remarked.
"Who a princess weds is decided by the king. But you must consider what stands behind the princess, my lord earl," he added as a subtle warning. Even if he didn't say it, someone would eventually explain it to the boy. If Stannis took the throne, the Bal Amon family would be more than happy to have their lord flatter the princess.
"I know, I know. It's a political marriage, just as the maester said," Duran replied, nodding quickly. "They don't approve of me marrying Lali because she's a fisherman's daughter. But I've secretly placed her in a manor outside the castle."
Cole studied the plump young face before him. Forget it—this was a different world. There were no laws to protect minors here.
"I'll keep your secret, my lord earl," Cole said simply. Then, sniffing the air, he added, "I smell food. Dinner must be ready. We should return."
He stepped ahead, making his way toward the stronghold. Duran followed closely behind.
As they walked through the camp, men saluted and greeted them with respect.
When they arrived, a knight named Camillo approached, holding a rolled parchment.
"My lord, a letter has arrived from Storm's End. It bears the king's seal," Camillo reported.
Cole took the letter, his gaze falling on the wax seal—a crowned stag.
Ser Cole Julius, I have received your message.—The sealed words of Stannis I of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
The letter was filled with the king's praises.
"My lord, the messenger wishes to see you," Camillo said as Cole read.
Cole nodded. It seemed the king had more to say beyond what was written.
A moment later, the messenger arrived. He was a thin man with brown hair and brown eyes, a thick gray beard covering his jaw. He wore an old brown leather vest, a faded gray-green cloak draped over his shoulders, and frayed gloves. A simple longsword hung at his waist.
"Ser Julius," the man greeted first.
"Forgive me, sergeant," Cole replied. "I know little of the knights of Dragonstone."
It wasn't surprising. Cole had a sharp memory, yet he didn't recall ever seeing this man among Stannis's followers.
"My lord, I am Davos Seaworth. You may call me by my first name."
"Ah!" Cole's eyes widened in realization. "You're the Onion Knight."
Davos gave a small smile.
"My apologies, ser. Forgive my poor eyesight—I didn't recognize your family crest."