Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

The kitchen is a place that tests one's patience—especially a large kitchen responsible for feeding hundreds, where monotonous, assembly-line work is the daily routine.

Back on the Wall, Cole had been spared from the worst of it due to his previously weak body. His only task had been to prepare simple soups.

Now, however, he was assigned to chopping onions. Without gloves to protect his hands, he resorted to covering his face with a rag, though it only earned him the mockery of the other kitchen workers. They sneered, calling him as delicate as a noble lady.

Chef Gage was particularly displeased with him and had been making his life more difficult over the past few days.

The sharp sting of onions was relentless. Their juice burned his hands after prolonged contact, and the fumes made his eyes water constantly. It was no surprise this miserable task had been given to him.

Each day, onions arrived in the kitchen by the cartload.

As a kitchen servant in Winterfell, Cole no longer enjoyed the luxury of a private guest room. Instead, he shared cramped quarters with the other cooks, men of all ages and temperaments.

Every morning, he was jolted awake by Chef Gage's booming voice, thrust into another exhausting day. There were no rest days—only unending labor. And when Winterfell's lord hosted guests, the kitchen staff toiled late into the night.

The cooks were little more than laborers, relying on brute strength rather than skill. Only the head chef was truly considered a cook, responsible for preparing meals for the young lords and ladies of the castle.

Cole hefted a large crate of ingredients as he made his way across the castle's front yard. The first light of morning cut through the remnants of night like a sword, though the sky remained a murky gray. As he passed the training yard, his steps slowed at the sight of a man practicing with a sword.

He paused, watching the way the man moved, just as he had once observed the brothers of the Night's Watch training at Castle Black.

Sensing his gaze, the man turned. Ser Harras Moors recognized Cole immediately as the boy who had drawn steel in the great hall days before.

Dressed in tattered clothes, Cole clutched the heavy crate to his chest.

Ser Moors gave him a nod. Cole returned the gesture before turning away, heading back to the kitchen. Moors resumed his drills. His appointment as captain of the guard, following Jory Cassel's departure from Winterfell, had been well-earned through years of diligence.

"Early again, Ser Harras?" one of the guards called as others began to arrive.

"If I don't rise before you lot, how else am I supposed to keep you bastards in line?" Moors replied.

"Oh, come now, captain. You should've gone to King's Landing with the duke. He's always valued your discipline—might've even recommended you for the Kingsguard. You could be serving the fat king himself! Hah!"

"I'd have taken the chance just to see the brothels," another guard added. "They say there's an entire street of them, filled with women from all across the world. Even those strange bird-men from the Summer Isles."

"Enough talk of whores," Moors barked. "Get to training, all of you."

Meanwhile, Cole carried the crate into the kitchen's storeroom. The other kitchen workers moved about sluggishly, weighed down by their endless tasks. Chef Gage, in contrast, strode through the kitchen like a rooster surveying his domain, barking orders and berating anyone he deemed too slow.

The moment Cole emerged from the storeroom, Gage bore down on him, his voice sharp and cutting. "Gods be good, were you hiding in there to slack off? If you miss the Wall so much, I can send you back myself! Now get to work—cut all the onions. Every last one."

Cole lowered his gaze, his jaw tightening with suppressed anger. "Understood, Master Chef."

There was no point in arguing. The man simply didn't like him.

The others cast him amused glances, well aware that chopping onions was the worst duty in the kitchen. Somehow, Cole had earned Gage's ire, and now he was paying for it.

At first, the chef had largely ignored him. But then a certain someone had spoken to him—someone with enough influence to make Gage go out of his way to make Cole's life miserable.

Though that man was merely the duke's adopted son, Gage knew better than to cross him. Better to make life difficult for some orphan from the Night's Watch than risk angering a noble.

"If you don't finish cutting those onions, you won't be eating lunch," Gage called after him, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Cole glanced at the smirking faces around him and snapped, "You too!"

The kitchen erupted into frantic activity. No one wanted to risk missing a meal. The kitchen was one of the most desirable posts in the castle—most of the workers were there for the food more than anything else.

Cole looked down at his reddened hands. If this went on, he wouldn't just lose his grip on a sword—his hands might become useless altogether. He crushed a spoiled onion in his palm, its juice running between his fingers. He wanted to throw it all aside and walk away.

But he sighed, pushing the thought away. Perhaps it was just the chef who was making his life difficult. The Starks were an honorable family; they wouldn't go out of their way to torment him.

Still, it would be a lie to say he wasn't angry. He had come here with ambition, hoping to make something of himself. And yet, what was he doing now?

Someone must have noticed his distraction. A kitchen worker slunk over to Gage and whispered in his ear. Predictably, the short, stout chef stormed over, face flushed with anger. He swung his wooden ladle, striking Cole hard across the back.

"Slacking off again, are you?" Gage bellowed.

Pain seared across Cole's back, and he gritted his teeth. If he ever got the chance, he would make sure to return the favor.

He never forgot a debt—whether it was kindness or cruelty.

Silently, he resumed chopping onions.

Gage sneered and walked away, satisfied.

The worker who had tattled stood there, grinning smugly—until Gage turned and struck him too. "And you—why aren't you working? What are you scheming about?"

Winterfell's lord valued honor, and his servants followed his example. No one liked a snitch.

The informer dared not argue with the chef, but he shot Cole a venomous glare.

By nightfall, Cole was utterly exhausted. Even with his enhanced endurance, the relentless labor had drained him. He was nearly the last to leave. The onions served at the lord's table were devoured quickly—such food, known for driving away the cold, was highly prized in the North.

The task of several men had been forced upon him alone.

When he returned to his quarters, the room was filled with noise and laughter. Once meant for five, it was now crammed with far more. In the center of the commotion, a man swung a sword, tossing stolen scraps of meat and bone into the air and slicing at them clumsily. The other cooks roared with laughter.

"When I was a boy, a knight once praised my swordplay," the performer boasted. "If my father had let me become a squire, I'd be a knight of the Seven Kingdoms by now."

"You?" someone scoffed. "Your swordplay looks like a jester's dance. You'd be better off entertaining the king—or becoming a eunuch!"

Laughter filled the room again.

But as Cole entered, his face dark, the laughter died away.