Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

"My lord, you should really take a look in the kitchen. That new guy—he's nothing but a lazy slacker. Stays up all night."

Gage, the castle cook, placed the dinner tray on the study table, grumbling as Robb Stark worked through the affairs of the North.

Before he could continue, a guard pushed open the door. "My lord, there's been an incident."

Gage immediately fell silent.

Robb waved for him to leave, but the guard spoke first. "Someone's causing trouble in the castle. Ser Moran has already gone to handle it and sent me to inform you."

A disturbance? Robb's expression darkened. The past few weeks had been filled with turmoil—Bran's fall, his father's departure for the South, his mother's attack. And now, someone dared to stir up trouble inside Winterfell itself? This was a direct challenge to House Stark's authority.

"Summon all the guards." Robb grabbed his sword from the wall and strode out the door.

Ser Harris Moran had already arrived at the servants' quarters with a dozen guards. A crowd had gathered outside one of the rooms, peering inside, their faces uneasy. Every now and then, someone flinched away in fear.

The guards forced their way through, clearing a path.

Inside, seven or eight men lay sprawled across the floor, groaning in pain. Blood spattered the wooden planks in places.

At the far end of the room, a young man sat calmly, wiping down his sword with a cloth. His frame was lean rather than bulky, but there was an unmistakable sharpness about him. His deep blue-violet eyes gleamed coldly, and the blade in his hands caught the dim light, flashing with menace.

One of the men on the floor suddenly scrambled forward and clutched at Moran's leg. "Ser Moran, you must deliver justice for us!" he wailed.

The young man continued tending to his sword as if no one else existed.

Moran recognized him immediately. They had only met that morning. Kicking the man's grip off his boot, Moran frowned. "What happened here?"

Before an answer could come, another group entered the room. The gathered onlookers hastily bowed and greeted them.

Robb Stark stepped inside, his expression severe. At his side, Theon Greyjoy smirked, his usual air of amusement unchanged.

Moran straightened. "My lord," he greeted.

"What's going on, Harris?" Robb asked.

Theon surveyed the scene, his grin widening. "Looks like a tavern brawl. Drunken fools sorting out their problems with fists."

Moran glanced again at the young man. He didn't look drunk. In fact, he sat there like a statue, utterly composed. Still, the knight muttered, "Maybe the cooks had too much ale."

The man who had clung to Moran now crawled toward Robb but stopped short of touching him, dropping his head instead. His swollen face was streaked with tears and snot, a pitiful sight—but no one in the room laughed.

"It's him," the man stammered, jerking a shaking finger toward Cole. "That new bastard—he tried to kill us! Horn only made a joke, and he lost it!"

All eyes turned to Cole.

Moran sighed inwardly. A knight in the castle's kitchens—what did they expect? Trouble was inevitable.

Eagles do not mix with sparrows.

This was the same boy who had drawn his sword without hesitation that morning in the great hall, right under the watch of Winterfell's finest. He was no ordinary servant.

The groans of the fallen men filled the room. Some were unconscious, others clutched bruised ribs and swollen faces, grumbling about Cole's brutality.

Robb's gaze swept over the injured men. None were warriors, but even so, for a single person to take them all down… it wasn't a simple feat.

And what's more—there were no cuts.

Cole hadn't even needed to use his blade.

As if confirming Robb's thoughts, Cole slid the cloth down the length of his sword. The fabric split cleanly in two. He sheathed his weapon and stood.

At that simple motion, the beaten men flinched, bodies instinctively recoiling.

The memory of being struck—of the weight behind those blows—was still fresh in their minds.

Cole had barely moved before, but Horn, the fool, had pushed too far. The boy had picked up a sword to mock him, even swinging it in jest.

One punch was all it took.

They had meant to teach the newcomer his place. Instead, they had provoked a beast.

His fists were like hammers.

Theon, still grinning, eyed the sword at Cole's waist.

"Lord Stark," he said, turning back to Robb, "someone is causing trouble in your castle. That's an insult to your house's honor."

"Seize him." Robb's voice was cold and unwavering. Theon was right—regardless of the circumstances, he had to uphold the authority of Winterfell.

At his command, the guards drew their swords and stepped forward.

Cole did not resist. He simply stood there, his gaze icy and unwavering. When one of the guards reached for his sword, however, Cole grabbed the man's wrist, stopping him in place.

"I don't believe Winterfell is a place without reason," he said, locking eyes with Robb.

Theon scoffed, his tone laced with mockery. "Winterfell is also not a place where a cook can do as he pleases. If you agree, Stark, I can handle this for you."

Ser Moran frowned at the suggestion. "My lord, brawling is not a crime punishable by death."

Robb gave a curt nod, then issued his judgment. "Take them all to the Great Hall."

"It's a trivial matter," Theon said with a smirk. "Hardly worth a trial."

"Shut up, Theon," Robb snapped. "House Stark ensures justice for all under its rule."

The Great Hall was illuminated by flickering candlelight, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Robb Stark sat in the seat of the Warden of the North, clad in gray-black leather beneath a layer of plate armor.

The direwolf sigil of House Stark clasped his thick bearskin cloak, and his red hair burned like embers in the dim light. He sat tall, his expression as cold as the winter winds.

Maester Luwin stepped forward, his voice steady and measured.

"Sitting before you is Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, future Warden of the North, and the supreme ruler of these lands. Speak truthfully, and House Stark will ensure justice."

Some of the men who had been unconscious earlier were now awake, still dazed from the events that had unfolded.

"Lord Stark," Horn, one of the instigators, began, pointing at Cole. "That man drew his sword on us. We only exchanged a few words, but he tried to kill us!"

"That's right, my lord," another chimed in. "We were just joking around, and he stormed in, attacking without reason. He was ruthless!"

"Kill him!"

"Send him to the Night's Watch!"

The hall erupted with voices, all condemning Cole. Despite the outcry, his face remained impassive, as still and deep as a frozen lake.

"Silence," Moran barked. "Lord Stark will pass judgment."

Robb turned to Cole. "You may speak in your defense."

Cole nodded. His voice was calm when he answered, "Yes, I struck first."

A murmur rippled through the hall.

Cole continued, unshaken. "You stole from me and insulted my ancestors. As a warrior, I have the right to challenge you to a duel."

The hall fell silent for a moment before laughter broke out.

"A warrior?" one man sneered. "You don't even have a surname. Who are your ancestors?"

Theon smirked but held back the words on the tip of his tongue. Maybe he's some cousin's bastard. He should ask his cousin's mother if she was ever favored by a lord—maybe he can share a name with Jon.

Cole's sharp gaze flicked to Theon. He frowned slightly. He had no quarrel with the Stark family's ward—they had barely exchanged words before tonight. Yet, for some reason, Theon had chosen to take sides against him.