Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

"What would my father do if he were here?" Robb Stark thought as he gazed at the people in the hall, their voices overlapping as they discussed various matters.

Theon's words were sharp as blades, his hostility toward the northerner evident. The gathered onlookers—mostly castle servants—egged him on, calling for Cole to be put on trial.

The boy, no older than Robb himself, possessed a quiet strength. Though faced with scorn and accusation, he remained remarkably composed. He offered the occasional rebuttal, but his voice was weak against the tide of condemnation.

Under the flickering candlelight, faces flushed with anger, the hall filled with shouts, jeers, and boos.

The commotion roused little Bran from his sleep. Hodor carried him on his back, stepping into the hall just as Bran groggily rubbed his eyes.

"What's happening?" Bran asked his brother.

Robb forced a smile, trying to appear at ease. "It's nothing, Bran. Just a small matter."

In truth, he was weary of such burdens. Being lord was far more exhausting than he had imagined.

Bran glanced around, his confusion growing. This didn't seem like a small matter at all.

"Come sit with me, young master Bran," Maester Luwin called gently, beckoning him over.

The hall was crowded, tense with expectation. Theon stood abruptly, his voice filled with righteous indignation. "Cole, the abuser—there is no one to vouch for you now! It was Horn who handled your belongings. If you cannot provide proof, you stand accused of murder, fraud, and theft!"

Cole's chest rose and fell with restrained anger. He was no match for a verbal battle with a learned man like Maester Luwin. As the accusations piled against him, his defense seemed like a lone ship adrift in a raging sea—fragile and doomed.

"Isn't it the Starks who rule Winterfell?" he asked, turning his sharp gaze on Theon. "Who are you to judge me? What right do you have?"

Then he turned and bowed slightly to Robb. "If Lord Stark truly believes me guilty, then I will let the gods decide. I invoke my right to trial by combat."

He straightened, his cold eyes scanning the room. "If any of you think I'm guilty, then by all means—come and test the sharpness of my blade."

A murmur spread through the hall. The knights bristled at his defiance, their expressions dark with anger.

The seven cooks, upon hearing his demand for trial by combat, were gripped by fear. They exchanged anxious glances, silently pleading with Robb. It was one thing to cook, drink, and push around newcomers, but to fight for their accusations? That was a death sentence.

Theon's lips curled into a smirk. "You're bold with words," he sneered. "Very well, let's see if your sword is as sharp as your tongue."

He turned to Robb, confidence in his stance. "Stark, I will fight in their place." With a taunting smirk, he stepped forward into the hall. "Didn't you ask who I am? Remember this—I am Theon Greyjoy, future lord of the Iron Islands. And I'll be the one to end you."

Cole met his gaze and thought bitterly, Future 'Reek,' Lord of the Iron Islands? It's far too soon to say.

Maester Luwin leaned close to Robb, whispering something in his ear.

"Theon, that's enough," Robb declared, his voice steady and commanding.

Theon's expression flickered with displeasure, but he quickly masked it with a smirk. "As you say, my lord."

Robb turned to Cole, his voice as firm as Valyrian steel. "This has gone on long enough. Cole, I find you innocent of these charges—but you must still answer for your actions. You will leave Winterfell tonight. You are no longer welcome here."

All eyes turned to Cole, the defiant outsider. He gripped his sword tightly but did not argue. With a curt nod, he turned and strode toward the hall's exit.

As he passed a short, stocky man, he subtly lifted his sword. The blade barely grazed the man's cheek, making him flinch.

Gage stumbled back, face burning with humiliation. He clenched his fists, wanting to curse, but the weight of the moment held him back. He could only glare as Cole walked away, his figure fading into the shadows.

"He looks so pitiful," Bran murmured.

"He is merely facing the consequences of his actions, child," Maester Luwin replied, his tone patient but firm. "Everyone must bear responsibility for their own deeds."

Bran hesitated. "But… he's Jon's friend."

He missed his bastard brother dearly and felt that any friend of Jon's should be a friend of his as well.

Robb considered Bran's words. A friend? He wasn't sure who had truly been in the wrong tonight, but the whole affair felt less like justice and more like a spectacle.

Cole reached the doors, gripping his sword tightly. His cook's clothes were tattered, his figure solitary.

The iron latch lifted with a resounding clang, the chains rattling as the doors creaked open.

The sound was eerily familiar. It echoed the first time he had entered Winterfell as a guest.

But now, as he stepped out into the cold night, he was nothing more than an exile.

After stepping through the gates, Cole hesitated. He turned back, his gaze lingering on Winterfell's towering walls, its proud towers, and the imposing castle at its heart.

Ravens wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and chaotic, their dark wings casting fleeting shadows over the stone. The cold wind whispered through the courtyard, carrying with it the weight of his departure.

He had been so confident when he first set foot in the North. A favored recruit of the Night's Watch, a fortunate wanderer blessed with natural talent and an uncanny ability to slow time.

He had believed he could follow the Young Wolf into battle, conquering both North and South, carving out an unrivaled legacy. He had thought Winterfell would be the place where his legendary story began.

But reality was as merciless as the northern snow.

Look—it had already begun to fall. Soon, all of the North would be blanketed in silver. The town of White Harbor would come alive with winter trade, and Winterfell would host its great harvest feast. Northern lords would gather, drinking and reveling, their halls filled with music and laughter.

And yet, in this vast northern expanse, there was no place left for Cole.

The road before him stretched wide, leading either north or south. But no direction felt certain.

At this moment, he finally understood his place. He was no hero, no noble-born son, no king of men. Just an orphan, fortunate to have survived his childhood on the Wall. A nameless figure beneath Westeros's endless sky, destined for an ordinary life, to toil upon the land until death claimed him.

Do you accept this fate?

Why should he accept it?

Are kings, princes, and great lords truly braver than others?

Cole's eyes hardened as he looked up at the wolf banner rippling in the snow-laced wind. Snowflakes landed on his cheeks, melting into mist against his skin. At that moment, he felt like a living flame, his shadow stretching long beneath the moonlight.

The farce had ended. The crowd dispersed, murmuring among themselves about the events of the night.

Back inside Winterfell, Robb Stark returned to his chambers. The wind howled through the open window, making the curtains billow wildly. He stepped forward and shut it, only then noticing the snowfall.

Snow was nothing remarkable in the North. It came freely, without warning, blanketing the land in endless white.

Yet Winterfell had not seen snow in years. Not since he was born, if he recalled correctly. At least, he had no memory of playing in the snow as a child. He found himself thinking of his father's words.

"Winter is coming."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A firm rapping at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Come in," Robb called.

The door opened, and in stepped Hallis Mollen, the captain of the guard.

"My lord," Mollen said urgently. "Theon Greyjoy has left Winterfell—he rode out on horseback."

Robb turned sharply, his expression darkening.

"What did you say!?"