Game of Thrones : Winter Lord

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Ancient Blood

Ancient Valyrian blood, the blood of dragons and gods. Black armor over golden mail, red, gold, and orange silk adorning the dragon helmet like a blazing flame. The knights of the entire Westerlands fell into his hands.

At night, he played his silver-stringed ancient harp with slender, delicate fingers. His ballads brought tears to people's eyes, and his melancholy purple eyes seemed to reveal the sadness in his heart.

Rhaegar Targaryen, praised for his wisdom as a child and for his bravery as a man, was as dazzling as the sun in the sky.

He was beloved, and the common people cheered for him twice as loudly as they did for Lord Tywin.

Sixteen years is too long—so long that Robert Baratheon changed from a brave and handsome warrior to that fat and disgusting figure, so long that no one in the Seven Kingdoms can remember the exact appearance of Prince Rhaegar.

But some memories, once awakened, continue to surge through the heart.

Those eyes are exactly the same.

Purple, melancholy, and that silver hair—she once again compared him to her handsome Jaime. Gods above.

He is not Rhaegar, he looks half Dornish, she tried to convince herself.

But that face always evoked certain memories.

Dornish?!

Stupid dwarf—she seemed to make a connection. That damn Dornish woman. If not for her, how could Rhaegar have fallen in love with that wolf girl?

The wooden sword danced in his hand. Before him stood the sweaty Durran Bar Emmon.

With a crack, the wooden sword chopped against the oak shield, and the little fat man landed on his backside, his arms trembling.

The wooden sword twirled in a flourish. With one hand behind his back, Cole reached down to help him up.

Durran grasped his palm and felt himself pulled to his feet with surprising strength.

What remarkable strength, Durran marveled.

"Alright, go rest now," Cole said to him. It had been difficult for him as well, having this little fat man as his sparring partner.

Durran set down the oak shield with palpable relief.

Cole walked over to put away the wooden sword when he noticed a figure leaning against the pomegranate tree—Tyrion the Imp.

He clapped his hands.

Cole tossed the sword to him.

Tyrion leapt up and jumped away. "I don't want to be your punching bag."

Picking up the sword and placing it on the rack, Cole said, "I've heard of your heroic performance on the battlefield."

"I hope the battlefield you're referring to is in the bedchamber," the Imp replied, touching his nose before suddenly remembering that half of it was lost on an actual battlefield. "If you need someone to cross swords with, I can send Bronn. Though you'll have to pay him if I don't."

"I can't afford Ser Bronn of the Blackwater's commission right now," Cole said, wiping sweat with a woolen cloth.

"Meow~" A black cat jumped onto his shoulder.

Tyrion looked at the ugly cat with interest. "You didn't kidnap any woman in the castle, but you kidnapped a crippled cat."

The black cat seemed to understand Tyrion's words. It arched its back, and its fur stood on end.

"My, he's quite fierce." The little lion took a few steps back. He didn't want to be scratched by the cat—he had to get married the day after tomorrow.

Cole rubbed Balerion's head. "He appeared here suddenly last night."

"There are many cats in the castle, but this one looks rather old."

The black cat did look old, though it still seemed active and fierce.

It bared its teeth at everyone except Cole when he touched it.

Letting the cat perch on his shoulders, Cole led Tyrion into the yard.

"Would you like some wine?" Cole asked.

Tyrion shook his large head.

"I remember you always have wine with you," Cole said, turning to instruct a servant, "Prepare some water for me. I want to bathe."

"I want to stay sober for a while, Jon."

He couldn't help but laugh. He never expected the self-proclaimed great drinker would fear getting drunk.

"Very well. Let Durran entertain you. I must wash off this sweaty smell."

"Better sprinkle some perfume, so you'll be more popular with the ladies. Perhaps it won't be a cat climbing into your bed tonight, but a fragrant woman," Tyrion joked, then sat in a chair.

"My friend, are you his squire?" Tyrion asked Durran casually, not noticing his coat of arms.

The fat youth blushed. "I am Durran Bar Emmon."

Tyrion glanced at his clothes and realized his mistake. He stood and apologized, "Forgive me, ser. Pardon my poor eyesight."

"Hmph." Durran turned his angry face away.

Tyrion sat down again awkwardly.

After a long silence, he spoke again, "How old are you, Ser Durran?"

"Fifteen."

"A fifteen-year-old knight! That's impressive," Tyrion praised loudly. "My brother Jaime also joined the Kingsguard at that age."

"The Kingslayer?" Durran blurted out.

Tyrion knew it. "Kingslayer" was much more famous than "Ser Jaime."

"They say he was the youngest Kingsguard."

It's a pity he's now a captive, far away in the dungeons of Winterfell.

Why not exchange Sansa for him? Isn't trading a daughter for a son enough?

"He's very skilled with a sword, a natural warrior," Tyrion continued.

"Lord Cole is a natural warrior. No, he is a warrior incarnate."

Durran's rebuttal stunned Tyrion. Damn, he had only wanted to change the subject. How much this child admired Jon.

"Yes, I admit Cole is a fine fighter," he could only concede. Tyrion's memories drifted back to the Eyrie and the Mountains of the Moon. He had to admit that Jon's swordsmanship was indeed impressive.

When they first met, Cole could barely lift a sword. Tyrion had assessed him as a good cook, but weak.

He had watched Cole practice swordsmanship on the Wall. He had no skill at all then. Tyrion even thought he might go down to teach him a few moves. At least he had enough theory.

But what happened later? Cole had led them all the way from the Mountains of the Moon to the Eyrie.

Cole had changed too much. That taciturn, unconfident, thin boy seemed to have been reborn.

Perhaps this was the magic of the Valyrian bloodline. For every Targaryen born, the gods toss a silver coin—even though he's just a bastard.

Tyrion speculated that Cole might be a descendant of Bloodraven, Brynden Rivers.

Should I tell him?

"Lord Cole has never been defeated," Durran said proudly, as if speaking of himself.

"Boy, do you think he's Daemon Blackfyre?" Tyrion thought to himself.

He was suddenly struck by this idea.

Similar, too similar. He compared the traits of the two—good gods, 'noble bastard,' indeed!

"What are you talking about?" Cole's voice came from behind.

Tyrion looked over and saw that Cole was wearing a black suit. The emblem seemed to be reversed, and the red flames resembled a three-headed dragon breathing white fire.