Game of Thrones: Winter Lord

Tyrion lay slumped over his horse while his servant led the way. Turning his head toward Cole, who was riding beside him, he remarked, "So this is the infamous Neck Swamp? Hardly as dreadful as they say."

"You haven't ventured deep enough," Cole replied. "The quicksand and swamp mud wouldn't let you feel so safe."

After getting a rare good night's sleep, Cole was in a much better mood.

"Men built something as massive as the Wall—filling in a few roads through the swamp isn't impossible," Tyrion mused. "The North holds half the kingdom's land, yet its population isn't even close to King's Landing's. Though, to be fair, I don't believe the records in the books. There must be more people in the North than they claim."

"No one counts every head," Cole said. "How could there ever be an accurate number?"

"If they widened the roads through the Neck, allowing more merchants to travel freely between the North and South, maybe this land could actually be put to use," Tyrion continued, voicing his thoughts aloud.

He always had a way of thinking ahead, often analyzing things deeply—something Cole couldn't help but admire.

After taking a sip of wine, Tyrion returned to his usual self, the sharp-witted, shameless little imp. Traveling with him was never dull; there was always some conversation to be had.

As the muddy path gave way to scattered gravel and a distant coastline came into view, Tyrion pointed toward a cliff.

"Welcome to the South, Cole. That's the Bay of Crabs. Those three islands belong to the Vale of Arryn. We'll find an inn soon."

They had entered the region of Lord Harroway's Town, where inns were plentiful along the Kingsroad and the Trident.

"Tyrion, we should reach Casterly Rock as soon as possible instead of lingering on the road," Cole urged.

Tyrion pointed at his backside. "Unless you have a dragon to carry me, I can't ride any faster."

Then he smirked. "You're still worried about that dream, aren't you? I've dreamed of dragons too, but they've been extinct for centuries. Dreams are just dreams, Cole, like those ghost stories old wet nurses love to tell.

"Come now, let me introduce you to the charms of southern women."

"No, Tyrion," Cole said seriously. "Trust me—staying at an inn will be a decision you regret the most."

Tyrion groaned, rubbing his forehead dramatically. "You actually believe in this nonsense? I guarantee you, whatever you dreamed was a lie."

Despite his complaints, they avoided the inns and camped in the wilderness for several nights.

But on this particular evening, a light drizzle was falling, and darkness was closing in. Up ahead, an inn glowed warmly in the gloom.

Tyrion could take no more.

"Cole, for the love of the gods, have mercy on a poor Lannister," he pleaded. "I need a hot bath and a real bed. I refuse to sleep in the rain like some beggar in a stable."

Four pairs of eyes turned to Cole, making it difficult for him to keep insisting otherwise.

"This little rain is nothing," he muttered. "Compared to the North."

But it was clear Tyrion had made up his mind.

Cole could only pray that this wasn't the night. He didn't have a perfect memory—only vague recollections that Tyrion would run into trouble in the South. But the timeline in the books was a mess, aside from the general sequence of events.

"Jack, get the door," Tyrion instructed.

Jack pushed it open and called inside.

The innkeeper was a plump woman with white hair. When she grinned, revealing teeth stained red from sourleaf, a flood of memories crashed into Cole's mind.

Damn it.

He immediately scanned the room.

Tyrion had already pulled out a gold dragon. "All I need is a warm fire and a place to sleep."

The innkeeper hesitated, looking troubled as she kept apologizing. Because of the Hand's tournament, the rooms were full. She couldn't turn out paying guests just for gold.

Then Cole spotted her.

Among the wandering knights and sellswords, one figure stood out.

She wore a coarse linen dress, but nothing could hide the air of nobility about her. And beside her sat a knight with a head of white hair. She had her head lowered, listening intently to the minstrel at the next table.

There was no doubt about it.

Lady Catelyn Tully.

Eddard Stark's wife. The mother of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf.

She was beautiful, with striking red hair. Not as old as Cole had imagined. Perhaps not even thirty—an age when a woman's charm was at its peak.

The singer's eyes lit up when he spotted Tyrion, and he stood up excitedly.

"Lord Lannister!" he called out, eager to make an impression.

He immediately launched into a pitch for his songs, hoping to win the nobleman's favor. But Tyrion wasn't listening—his attention had already been drawn to the people sitting at one of the tables. A slow smile spread across his face.

"Lady Stark," he said smoothly. "What a surprise. My apologies—I didn't have the pleasure of seeing you in Winterfell."

The singer froze. His mouth hung open as he looked between Tyrion and the woman he had just been trying to impress.

He had no idea she was someone of such high status. He had only approached because of her beauty, hoping for a coin or, if luck was on his side, something more. Now, realizing his mistake, his expression shifted rapidly between shock and panic. Damn my awful eyesight.

But Tyrion was merely exchanging pleasantries. What happened next left the singer, and everyone else in the room, utterly stunned.

Cole sighed internally and reached for his sword. There were dozens of knights here.

Then Catelyn stood, raising a hand to silence the room before pointing directly at Tyrion.

"This man came to my home as a guest," she declared, her voice steady and firm, "while secretly plotting to murder my seven-year-old son."

As expected, the moment the accusation left her lips, the entire inn turned hostile.

The knights present were either direct vassals of House Tully or sworn to its bannerlords. Catelyn, the former highborn lady of Riverrun, commanded their loyalty. Before calling for Tyrion's arrest, she had already listed the names of their lords, ensuring that none could remain neutral.

The sound of steel being drawn filled the room.

Tyrion's mouth fell open in disbelief. He turned to Cole, who simply shook his head.

"Lady Stark," Tyrion began, raising his hands in a placating gesture, "I believe there must be some misunderstanding—"

But Catelyn cut him off, laying out her accusations with ruthless efficiency.

Then she presented the so-called proof: a Valyrian steel dagger, the weapon used in the attempt on Bran's life.

The onlookers erupted. Drunken knights, sellswords, and common rabble shouted for Tyrion's blood. Some called for justice; others simply wanted an excuse for violence. Only the innkeeper pleaded desperately—if a Lannister was slain under her roof, her own life would be forfeit.

Cole quickly scanned the room and locked eyes with Yoren. If the Night's Watch recruiter stayed out of it, there was still a chance Cole could escape alone.

But then—clang!

Yoren's sword left its sheath.

Tyrion flinched and turned to Cole in alarm.

"Put that away! We're not their match," he urged, but they were already too far apart.

Cole ignored him. Instead, he stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos.

"Gentlemen, you are sworn to your lords and to His Majesty the King," he said, his tone calm yet commanding. "This man is the Queen's brother. His father is Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock. Do you truly believe you have the right to pass judgment here?

"If you think he is guilty, then let us take him to King's Landing and let King Robert decide. That would be the lawful course, would it not?"

Catelyn turned to him with blazing eyes.

"My lords," she said coldly, "this man is in league with demons. He has no honor to speak of. I ask you, in the name of your oaths, to aid me in bringing them to justice. Help me escort him to Winterfell, where he can await the king's judgment."

Tyrion turned back to Cole.

"Cole," he whispered urgently, "put down your sword. We cannot win this fight."

He turned again, trying to reason with the knights, but their minds were already made up.

Cole briefly considered his chances. If he abandoned Tyrion, he could probably escape on his own. But he looked down at the Lannister, then exhaled heavily.

With a sigh, he lowered his sword.

Fate, Lannister, he thought bitterly. Let's hope we both live through this.