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Once, twice—Tyrion had lost count of how many times this boy had saved him.
Cole, is it really worth saving a dwarf? A dwarf has nothing to offer you.
The first time Tyrion saw him, Cole had been just a scrawny, timid boy, shivering in the cold wind, looking thin and helpless. But what had caught Tyrion's attention wasn't his appearance—it was his skill in the kitchen.
Back then, when Jeor Mormont wished to entertain him, he had specially ordered this boy to prepare the meal. The food had taken so long to arrive that Tyrion had nearly cursed in frustration. But the moment he took his first bite, all his anger had vanished.
Tyrion couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten such well-cooked meat. It was clear that Cole had been a castle cook, one who had served lords and knights. Yet, the fool had been brave—or foolish—enough to dream of becoming a knight himself.
Well, now that you are a knight, don't give up so easily, Cole. I had plans for you—lands, a title. Why are you here, burning in that cursed cave?
Though Tyrion had witnessed his fair share of death, he still felt as if something inside him was being torn apart. It had been a long time since he had mourned anyone. He fought back the sting in his eyes—this was not the time for tears.
He told himself, I am a born cynic, a devil with a heart of stone. This boy only wanted to attach himself to House Lannister.
But the more he tried to convince himself, the less he believed it.
Friend? A friend? He let out a hollow chuckle, trying to bury his sorrow in laughter.
But Bronn had already noticed the redness in his eyes. A man may suppress his grief, may feign cold indifference—but he cannot make his heart truly cold.
Just then, a commotion erupted around them. All eyes turned toward the cave.
A dark shadow was emerging from the flames, its form swaying with the flickering firelight.
The free folk stared, unblinking. Was it ten blinks or a hundred? They had no way to measure time—but it was long, far too long. No one could survive in the fire for that long. Not even those raised among the Painted Dog Tribe, not even those who worshipped fire.
Most who entered the inferno lasted only seconds, dashing in and snatching up a white stone before leaping back to safety. It was the only way to prove themselves as true free folk, to earn the recognition of the flame-worshippers.
But this figure… it remained.
Closer and closer it came. Tyrion squinted, his breath caught in his throat.
Cole.
The flames surged, casting the figure into sharper relief. The crowd held its breath, every eye fixed on the cave.
The fire writhed like living serpents, snapping and curling around the entrance. And then, at last, a man stepped out.
He was completely naked. His hair and eyebrows were gone, burned away.
And in his hands, he held a massive stone.
Cole hadn't meant to pick it up. But something inside the stone had called to him, whispering to him—Take it, or you will regret it.
Of course, he had also picked up a white stone.
Bronn's gaze swept over him from head to toe, finally resting at his crotch. He smirked meaningfully.
Tyrion let out a relieved breath and smiled. The boy is certainly not lacking. He made a silent vow—when they left this mountain, he would find Cole a woman.
At the entrance of the cave, the old woman trembled violently. The moment she saw the stone in Cole's hands, she collapsed to her knees and bowed deeply, her voice rising in a fervent chant.
"Lord of Fire! Lord of Fire!"
Before Cole or the others could react, the entire Painted Dog Tribe followed suit.
In an instant, the cry of "Lord of Fire!" erupted like a tidal wave, rolling through the settlement. More and more people emerged from their homes, dropping to their knees in reverence.
Cole stood frozen, helpless, feeling only the cold air against his bare skin.
Behind him, the flames roared to life, rising in great tongues of fire. They curled around him, as if crowning him in flame.
"It seems they've been conquered," Tyrion muttered, stepping forward.
Cole extended the stone to him. Tyrion reached out to take it—
The moment his fingers touched its surface, he yelped and flung it away. A sharp burn seared his palm.
"Gods damn it, why is this bloody stone so hot?!"
The shouts of the freedmen grew louder and louder, echoing through the valley. Of all those present, only four remained standing—Cole, Tyrion, Bronn, and Shagga.
The old priest crawled forward on her knees, tears streaming down her face as she reached Cole's side.
"Honorable King of Fire," she wept, "you have finally favored your people once more."
Cole grimaced as if he had a toothache, hesitating before reaching out to help the old woman to her feet.
Beside him, Tyrion tilted his head and let out a half-hearted shout, blending into the overwhelming chorus of voices.
The chanting surged in waves, growing in intensity. Even Timett, son of Timett, the one-eyed warrior of the Burned Men, had knelt before Cole.
"Only the one who takes the Dragon Stone from the flames is worthy to lead the People of Fire," he declared. "You are the true Red Hand, the King of the Fire People."
Then, without hesitation, he drew a dagger and sliced open his palm.
"My king, please accept my blood."
With his free hand, he smeared the blood across his cheek, just beside the empty socket where his eye had once been. His voice was solemn, almost reverent. "I was born to fight for the Lord of Fire, as were all my people."
Belief could be a terrifying thing.
Timett raised his bleeding hand once more. "Please, let Timett, son of Timett, be your sharp blade, Lord of Fire."
Cole, for his part, had little interest in being anyone's "Fire Lord"—he was far more concerned with finding clothes.
But then, several members of the Painted Dog Tribe stepped forward. One by one, they knelt on a single knee, drew their blades, and sliced open their palms.
At that moment, the fire priest approached, carrying a robe. She knelt before Cole, raising the garment in offering.
"King, please accept the loyalty of the People of Fire."
Cole opened and closed his mouth in astonishment, struggling to find words. Slowly, he reached out and took the robe, wrapping it around himself with a sigh of relief.
The People of Fire traced their beliefs back to the Age of Heroes, to a time when the ancestors of the Vale still ruled these lands.
"The King of Fire" had once been the faith of the entire Vale of Arryn. It was said that the flaming sword wielded by the Bronze Kings and the bronze armor they wore had been gifts from the Fire King himself.
But in time, the Bronze Kings betrayed their ancient faith, turning instead to the gods of the mountain clans.
Yet, the legend persisted. It was said that the King of Fire would one day return, draw the Sword of Light from the flames, and drive back the enemies from the north.
For generations, the People of Fire had passed this tale down—until, two centuries ago, a Fire Witch brought a new prophecy.
She and her dragon had lived within the Trial Cave, where the Dragon Stone lay undisturbed. She foretold that when the great ice came, the reincarnation of the Flame King would appear once more in the Painted Dog Tribe, retrieve the Dragon Stone, and lead the brave free folk to reclaim their homeland.
Every child in the Painted Dog Tribe had seen the Dragon Stone. It rested within the Trial Cave, silent and untouched, exuding a strange, almost peaceful presence. Many had tried to steal it—only to be reduced to ashes by the very flames that protected it.
Countless warriors had entered the Trial Cave, believing themselves to be the prophesied Flame King. Yet, in hundreds of years, only one had ever emerged alive.
That man had been the Red Hand—the founder of the Burned Men.