A hot knife sliced through flesh and muscle, sealing the wound as blood sizzled against the steel. A rough burlap cloth wiped away the excess, and with a firm, unrelenting pull, the arrowhead was yanked free.
Cole gritted his teeth, his body trembling from the shock. Then came the final step—a flask of strong wine poured directly onto the wound. The burning sensation nearly made him black out.
This was the most advanced treatment available in the battlefield camps.
His back was wrapped in sticky herbal paste, bound tightly with satin. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his breathing ragged.
Meanwhile, Kevan Lannister had wasted no time. A seasoned veteran of war, he reorganized the troops, sending cavalry to wipe out any lingering northern stragglers while he took stock of their losses.
The battle had been brutal.
Of the 15,000 Lannister soldiers who had marched to war, only around 7,000 remained. The rest had either perished or—more commonly—fled.
Cole's own forces had suffered even worse. His 2,000 cavalry had clashed against Robb Stark's 6,000 northern riders, and though they had fought fiercely, they had been reduced by half. His personal warriors, the Flame People, had taken the worst of it. Barely 400 remained.
Such was the cruelty of war.
Ever since the North had begun rallying behind Robb Stark, Cole had known their situation was dire. Had Kevan not arrived with reinforcements, their deception would have been exposed.
Stark had been forced to retreat, but their own problems had not ended. The worst news had yet to come.
Ser Jaime Lannister was still in enemy hands.
Kevan had already dispatched a messenger to inform Lord Tywin. Cole could only imagine Tywin's fury upon hearing that his golden son had been captured.
When the messenger reached Tywin's camp, the scene was one of victory. The golden lion banners of House Lannister flew high, signaling their triumph. The battlefield lay silent, littered with the remnants of the defeated.
Victory on two fronts should have been cause for celebration.
But when news of Jaime's capture was delivered, all joy vanished.
The mood turned cold.
Some urged Tywin to press the advantage, to launch an immediate invasion of the Neck. Others proposed an assault on Riverrun, while a few even suggested negotiating peace.
But Tywin said nothing.
His face was stone, his silence more terrifying than any outburst.
Everyone knew the truth—Jaime was his favored son. His heir. And now, that heir was in enemy hands.
At last, Tywin dismissed his commanders, keeping only one man behind.
Tyrion.
Tywin's second son had proven unexpectedly useful. The wildling army under his command had devastated the enemy's scattered cavalry, leaving them broken and fleeing in all directions.
Pouring a goblet of wine, Tywin regarded his son with a rare glimmer of approval.
"Your wildlings—and that boy—were an unexpected advantage."
Tyrion smirked. "Disappointed your dwarf son didn't die in battle, are you?" He took a sip of wine.
Tywin ignored the jab and handed him a letter.
"This is from your sister."
Tyrion broke the seal and read.
His expression darkened.
"What? They let Eddard Stark escape?!"
He kept reading, and his scowl deepened.
Removing Ser Barristan Selmy from the Kingsguard? Handing power to that wretched Janos Slynt?
"What in the Seven Hells are she and that idiot boy doing?!" he snapped.
They had shed blood on the battlefield, yet in King's Landing, chaos reigned.
And now, their greatest bargaining chip—Eddard Stark—was gone.
Tywin's gaze was cold. "I'm sending you to King's Landing."
Tyrion blinked. "King's Landing? And what exactly am I supposed to do there?"
"Take care of your nephew."
At the end of the letter, Cersei had called for reinforcements in the king's name. Stannis Baratheon had declared his opposition, while Renly had outright proclaimed himself king, backed by the Tyrells.
Tyrion let out a bitter chuckle. "You do realize my dear sister loathes me? She won't listen to a word I say."
"Then take your wildlings with you," Tywin said. "Keep them in the city. And while you're at it, manage the so-called 'loyal' ministers who have been stirring up trouble. If Cersei can't control that little brat, then you will."
Tyrion sighed, downing the rest of his wine.
"Seven hells…" he muttered. "This is going to be a disaster."
Tyrion hesitated. "I'm not even a knight."
Tywin remained impassive. "When you arrive in King's Landing, you will serve as Hand of the King until I come to the capital."
Tyrion's mouth opened in astonishment, words failing him for once. After a moment, he managed to ask, "Why send me? Why not Uncle Kevan, or someone else?"
Tywin's golden eyes met his, cold and unyielding.
"Because you are my son."
Tyrion swallowed whatever retort had been forming.
After a pause, he asked, "Can I take Cole with me?"
"Kevan holds that boy in high regard," Tywin said. "He will remain here and continue the assault on Riverrun."
Disappointment flickered across Tyrion's face, but he quickly masked it. In truth, this wasn't a bad outcome for Cole. If he had earned the favor of both Tywin and Kevan, his future was secure. After the war, there would be rewards—titles, land, and wealth.
Tyrion had hoped to bring Cole to King's Landing, perhaps to replace the Hound in the Kingsguard or to command the City Watch. But it seemed his father had other plans.
Meanwhile, Cole was still recovering. The arrow wound hindered his movements, and even with his exceptional endurance, healing would take time.
The Lannister army had now set up camp on the south bank of the Red Fork, using the River Road as their supply line.
Riverrun remained defiant, its garrison emboldened by the Lannisters' failure to breach their walls.
Northern cavalry frequently rode out to harass their encampment, striking and retreating before the Lannisters could organize a proper response.
Kevan, ever the pragmatist, no longer treated Cole as an outsider. Instead, he entrusted him with command of the cavalry, ordering him to lead the pursuit of the Riverrun raiders.
However, the noble-born knights assigned to Cole's forces resented him. To them, he was a lowborn sellsword—a wild knight who had no right to command them.
Cole ignored their disdain. He didn't need their approval—only results. His only request was for four hundred full suits of armor, enough to properly equip his Flame People. Once armed, he sent them out on constant patrols.
They had been camped beneath Riverrun for several days when Kevan summoned Cole to his tent.
Inside, Kevan sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by rows of Westerland lords and knights.
As soon as Cole entered, Kevan gestured for him to sit at his side. For once, Cole found the old man's presence less irksome.
The nobles, however, were less welcoming. Their murmurs filled the tent.
Who is he?Why is he sitting beside the commander?
Kevan paid no attention to their whispers. Instead, he reached for a letter, its wax seal stamped with the roaring lion of House Lannister.
Breaking the seal, he unrolled the parchment and read aloud:
"To the commanders of the Westerlands,
The war demands urgency. I, Tywin Lannister, Guardian of the West, Duke of Casterly Rock, and Shield of Lannisport, command you to continue the assault on Riverrun under the leadership of Ser Kevan Lannister."
Silence filled the room. Then, a wave of murmurs and hushed debates. The nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
Continue the siege?With what forces?Is this all we have?
Soon, the meeting dissolved into chaos, each lord voicing their own opinion, some arguing for caution, others for aggression.
Cole said nothing. He listened, observed, but offered no words.
After the meeting, he stepped outside, inhaling the cool night air. A sudden wave of dizziness struck him, and he stumbled. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
Still not fully recovered…
Before he could leave, a voice called out from behind.
"Ser Cole, the commander asks you to stay."
Cole paused, exhaled slowly, then turned back toward the tent.
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