"My lord, his wounds are festering, and he has a high fever," the monk said, shaking his head grimly.
The silver-haired boy muttered incoherently, his words an unintelligible string of nonsense. No one could recognize the language.
Since the knights had found Cole, he had remained unconscious. Kevan Lannister studied him in silence, his mind turning over possibilities.
When he had first laid eyes on the boy, his hair had been little more than a pale stubble, its true color indistinct. But now, under the dim light of the tent, it shone silver.
Silver hair and purple eyes… Kevan couldn't help but wonder, is he a Targaryen bastard?
The memory of King's Landing in flames resurfaced, unbidden. He had been there, marching at Tywin's side, as the Lannister banners flew over the Red Keep. He had watched the streets run red, seen Gregor Clegane drag forth the bodies—two women and a baby boy.
Princess Elia Martell. Rhaegar's wife.
Her clothes had been torn, her body brutalized. Some whispered that the Mountain had raped her before killing her. He had never denied it.
Kevan remembered the first time he had met her—Tyrion had just been born. She had smiled and spoken of adopting the deformed child as her own. At the time, she had been around the same age as this silver-haired boy—just a girl, innocent and full of life.
Years later, she had become a graceful crown princess.
The last time he saw her, she was a corpse.
He could still recall the look on Tywin's face, grim and unreadable, as they stood over her broken body. Beside her lay little Princess Rhaenys, stabbed over fifty times.
She had been only three, barely reaching Kevan's knee. He remembered how she used to clutch a black cat, calling it Balerion.
But the worst had been the infant prince—his skull caved in, his small body little more than a pulpy mass. They said the Mountain had dashed his head against a wall with one hand. In that mess of torn flesh and shattered bone, Kevan had seen a shock of blood-matted silver-blond hair.
Kevan had always prided himself on recognizing his own—both he and his son were Lannisters, golden-haired and unmistakable.
"The gods purify the souls of the fallen," the monk had once told him, "and return them in a form untouched by sin. That is why the hair of the dead turns white."
Kevan sighed. If the gods truly will it, then let the boy wake up. He deserved that much—half of their victory had been won by his blade.
After a final glance at Cole, Kevan departed with his guards. Riverrun was secured, but there was still much to be done.
In the tent, only Munda remained, tending to Cole. Kevan had ordered him to watch over the boy and report if he regained consciousness.
Cole opened his eyes.
Gone was the world of carved beams and painted rafters. Instead, he stood in an expanse of endless white.
Before him loomed a towering gate, shimmering like a mirage.
A great balance scale rested in front of it.
Cole stood upon one side of the scale.
Where am I?
On the opposite side, a group of horses appeared.
The massive gate pulsed with violet ripples, its surface like liquid glass. As Cole shifted on the scale, the horses lifted into the air. A rider sat among them, but Cole could not make out the face—only the long braids trailing down their back.
Then, as the rider vanished, the scale began to tilt.
Cole staggered, struggling to keep his footing as the platform beneath him trembled. The great chains suspending the scale groaned, the metal grinding against itself with a sound like distant thunder.
He clung to the edge, peering down.
The once-white world turned red.
Flames erupted from the ground, magma bubbling and churning. The scale was descending—dragging him closer to the inferno below.
His breath caught. Between the jagged rock walls, rivers of black and crimson pulsed, thick with something far worse than molten stone.
Limbs jutted from the cracks, their flesh torn and oozing. Half-crushed skulls leered from the blood-soaked cliffs.
And then came the wails—shrieks of the damned, rising from the abyss.
Cole's stomach twisted. He turned away and seized the chain above him.
He had to climb.
Keep climbing. Keep climbing.
At Riverrun, Kevan remained behind with two thousand men, leaving the rest to reinforce the northern front.
Cole had been taken by his firemen.
Kevan had refused at first, but they had not listened.
Swords were drawn.
Believing that Tywin had a better maester, Kevan had no choice but to let them take Cole away.
Now, two days had passed since the army set out. By Kevan's estimation, they should have reached the crossroads of the King's Road, where the Trident's waters converged.
A raven arrived suddenly, its bearer a gaunt, sharp-eyed man known as the crow-feeder. The letter was from his brother, Tywin.
Tywin's words were uncharacteristically generous, praising Kevan for his victory. But at the end of the letter, he mentioned Cole.
Kevan had sent word of Riverrun's capture as soon as the battle was won. Before the siege, he had considered seeking Tywin's counsel but had ultimately decided against it—if intercepted, the raven could have alerted the enemy.
Now, the letter confirmed what Kevan already suspected.
The boy had not survived the fever.
Escorted by a dozen knights, his body had been taken to the Northern Encampment. The free folk had been in an uproar—claiming their king had been slain by the "flatlanders." To quell the unrest, Tywin had personally overseen Cole's funeral.
Following the customs of the free folk, they placed his body on a raft. The Silent Sisters had sewn up the wound on his back and dressed him in red and gold silk.
Lacking a noble coat of arms, Tywin had wrapped him in the lion banner of House Lannister. His belongings were placed on the raft, as was their custom, save for his sword. The free folk had also placed a broken stone upon him—another of their rites.
Kevan recalled the way the boy had clutched that sword when he was brought in, unwilling to let it go even in delirium. It should still be in his tent.
Thinking that Cole's possessions ought to be returned to his family, Kevan sent men to retrieve them—only to learn that everything had already been taken.
By Munda.
Kevan's temper flared.
The servant had stolen from his fallen master. Furious, he ordered his cavalry to hunt Munda down.
At the funeral, as the raft drifted downriver, Tywin had taken up a bow and loosed a flaming arrow, granting Cole the highest honors.
The free folk, appeased, ceased their unrest. They followed a man named Timett back to the Moon Mountains, disappearing into the wilds.
Over valleys and streams, an eagle soared.
Far below, the lone raft drifted along the river's current.
Without warning, an ancient tree groaned and toppled from the bank. A great wave surged forward, swallowing the raft in a violent crash.
The flames died.
Even the ropes binding the corpse remained unburned.
The river was restless, at times calm, at times churning.
Travelers who glimpsed the raft floating downstream bowed their heads in silent prayer.
"Gods have mercy."
A crow landed on the raft, pecking at the pallid flesh. But then, suddenly, it recoiled—cawing in alarm as it flapped its wings and fled.
Ahead, a towering waterfall loomed.
The raft plunged over the edge, swallowed by the roaring cascade.
It vanished into the depths—yet never broke apart.
Buoyed by the river's relentless current, it was carried onward.
Until at last, the river met the sea.
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