Wood chips scattered as two figures—one large, one small—squatted in the castle corridor.
In Cole's hands, a rough wooden knight was slowly taking shape. With a final stroke of the dagger, he sharpened the knight's raised sword.
"Done," Cole announced, holding up his creation for Shireen to see.
Before them lay a paper map—Cole's rough sketch of Westeros, drawn from memory. Simple depictions of castles dotted the parchment, all connected in a winding path that started from King's Landing.
Cole had already explained the rules of his homemade game, "Adventures in Westeros," an improvised version of Monopoly. Shireen's daily life was painfully dull, and even Cole—who prided himself on patience—found himself restless after spending every day by her side.
With little else to do, he figured he might as well create something to pass the time while fulfilling his duty to the King of Dragonstone.
Cole had never expected to be welcomed here. The fact that he was still alive, granted a place as Shireen's guard, was already more kindness than most received from Stannis. The man was known across the Seven Kingdoms for his rigid sense of justice.
Yet, Cole knew that after Robb Stark declared himself King in the North, Stannis would see him as nothing more than another usurper.
Though, at this moment, Cole had yet to hear of Robb's coronation at Riverrun. Whether it was due to Dragonstone's lack of information or some twist of fate, he couldn't say.
The thought of fate sent a chill down his spine.
For a man as unyielding as Stannis, not even blood ties would make him hesitate. If he had no mercy for his own brother, what chance did anyone else have?
Cole thought of Renly, of how he would meet his end—not by steel, but by sorcery. Of all the contenders for the throne, Renly had the qualities of a proper ruler. He was charismatic, generous, and, at the very least, well-liked.
But if Stannis ever took the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms would be plunged into bloodshed. He would settle every debt—new and old. Perhaps only the nobles would suffer, but even a small ripple of war reached the common folk eventually.
And yet, for all its turbulence, the world remained unchanged. The Iron Throne shifted from one ruler to the next, but the great houses endured, unmoved by time.
"I'm going to start," Shireen said, shaking the little wooden dragon in her hands. It was another of Cole's carvings. Originally, he had planned to make her a lady, but she had insisted on a dragon instead. The result looked more like a bird than a dragon, but Shireen didn't seem to mind.
She tossed the wooden dice—three points. Looking at Cole expectantly, she waited for him to guide her turn, despite already knowing the rules.
Cole moved her dragon piece three spaces, from King's Landing to Duskendale, then from Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone. Three small paper balls sat beside Dragonstone, and he picked one up, unfolding it.
"Shireen, riding a dragon, encounters a storm over Dragonstone. She must stay for two rounds," he read aloud.
By the time the game ended, Shireen had fully grasped the rules. The wooden knight and the dragon princess raced across Westeros, neither willing to yield.
Cole's days had become structured. Every morning, from the time Shireen woke until she finished breakfast, he trained in the courtyard. He practiced swordplay, archery, and familiarized himself with various weapons—iron axes, maces, and more.
After his training, he would bathe in the sea. His short hair made it easy, though it was in the reflection of the water that he noticed something peculiar—his hair was turning white.
The explanation he gave himself was simple: he was a descendant of dragonseed. The term referred to those with distant Targaryen lineage, particularly bastards born in Dragonstone. During the Dance of the Dragons, the Black faction had even promised titles and lands to dragonseeds who could tame a dragon.
But if he were truly of Targaryen descent, it wouldn't be through Maester Aemon. The idea was absurd—more likely than being the Mad King's bastard, perhaps, but still ridiculous.
He had been found near the Wall, abandoned, and taken in by Maester Aemon. Aerys had never set foot beyond the Wall in his life.
Maybe the maester took me in because of my silver hair. Maybe he saw a trace of his own blood in me.
Regardless, Maester Aemon had been kind. Even if blood had nothing to do with it, he wouldn't have left a child to die in the cold.
Cole recalled how, as a child, Maester Aemon had always washed his hair with hot water. Back then, Cole had thought he was born with black hair. But now, it was clear—his hair had been dyed with potions all along.
His life in the Night's Watch had been simple. If not for his sickly constitution as a child, he might have taken the oath himself and become a ranger by now.
Cole clenched his arms, watching the veins beneath his skin swell. In just over a year, his body had changed.
There was no need to dwell on the maester's intentions. The old man was good to me. That's enough.
Robert was dead. Stannis wouldn't care about silver hair. After all, Dragonstone had its own traces of Valyrian blood—the Velaryon family of Driftmark.
Silver hair is silver hair. It looks good on me.
As time passed, Cole and the white dragon grew more attuned to one another. He could shift his vision between his own eyes and the dragon's at will, balancing both perspectives like two halves of the same whole.
The white dragon had claimed a seabird's nest along the cliffs. Its growth had slowed, but there was a noticeable change—where once it breathed only white mist, now flames flickered at its maw.
For a dragon of its size, the progress was remarkable.
Wood chips scattered as two figures—one big, one small—squatted in the castle corridor.
In Cole's hands, a rough wooden knight gradually took shape. With a final stroke of his dagger, he sharpened the tiny sword the knight held aloft.
"All done. My knight is ready," Cole said to Shireen.
Before them lay a paper map—Cole's attempt at sketching Westeros from memory. Simple castles dotted the map, all connected in a winding path that started at King's Landing.
Cole had already explained the rules of this makeshift version of Monopoly—"Adventures in Westeros." Shireen's days were painfully dull, and even Cole, who prided himself on enduring solitude, found himself growing restless.
Since he had nothing else to do, he figured he might as well create a game to pass the time while also fulfilling his duty to the King of Dragonstone.
Cole had braced himself for rejection upon arrival. Yet, rather than execution, he had been permitted to serve as Shireen's guard—an act of surprising mercy from Stannis, whose inflexible nature was well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Still, after Robb Stark's coronation, Stannis had deemed him an enemy. Not that Cole knew this yet—news of Robb's rise as King in the North had yet to reach Dragonstone. Whether this delay was due to poor communication or a failed northern campaign shifting the course of fate, Cole couldn't tell.
The thought of fate sent a chill down his spine.
Stannis, for all his rigid sense of justice, would not hesitate to strike down his own brother. Cole felt a pang of sorrow as he considered Renly's eventual fate. The man had no glaring flaws, treated others with kindness, and, in many ways, was a more fitting king than Stannis.
If Stannis ever took the throne, the Seven Kingdoms would see a reckoning. The bloodshed would be immense—not for the common folk, but for the noble lords, whose past and present sins would be laid bare.
Yet, no matter who sat on the Iron Throne, the noble families endured, unchanged by the shifting tides of power.
"I'm starting now," Shireen announced, shaking the wooden dragon Cole had carved for her. He had intended to make her a little lady, but she had insisted on a dragon instead. The result, admittedly, resembled a bird more than a dragon.
But it wasn't his fault—he had no training in woodworking. Fortunately, Shireen was thrilled with it.
She tossed the wooden dice and rolled a three. Then, looking at Cole for guidance despite already knowing the rules, she waited.
Cole moved her dragon three spaces forward—from King's Landing to Duskendale, and from Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone. He placed three small paper balls beside Dragonstone, then picked one up and read aloud:
"Shireen, riding her dragon, encounters a storm over Dragonstone. She must stay for two rounds."
After a full game, Shireen grasped the rules completely. The wooden knight and the dragon princess raced across Westeros, neither willing to yield.
Cole's life had settled into a disciplined routine. Each morning, from Shireen's wake-up call to her breakfast, he trained in the castle's yard—honing his swordsmanship, archery, and familiarity with various weapons, from axes to maces.
After training, he bathed in the sea. His hair, cropped short, made it easy to wash. Staring at his reflection in the water, he saw his white hair growing in more prominently.
His explanation to himself was simple—he must be a descendant of dragonseed. The term referred to illegitimate offspring of the Targaryens, and Dragonstone was full of such bloodlines. During the Targaryen civil war, the Dance of the Dragons, the Black faction had even promised titles and lands in exchange for dragonseeds taming dragons.
Whether he was a distant bastard of Maester Aemon or some even more diluted lineage, Cole had never bothered to consider. Even the idea of being the Mad King's lost bastard was more believable than that. But that was impossible—Maester Aemon had found him near the Wall. Aerys had never set foot there in his life.
Perhaps the maester had taken him in after noticing his silver hair. Or perhaps, despite everything, Aemon had simply been kind-hearted enough to rescue an abandoned child from freezing to death.
Cole recalled how, as a child, Aemon had frequently washed his hair with warm water. For years, Cole had thought he was born with black hair—until he realized the maester had been dyeing it.
His years in the Night's Watch had been peaceful. If not for his childhood frailty, he might have sworn his vows and become a ranger by now.
Cole clenched his arms, watching his veins pulse beneath his skin. In just over a year, his body had transformed.
There was no point overanalyzing the maester's intentions. Aemon had cared for him. That was enough. And with Robert Baratheon dead, his silver hair was no longer a liability—Stannis wouldn't care. The Velaryons of Driftmark, Valyrian descendants themselves, still bore the same distinctive trait.
Silver hair was silver hair. And it did look rather striking.
With time, Cole and the white dragon had developed a deeper bond, allowing him to shift his vision between his own and the dragon's at will. It was like moving his left and right hand separately—both independent, yet intrinsically connected.
The white dragon had claimed a seabird's nest along the cliffs as its roost. Though its size hadn't grown significantly in the past few days, its breath had changed—from mist to flame. A promising sign of progress.
Still, compared to Daenerys Targaryen's three dragons, which had grown into titanic beasts in just a few years, Cole found his dragon's growth frustratingly slow.
Perhaps Daenerys had discovered some long-lost Valyrian secret to nurturing dragons. Essos, after all, had been ruled by Valyria for centuries. Its lands, particularly those bordering the Shadow Lands, were steeped in forgotten magic.
Stannis's red priestess, Melisandre, was said to hail from that mysterious land. A place of sorcery and strange powers.
During the day, the white dragon soared high above the sea, hunting in open waters. Using a basket Cole had purchased from a fisherman, it stockpiled its food—rotten fish and scraps of carrion—to attract prey.
When fish surfaced, the dragon would dive, snatching them up before they could escape. Once full, it would store extra rations in the basket and carry it back with its hind claws.
Cole, meanwhile, took advantage of his time in Dragonstone's kitchens. By bringing back large fish, he had earned the favor of the castle's cooks, which, in turn, led to connections with the butchers.
With his modest knight's salary, instead of spending it on armor repairs, horses, or brothels like other men, Cole used most of it to purchase chicken, duck, beef, and mutton for the dragon.
He discovered that beef and mutton seemed to nourish the dragon more effectively than fish, despite all being sources of protein. Clearly, normal science didn't apply to magical creatures. With dragon flame aiding digestion, the white dragon's appetite and energy expenditure had both increased.
Though a dragon's greatest weapon was its fire, its sheer size and physical power were just as formidable. A fully grown dragon's scales were as impervious as armor.
No one had ever attempted to forge armor for a dragon—Targaryens were the only ones capable of even approaching one. But Cole's dragon was different.
If he ever saved enough money, he would commission a set of armor for it. The challenge, of course, was that the dragon would outgrow it in no time.
Dragons weren't without their weaknesses. Meraxes, one of the three dragons that conquered Westeros, had been slain when a Dornish ballista pierced its eye.
But Cole wasn't worried. The white dragon had two pairs of eyes.
By noon, after several rounds of the game, Shireen let out a sleepy yawn.
"You should take a nap, Princess," Cole reminded her.
Reluctant but obedient, she carefully tucked away her wooden dragon. "Can I keep it?" she asked.
"Of course. You have to take care of it, though."
Shireen beamed. For once, she didn't seem burdened by her greyscale.
She was just a lonely child, trapped in a castle, where even a simple wooden carving brought her joy.
Cole sympathized with her—whether in this life or the last.
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