The Wall, Black Castle – 130 AC
The wind bites harder than a snake's fangs up here, cutting through the layers of fur I've bundled myself in. I swear it's trying to peel the skin from my bones. The Wall is as unforgiving as the tales say, stretching across the horizon like a frozen scar, the coldest hell in the Seven Kingdoms. I'm a Southron man, from the scorching sands of Dorne, where the sun bakes your skin and the heat is a companion, not an enemy. Here, though, the North shows no mercy. It's as if the Gods themselves conspired to punish me, hurling me to this icy wasteland where the air stings like needles and the snow crunches beneath my boots, reminding me with every step just how far I've fallen.
The darkness up here is different too, a thick, inky blackness that swallows you whole if you stare too long. On top of the Wall, I'm supposed to be vigilant, watching for wildlings—savages they call them, though I wonder if the true savages are the ones who sent me here. The wind howls, but it's the silence that creeps in around it, the kind that gnaws at your mind, whispering doubts, feeding anger.
Once, I stood in the warmth of the Red Keep, my white cloak a symbol of honor, of duty. I was Criston Cole, the man who dared to rise above his station, who fought with the heart of a lion and the skill of a Dornish spear. I had power, I had purpose, and I had the trust of those who mattered. Now, what am I? Just another crow, dressed in black, my name a curse in the mouths of those who once praised it. How the mighty have fallen, indeed. I've gone from guarding kings and queens to freezing my balls off on this cursed Wall, watching out for the dregs of humanity who are desperate enough to try and cross it.
When I first left Dorne, I thought I was leaving behind a life of sin, a place where honor was as fleeting as a desert breeze. The Dornish take what they want, and they revel in it—wine, women, men, blood. There's no sense of duty, no higher calling, just the endless pursuit of pleasure. But I wasn't like the others. I knew there had to be more to life than lust and violence. I wanted something pure, something sacred, something that would give my life meaning beyond the sand and sun.
The Seven—now there was something worth believing in. I threw myself into their teachings, their promises of redemption, of purpose. When I took the white cloak, I felt like I'd found the salvation I'd been searching for. The Kingsguard was supposed to be my refuge, a place where I could be more than the man I was born as, where I could be someone honorable, untouchable by the filth of the world. I took those vows with everything I had, with every ounce of faith in my soul.
And then there was Rhaenyra. The Gods damn her.
She was a fire I thought I could control. Beautiful, yes, but more than that—she was wild, like a storm blowing in from the Narrow Sea, dangerous and intoxicating. I was supposed to protect her, to keep her safe from harm, and in doing so, keep her at arm's length, where she couldn't touch the man beneath the armor. But I was a fool. I let her get too close, let her slip past the walls I'd built around myself, and once she was inside, she tore everything down.
It started with a look, a touch, a whispered word. I should've walked away, should've reminded myself of my vows, of the Seven, but I didn't. I let myself believe the lies she spun, that she cared, that it was something more than just another game to her. But it wasn't love. It was never love. It was a trick, a trap, and I was stupid enough to fall right into it.
When I took her maidenhood, I shattered everything I'd sworn to protect. My vows, my faith, my very soul—it all lay in ruins at my feet. I was a Kingsguard knight, sworn to chastity, to serve and protect, not to take and defile. But there I was, with her in my arms, the smell of her hair in my nostrils, the feel of her skin under my hands. I was lost, undone by a moment of weakness that I could never take back.
Vulnerable—that's what I became. Weak. Exposed. And I hated her for it. I hated her for making me feel something, for making me break my vows, for reminding me that beneath the armor, I was still just a man with all the flaws and desires that come with it. No man likes to feel vulnerable, especially not one who's spent his life trying to be more than just a man. And so, I did the only thing I could—I turned that hatred against her, because turning it against myself would've meant admitting that I was the one who failed.
I told myself it was her fault, that she was the serpent in the garden, the temptress who led me astray. It was easier that way, easier than facing the truth that I was just as complicit, just as damned. The more I hated her, the more I convinced myself that she was the enemy, that she had to be stopped, punished, destroyed. It was her fault that I'd fallen, and if I could make her pay, maybe—just maybe—I could reclaim some shred of the honor I'd lost.
That's why I swore myself to Queen Alicent. She was everything Rhaenyra wasn't—pious, pure, devout. She understood the importance of faith, of duty, of serving something greater than oneself. She was a true woman, a queen who knew her place and kept to it. In her, I saw a way back to the light, a chance to redeem myself, to wash away the stain of what I'd done. Alicent was my salvation, a beacon in the darkness that had consumed me.
She gave me purpose again. Where Rhaenyra had led me to sin, Alicent led me to redemption. She was a follower of the Seven, a queen who ruled with the Gods' blessing, and serving her felt like serving the Seven themselves. In her service, I could forget the man I used to be, the man who had fallen so far. I could be reborn as the righteous knight I'd always wanted to be, fighting for a cause that was just and holy.
But the truth is, I'm not sure if I ever truly found that redemption. It's easy to say you're doing the Gods' work, that you're serving a higher purpose, but deep down, I know that part of me is still that same angry, broken man who couldn't face his own sins. I swore myself to Alicent because I needed to believe that I could still be saved, that I could still be the man I wanted to be. But the anger, the hatred, the bitterness—they never went away. They just found a new target.
Every time I looked at Rhaenyra after that, I saw my own failure reflected back at me. I saw the man I was supposed to be and the man I had become, and it made me want to destroy her all the more. She had to pay for what she did to me, for the way she made me feel, for the way she made me doubt everything I thought I believed in. Serving Alicent, fighting for her, became a way to exorcise those demons, to prove to myself that I wasn't the man who had fallen so far.
But here's the thing—the Seven are silent. They don't answer prayers, don't offer comfort or guidance. They're just statues in a sept, cold and unfeeling, like the gods of every other land. Maybe they never cared about me. Maybe the vows I took, the faith I clung to, were all just lies I told myself to keep going. And now, here I am, on the Wall, freezing my ass off, a broken man in a broken world, and I have to wonder—was it all worth it?
I don't know. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. But I do know one thing: I'm still here, still breathing, still fighting. The Gods, the vows, the faith—they may have failed me, but I haven't failed myself. Not yet. And as long as I'm alive, as long as there's still a spark of anger, of hatred, of something inside me, I'll keep going. I'll keep fighting, for whatever scraps of honor, of redemption, of meaning I can find in this cold, unforgiving world.
Rhaenyra, Alicent, the Seven—they're all part of a life that feels so distant now, like a dream I had once that's faded with the morning light. But the Wall is real, the cold is real, and so is the fire inside me. And as long as that fire burns, I'll keep going, keep surviving, keep finding a reason to keep the blade from my own throat. Because in the end, that's all any of us can do, isn't it? Keep going, keep fighting, and hope that maybe, just maybe, we'll find some kind of peace, some kind of redemption, before the end.
I wonder if they even think of me, those I once served. Do they remember the man who stood by their side, who bled for them, or am I just another ghost lost to the cold? The North has a way of doing that, I suppose, stripping you down to the bone, making you question who you are, what you are. But I know what I am. I'm a man who has been wronged, who has been betrayed by those he swore to protect. I'm a man who has nothing left to lose, and there's a certain freedom in that. They've taken my honor, my pride, even my manhood, but they haven't taken my rage.
The wind picks up, and I huddle deeper into my furs, trying to stave off the cold that seeps into my very soul. My hands are numb, my face feels like it's been carved out of ice, but the fire inside me burns bright. I'll hold onto that, no matter what.
Laenor Velaryon. That fairy, that pathetic excuse for a man. His name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, a reminder of how everything unraveled. The world laughs at me, I know it. They sent me here to be forgotten, to be erased from the history books, but the anger keeps me warm. Or at least, it tries to. I can still feel the moment he took everything from me. Not just my dignity, not just my position, but something more personal, more vital. I'd rather face a dozen wildlings than relive that moment, the blade cutting me down in more ways than one. The pain of it was unbearable, but the humiliation—gods, the humiliation—was worse.
My hatred for him isn't just because of his unnatural preferences, though that's reason enough. A man like him—no, not even a man, but a creature of base desires—should never have been allowed to taint the blood of House Velaryon. His lewd ways were an affront to everything the Seven teach, everything a true knight should stand against. But what burns me most isn't just his abominations in the bedchamber. No, it's something far more personal.
Jacaerys. That name still tastes foreign in my mouth, like something I should spit out but can't quite bring myself to. When Laenor threw the knowledge to my face, I thought it was nothing more than a lie and he was trying to torture me. But then I looked closer, saw the boy's face, his eyes, and something inside me twisted into knots. He wasn't just any bastard—he was my bastard. My son.
The moment I realized it, everything shifted. I'd spent years convincing myself that I could still be a man of honor, that I could find redemption through duty, through faith. But finding out that I had a son—Rhaenyra's son—threw everything into disarray. I didn't know whether to be furious or proud, ashamed or relieved. A son. The one thing I never thought I'd have, something I never allowed myself to even dream of. But instead of being a blessing, it became another curse, another way for the world to twist the knife.
Rhaenyra knew. Of course, she knew. And what did she do? She let Laenor claim him, let him raise my son as his own, corrupting him with his filth, with his lies. I don't know if I should be grateful or enraged that Laenor took the shame of fathering a bastard on his own shoulders. A bastard is a blemish on any man's honor, even a man as dishonorable as Laenor. But knowing that my son—my flesh and blood—was being raised to hate me, to see me as nothing more than a traitor, a monster… that's a wound that never heals.
Laenor must've known, too. He wasn't blind, no matter how much of a fool he pretended to be. He saw the truth in Jacaerys's face, just as I did, and instead of rejecting the boy, he embraced him, twisted him against me. That's what really makes my blood boil—Laenor took something that should've been mine and turned it into a weapon. He made sure that Jacaerys would never see me as anything other than the villain in his mother's tales.
And maybe that's for the best. Maybe it's better that the boy grows up believing the lies his mother and Laenor fed him. What would it change, after all? He's still a bastard, and nothing will ever change that. My blood might run in his veins, but it doesn't change what he is—a stain, a reminder of my own weakness, my own fall from grace. Bastards are born of sin, of broken vows and stolen moments, and no matter how much I might wish otherwise, that's what he'll always be.
But that doesn't stop the anger, the bitterness. I've been shamed enough by House Targaryen, by the games they play with people's lives, by the way they've twisted and broken everything I once held dear. I don't need another blemish on my honor, another reminder of the man I used to be before the world went to the seven hells. Jacaerys is my son, but he's also a symbol of everything that's gone wrong, everything I've lost. He's a living, breathing reminder of the life I could've had, the man I could've been if I hadn't let Rhaenyra seduce me, if I hadn't fallen so far.
So, what do I do with that? Do I hate him, or do I hate myself? Do I try to find some twisted sense of pride in the fact that my bloodline continues, even if it's through a bastard, or do I reject him entirely, as I've rejected everything else that's tied to the life I once had? The truth is, I don't know. I don't know how to feel, what to think, what to believe anymore. The only thing I know for certain is that I'm here, on this damned Wall, with nothing but my thoughts and the cold to keep me company.
And maybe that's fitting. Maybe this is where I was always meant to end up, in a place where nothing grows, where the only warmth comes from the anger that still burns inside me. Laenor and Rhaenyra took everything from me—my honor, my pride, my son. But they didn't take my hate, my rage, the fire that keeps me going even when everything else has turned to ice.
Jacaerys is a bastard, and that's all he'll ever be. Maybe one day, he'll come to the Wall, like so many other bastards before him. Maybe he'll end up freezing his ass off in the cold, just like I am, wondering where it all went wrong, wondering why the Gods cursed him with the life he has. And maybe, just maybe, he'll look out over the Wall, into the darkness beyond, and think of the man who might've been his father.
But by then, I'll be long gone, just another ghost in the snow, another name forgotten by history. And maybe that's for the best. The world doesn't need to remember Criston Cole, the man who fell, the man who lost everything. It just needs to remember the lessons I've learned the hard way: Trust no one. Believe in nothing. And never, ever let your guard down, because the moment you do, the world will tear you apart, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but the cold.
By the time my patrol finally ends, the cold has gnawed through my bones, and all I want is a moment's warmth. My legs ache with every step as I stomp down the rickety wooden stairs from the Wall, each footfall a reminder of how far I've fallen, of how I've gone from the golden halls of the Red Keep to this frozen wasteland. The wind is relentless, a bitter reminder that this place is determined to break me, just like it's broken so many others before.
The canteen—or what they generously call a canteen—is as bleak as everything else around here. The walls are cold stone, the air heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and stale beer. There's no escape from the stench, no respite from the misery that hangs over this place like a shroud. The only thing worse than the smell is the food. If you can even call it that.
The broth they slop into my bowl is a watery, gray mess. The chunks floating in it might've once been meat, but whatever they are now, they've long since forgotten. I force it down, each spoonful a battle against the rising bile in my throat. I'm a Kingsguard, I remind myself. Or I was. The cloak may be black now, but that doesn't change who I am, what I was trained to be. I've seen worse. I've eaten worse in the field, when rations were low, and the alternative was starvation. But that was when I had something to fight for, something to believe in. Now, it's just survival, nothing more.
I try to wash the taste out with the beer, but it's almost as foul as the broth. Sour, flat, and thick enough to chew—how the hells do these men drink it? I'm tempted to spit it out, but I force myself to swallow. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break, not over something as petty as this. The bread is even worse, hard as a stone, and it feels like it's doing more damage to my teeth than filling my stomach. The temptation to throw a tantrum, to hurl the bowl across the room and let them all know exactly what I think of their pathetic excuse for food, burns hot in my chest. But I clamp it down, swallow it back just like I did with the broth. A tantrum is for children, for men with nothing left to lose, and despite everything, I still have my pride. I was a Kingsguard, sworn to protect the crown, and I'll be damned if I start behaving like a petulant child just because I'm not where I once was.
As I sit there, trying to choke down the last of the bread, I hear the others talking. Rough, crude voices, full of laughter that's more like a bark than anything joyful. They're talking about whores, of all things—how they miss having a good one to fuck, how the Wall is a prison not because of the cold or the danger, but because there's no warm cunt waiting at the end of the day. I don't know why I'm surprised. These men, most of them have nothing but filth in their minds, no higher calling, no sense of duty. But it still turns my stomach, hearing them talk like that, as if that's all there is to life. As if that's all that matters.
I shoot them a look of pure disgust, but they're too deep in their conversation to notice. Or maybe they just don't care. One of them—a big, burly bastard with a scar running down his face—catches my eye and sneers. "What's wrong, Cole? Can't stand a bit of talk about women? You might be too high and mighty for us, but don't think we don't know what you did, who you fucked."
The room goes quiet, all eyes on me. My blood runs cold, colder than the wind outside. "Watch your tongue," I snap, the words coming out sharper than I intended. The burly man just laughs, a deep, grating sound that makes my skin crawl.
"Or what? You'll run to the queen and cry about it? Oh, wait, you can't, can you? Not anymore. You're just like the rest of us now—no crown, no queen, no cunt to warm your bed. Just a cold wall and a bunch of miserable bastards for company."
His words hit like a punch to the gut, but it's the laughter from the others that really stings. They're not wrong. I am just like them now, no better than the lowest scum, stripped of everything that once made me who I was. I want to lash out, to silence them all with a sharp retort, with the edge of my sword if I have to. But the truth is, there's nothing I can say that won't sound like a lie, nothing I can do that won't prove them right.
"I don't have time for your filth," I growl, pushing my bowl away and standing up. But my legs feel weak, my head light, like I'm not entirely sure where I'm going or what I'm doing. The room tilts, just slightly, and I grab the edge of the table to steady myself.
The burly man grins, a vicious, mocking thing. "Face it, Cole, you're no better than the rest of us. All that talk of honor, of duty, it's just words. You were a traitor then, and you're a traitor now. The only difference is, now you're stuck with us, and you can't hide behind your white cloak anymore."
The words cut deeper than I'd like to admit. I've spent so long blaming others for my fall, for the way my life unraveled, that it's become second nature. Rhaenyra, Laenor, the Gods themselves—it's always been easier to point the finger at someone else, to tell myself that if it weren't for them, I'd still be the man I was meant to be. But standing there, in that miserable, stinking canteen, surrounded by men who have no illusions about who they are or what they've done, I realize that I can't keep lying to myself.
I've spent so much time hating Rhaenyra for what she did, for how she led me astray, that I never stopped to think about my own role in it. I let her in, let her twist me, let her pull me away from the path I'd chosen. I let my own desires, my own weakness, destroy everything I'd worked so hard to build. And Laenor—I've cursed him for what he did, for taking my son and turning him against me, but the truth is, I had made Jacaerys life a living hell since day one.
And now, here I am, broken, lost, and trying to blame the world for the mess I've made of my life. But the truth is, no one forced me to break my vows. No one made me betray the faith I swore to uphold. I did that all on my own. I let my anger, my pride, my fear drive me down a path I can't turn back from.
It's a bitter tea to swallow, one that sits heavy in my gut, but it's the truth. And maybe, just maybe, accepting that truth is the first step towards finding some kind of redemption, some way to reclaim what little is left of my honor. I've spent too long wallowing in self-pity, too long blaming everyone else for the choices I made. It's time to take responsibility, to face the consequences of my actions, no matter how painful that might be.
I don't say anything else. There's nothing left to say. I just turn and walk out of the canteen, leaving the laughter and the mocking behind. The cold hits me like a slap as I step outside, but it's a welcome relief, a sharp, bracing reminder that I'm still alive, that I can still feel something, even if it's just the sting of the wind against my skin.
I can't keep running from the truth. I can't keep hiding behind excuses, behind hatred, behind the lies I've told myself for so long. Maybe the Wall will break me in the end, just like it's broken so many others. Or maybe, just maybe, it'll be the place where I finally start to rebuild, where I finally find a way to live with the man I've become. Only time will tell. But for now, all I can do is keep going, keep surviving, and hope that somewhere in the cold and the darkness, I'll find a way to make peace with the choices I've made.
Because if I don't, then what's the point of any of it?
