Chapter 4: The Choice of Steel
Kole stood in Ned's solar as the offer hung between them like a blade poised to fall. Through tall windows, dawn light painted Winterfell's ancient stones in shades of amber and gold, but the warmth couldn't penetrate the ice forming in his chest.
King's Landing. The red keep where Ned would lose his head on Joffrey's orders. Where Littlefinger's schemes would unfold like poisonous flowers. Where Cersei would consolidate power while the realm burned around her.
He could stop it all. One word—yes—and he'd be positioned to prevent the execution that would shatter the North and plunge Westeros into war.
But saying yes meant leaving Winterfell vulnerable to Theon's eventual betrayal. Meant abandoning Robb to face the Bolton conspiracy alone. Meant choosing one person to save while damning many others.
"Gods help me, I can't be everywhere at once."
"I'm honored by the offer, my lord," Kole said finally, each word tasting like ash. "But I believe my duty lies here, helping Robb prepare to rule in your absence."
Ned's grey eyes studied his face with uncomfortable intensity. The Lord of Winterfell possessed an uncanny ability to read truth in men's expressions, and Kole felt exposed under that paternal scrutiny.
"That's a mature perspective," Ned said slowly. "Though I confess disappointment. Your counsel has proven valuable these past two years."
"Robb will need experienced guidance while you're away. I've grown fond of him—of all your children."
The truth wrapped around his lie like armor. He had grown fond of the Stark children, which made the choice all the more agonizing. Saving Ned meant potentially losing Bran and Rickon to Theon's conquest. Staying meant watching the man who'd taken him in march toward his death.
"Very well." Ned rose from behind his desk, moving to the window that overlooked the training yard. "I won't lie—I hoped you'd choose differently. But loyalty to family comes before personal advancement. That's a lesson too many men never learn."
After Ned dismissed him, Kole walked the empty corridors until he found himself in an abandoned tower room. Frustration and guilt warred in his chest like competing storms, building pressure that demanded release.
He drew back his fist and drove it into the stone wall with enhanced strength born of desperation.
The granite cracked like ice, spider-web fractures radiating from the impact point. Pain lanced up his arm—even his super-soldier physiology had limits—but the physical discomfort felt clean compared to the emotional turmoil threatening to drown him.
"I'm condemning a good man to death. The best man in Westeros, and I'm letting him walk into Cersei's trap because I can't explain what I know without sounding insane."
The cosmic curse was absolute. Every attempt to warn about specific future events resulted in meaningless poetry or incomprehensible gibberish. He'd tested it dozens of times during his first months in Winterfell, always with the same maddening result.
Kole slumped against the damaged wall, cradling his throbbing knuckles. Sometimes power was worse than helplessness. At least helpless men could claim they'd done everything possible.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from his brooding. Jon Snow appeared in the doorway, already dressed for travel in the black wool that would define the rest of his life.
"Thought I might find you here," Jon said, eyeing the cracked wall with raised eyebrows. "Bad news?"
"Your father offered me a place in King's Landing. I declined."
"That was... probably wise." Jon entered the room, his grey eyes carrying depths that spoke of early maturity. "The capital changes people. Usually not for the better."
They stood in comfortable silence, two young men on the threshold of choices that would define their futures. Outside, the sounds of departure preparations drifted through stone and timber—horses being saddled, wagons loaded, voices raised in farewell.
"I have something for you," Kole said suddenly.
He withdrew a dagger from his belt—steel he'd been secretly working on for weeks, using his metal manipulation to align the molecular structure in ways no normal blacksmith could achieve. The blade would hold an edge that never dulled, resist corrosion, and remain sharp enough to shave silk after decades of use.
"For the Wall," Kole explained, offering the weapon hilt-first. "The cold up there is different than anything down here. You'll need steel that doesn't break."
Jon accepted the dagger with reverence, testing its balance with practiced ease. The blade caught morning light like captured starfire, its perfection immediately apparent to anyone who understood weapons.
"This is beautiful work. Where did you—"
"I've been practicing my gift with the castle's smith." The lie came easily now. "Mikken says I have unusual intuition about metal."
"Thank you." Jon slipped the dagger into his belt, then looked up with an expression that mixed gratitude and concern. "Kole, I need to ask you something."
"What?"
"That night at the broken tower, you said something about the Wall being colder than anyone south understands. And last week, you mentioned white shadows and frozen dreams." Jon's voice dropped. "What did you mean?"
The question hit like a physical blow. Jon was intelligent enough to remember cryptic warnings, brave enough to ask direct questions. And in a few hours, he'd be riding north toward threats he couldn't imagine.
Kole tried to form words of warning, to explain about the Others and the army of the dead massing beyond human knowledge. But the cosmic curse was already stirring, ready to scramble any attempt at useful prophecy.
"The white shadows dance when the stars weep blood and the crows feast on frozen dreams!"
The words emerged as nonsensical poetry, just as they always did. Jon blinked in confusion, then laughed awkwardly.
"Right. Poetry. I keep forgetting about your head injury."
"Damn this curse. Damn whatever force brought me here but won't let me speak truth when it matters most."
"Just... be careful," Kole said desperately. "Trust your instincts. The old stories exist for reasons."
"I will." Jon clasped his shoulder with brotherly affection. "Take care of Robb while we're gone. He'll need friends more than ever."
They embraced briefly, and Kole felt the weight of another farewell that might be permanent. In the show, Jon's time at the Wall had been filled with danger, betrayal, and transformations that tested the limits of human endurance.
"Write when you can," Kole said. "I want to hear about your adventures."
"If they're worth writing about."
After Jon left, Kole made his way to the training yard where a small group had gathered around the practice rings. Word of his unusual abilities had spread despite attempts at discretion, drawing curiosity from guards and servants alike.
Mira Tallhart stood at the group's center, her auburn hair braided for combat and her stance speaking of serious martial training. She'd arrived from her family's holdings the previous week, ostensibly to visit distant cousins but clearly seeking something more than social pleasantries.
"Show us the arrow trick," called Harwin Stone, a grizzled veteran whose scars told stories of battles fought along the northern borders.
Kole hesitated. Demonstrating his enhanced reflexes felt dangerous, but refusing would invite more questions than compliance.
"Slow arrows only," he said finally. "I'm not trying to die for entertainment."
Harwin nocked an arrow and drew his bow to half strength. The projectile flew in a lazy arc that Kole's super-soldier reflexes tracked with mechanical precision. His hand snapped out, catching the shaft inches from his chest.
Impressed murmurs ran through the small crowd. Mira stepped forward, her green eyes bright with interest.
"That's remarkable reaction time," she said. "Have you always been so quick?"
"It runs in the blood, apparently. Giant ancestry, or so Maester Luwin theorizes."
"Giants." Mira's tone suggested skepticism mixed with curiosity. "How convenient."
She was intelligent, Kole realized. Intelligent enough to question convenient explanations, brave enough to voice doubts publicly. That combination could prove either invaluable or dangerous, depending on which side of his secrets she ultimately chose.
"Care to test your reflexes against steel?" Mira asked, drawing her sword with fluid grace.
The challenge was issued publicly, witnessed by dozens of castle personnel. Refusing would damage his carefully constructed reputation. Accepting meant revealing more of his abilities than felt safe.
But Robb Stark chose that moment to appear at the yard's edge, his auburn hair catching sunlight as he approached with the easy confidence of youth accustomed to command.
"What's this about testing reflexes?" Robb asked.
"Lady Mira wants to spar with Kole," Harwin explained. "Test whether giant's blood translates to sword skill."
Robb's expression brightened with genuine interest. "Excellent idea. I've been meaning to evaluate our guard training. This should prove instructive."
The crowd formed a loose circle as Kole and Mira faced each other in the practice ring. Her stance was textbook perfect—feet positioned for mobility, sword held in high guard, eyes focused on his center mass rather than his weapon.
"First blood?" she suggested.
"Agreed."
They began circling each other with the cautious respect of experienced fighters. Mira moved like water given form, her blade cutting practice patterns in the air with deadly precision. Kole's enhanced senses tracked every micro-movement, cataloguing her technique and identifying potential weaknesses.
She was good. Very good. But not superhuman.
Mira attacked first, driving straight at his center with a thrust that would have skewered a normal opponent. Kole sidestepped with enhanced speed, bringing his blade around in a controlled arc that stopped just short of her ribs.
"Point to Kole," Robb announced.
They reset and began again. This time Mira approached more cautiously, testing his defenses with a series of probing strikes. Kole responded with defensive patterns, letting her set the pace while concealing the full extent of his abilities.
But she was learning. Each exchange taught her more about his timing, his preferences, his apparent limitations. By the fourth engagement, she'd adapted her strategy to account for his superior speed.
Her blade caught his wrist guard with perfect timing, drawing a thin line of blood that marked the bout's end.
"Point to Lady Mira," Robb announced, genuine pleasure in his voice. "Well fought, both of you."
The crowd dispersed with murmured conversations about technique and bloodlines. Mira approached while cleaning her blade, her expression thoughtful.
"You held back," she said quietly.
"What makes you say that?"
"The way you moved. Controlled. Measured. Like someone afraid of revealing too much." Her green eyes studied his face with uncomfortable intensity. "What exactly are you hiding, Kole Thorne?"
The question was delivered without malice, but it carried weight that made his enhanced senses scream warnings. How much had she observed? How much had she deduced?
"Everyone has secrets," he replied carefully.
"True. But not everyone's secrets involve metal flying through the air when children are in danger."
The observation hit like a blade between ribs. She'd been watching. Analyzing. Drawing conclusions that could prove catastrophic if shared with the wrong people.
"I saved a boy's life. That's all."
"Yes. You did." Mira sheathed her sword with practiced ease. "The question is how. And why someone with your abilities chooses to hide in plain sight."
Before Kole could respond, horns sounded from the main gate. The royal departure was beginning, and with it, the exodus that would leave Winterfell half-empty and twice as vulnerable.
From the battlements, Kole watched Ned Stark's procession form up in the courtyard below. The Lord of Winterfell sat his destrier with unconscious authority, Ice's pommel visible over his shoulder. Beside him, Arya fidgeted in her saddle while Sansa maintained perfect ladylike composure.
Ned's eyes found Kole on the wall and the lord raised one hand in farewell. The gesture carried weight beyond simple goodbye—it was acknowledgment, acceptance, and perhaps forgiveness for a choice that had disappointed them both.
Kole raised his own hand in response, knowing with sick certainty that this was the last time he'd see Eddard Stark alive.
The procession wound through Winterfell's gates like a golden serpent, banners snapping in the crisp morning air. Arya looked back one final time, her grey eyes finding his across the distance, and Kole felt his heart break a little more.
"I'm sorry, Ned. I'm so fucking sorry. I know what's waiting for you in the capital and I can't say the words to stop it."
Beside him, Robb appeared on the battlements, his young face grave with new responsibility.
"Now the real work begins," Robb said quietly.
"Yes," Kole agreed, watching the last of the procession disappear beyond the hills. "Now it begins."
But he knew something Robb didn't—something the cosmic curse prevented him from sharing. The real work wouldn't be governing Winterfell or managing the North's defenses.
The real work would be preparing for betrayals that would come from within, for threats that wore familiar faces, for the moment when Theon Greyjoy's resentment would finally find its target.
And somewhere in the depths of Winterfell, iron figurines waited with messages he still couldn't decipher, while enemies made plans he couldn't prevent.
The game was accelerating beyond his ability to control, and all he could do was try to save the pieces that mattered most when everything inevitably fell apart.
The choice was made. Now came the consequences.
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