Chapter 2: The King's Road Brings Shadows
The iron figurine's weight pressed against Kole's consciousness like a splinter in his mind. Three days had passed since finding it, three days of careful paranoia and heightened awareness. But paranoia was a luxury he couldn't afford today—the southern bells were ringing, and Robert Baratheon's massive procession crested the hills surrounding Winterfell.
Kole stood in formation with the household, trying to project the appropriate mixture of curiosity and nervousness. Around him, servants and soldiers maintained rigid attention while their lord's family arranged themselves by rank and protocol. Even from a distance, the royal entourage looked like something from a fever dream—hundreds of riders, dozens of wagons, banners snapping in the crisp northern air.
"There," Robb murmured beside him. "The golden banners. That's the Kingsguard."
Kole's enhanced vision picked out details the others couldn't see yet. Jaime Lannister rode at the procession's head, golden hair catching sunlight like a crown. Even at this distance, his arrogance was visible in the set of his shoulders, the casual way he handled his destrier. Behind him came Queen Cersei, beautiful and cold as winter morning, followed by Prince Joffrey whose cruel smile made Kole's enhanced reflexes twitch toward weapon hilts.
And there—rolling in a specially constructed wheelhouse—Tyrion Lannister. The Imp's mismatched eyes seemed to find Kole across the courtyard, studying him with unsettling intensity.
"Why's the dwarf starwhy a ward rates position in the welcoming party."ing at you?" Jon asked quietly.
Kole forced his expression to remain neutral. "Probably wondering why a ward rates position in the welcoming party."
But he knew better. Tyrion noticed everything, filed away every detail, and asked dangerous questions. In the show, he'd been one of the few characters who actively investigated mysteries instead of stumbling into them.
The procession flowed through Winterfell's gates like a golden river. King Robert himself appeared larger than life—massive shoulders, booming voice, the kind of presence that bent rooms to his will. But Kole's super-soldier senses detected the alcoholic flush in his cheeks, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his breathing labored after minimal exertion. This wasn't the warrior who'd smashed the Targaryens; this was a man drowning in wine and nostalgia.
"BOW, YA SHITS!" Robert bellowed, dismounting with theatrical flair.
The courtyard dropped to one knee in perfect unison. Kole held the position, watching from the corner of his eye as Robert embraced Ned with genuine affection. For a moment, the king looked almost human—just a man greeting his oldest friend.
"Cat!" Robert swept Catelyn into a bear hug that lifted her from the ground. "Still beautiful as the day Ned stole you from the Riverlands!"
The feast that followed stretched into the evening, filling Winterfell's great hall with southern voices and alien customs. Kole positioned himself strategically—close enough to observe the royal family, far enough to avoid direct attention. His enhanced hearing caught fragments of conversation over the general din.
"—boy's gotten tall—"
"—shame about the Arryn business—"
"—Jon looks just like Ned at that age—"
But it was the conversations he couldn't hear that worried him most. Cersei and Jaime exchanged meaningful glances across the high table. Tyrion's clever eyes tracked movement patterns among the serving staff. And Prince Joffrey watched Arya with the focused attention of a cat studying a mouse.
During a lull in the festivities, Kole slipped outside for air. The courtyard felt empty after the feast's chaos, moonlight turning familiar stones into alien geometry. He was checking sight lines to the broken tower when footsteps approached from behind.
"Unusual evening for sword practice."
Kole turned to find Tyrion Lannister approaching, wine cup in hand but walking steadier than his consumption should have allowed.
"Couldn't sleep, my lord. Too much excitement."
"Hmm." Tyrion studied him with those mismatched eyes. "You're the ward they found beyond the Wall. Kole Thorne, isn't it?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Curious name. Thorne. Not particularly Northern."
Kole's enhanced reflexes wanted to run, but he forced himself to remain casual. "I don't remember choosing it. Lord Stark named me for the thorns growing where they found me."
"Ah." Tyrion sipped his wine, never breaking eye contact. "And you remember nothing of your life before?"
"Fragments. Nightmares. Nothing useful."
"Pity. The mind is such a fascinating thing, don't you think? The way it protects us from trauma by hiding memories away. Sometimes I wonder if forgetting isn't more dangerous than remembering."
The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. Kole felt like a deer caught in torchlight, frozen while predators circled.
"If you'll excuse me, my lord—"
"Of course." Tyrion stepped aside with exaggerated courtesy. "Sleep well, Kole Thorne. Tomorrow brings such interesting possibilities."
Kole escaped to the broken tower, needing distance from Tyrion's penetrating questions. The ancient structure loomed against star-filled sky, its damaged crown a testament to some long-forgotten violence. According to castle lore, it had been broken by lightning and never properly repaired.
But Kole knew better. In the show, this tower served as Jaime and Cersei's trysting place. And tomorrow morning, Bran would climb these walls and discover them together.
The thought sent ice through his veins. He had to find a way to prevent it without revealing his foreknowledge. Maybe he could damage the handholds, make climbing impossible? Or arrange for Bran to be elsewhere when—
"You're up late."
Kole spun, enhanced reflexes bringing his hand halfway to his sword before recognition stopped him. Bran Stark sat on a low wall nearby, legs dangling in the air.
"Young lord. You startled me."
"Sorry." Bran grinned, unrepentant. "I like coming here at night. The broken tower feels different in moonlight."
At ten years old, Bran radiated the kind of fearless energy that made parents grey before their time. His dark hair caught starlight, and his grey eyes held the Stark intensity that skipped no generations.
"Does your mother know you're here?"
"Mother thinks everywhere is dangerous. If I listened to her, I'd never leave the godswood." Bran studied the tower's damaged crown with professional interest. "I could climb this, you know. The handholds are still good, and the view from the top must be amazing."
Kole's blood chilled. "That sounds dangerous."
"Everything fun is dangerous." Bran jumped down from the wall, landing with catlike grace. "Have you ever climbed anything really high?"
"Not by choice."
"You should try it sometime. There's this moment when you're halfway up—too high to climb down safely, but not high enough to see the view—where you realize you have to keep going. It's terrifying and wonderful."
The metaphor hit closer to home than Bran could know. Kole found himself studying the boy's face, searching for some hint of the man he'd become. In the show, Bran's fall had awakened his greensight abilities, transforming him from adventurous child to mystical sage. But the cost had been his legs, his childhood, and eventually his humanity.
"Promise me something," Kole said impulsively.
"What?"
"If you're going to climb something dangerous, tell someone first. Leave word where you're going."
Bran's expression grew suspicious. "Why?"
Because tomorrow you're going to fall and nearly die, and I'm the only one who can save you. "Because the castle needs its heir intact."
"I'm not the heir. Robb is."
"Heirs can have accidents too."
Bran considered this with ten-year-old seriousness. "I suppose that makes sense. All right—if I'm going somewhere really dangerous, I'll tell someone."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Relief flooded through Kole's chest. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it might give him the opening he needed. If Bran left word about climbing the broken tower, Kole could ensure he was positioned to help.
They walked back toward the keep together, Bran chattering about climbing techniques and Kole listening with half an ear. His enhanced senses picked up movement in the shadows—guards making their rounds, servants banking fires, the subtle sounds of a castle settling into sleep.
But there was something else. A presence in the darkness that didn't belong. Kole's super-soldier reflexes tensed, scanning for threats, but whatever he'd sensed remained hidden.
"—don't you think?"
"Sorry, what?"
Bran rolled his eyes with practiced exasperation. "I asked if you think the king's children look like him."
Kole glanced toward the royal tower, where golden light spilled from upper windows. "Not particularly."
"Father says children don't always favor their parents. But Prince Joffrey looks exactly like Ser Jaime, doesn't he? Same hair, same face shape. Even the way he holds his shoulders."
The observation was innocent enough, but it touched the heart of the realm's deadliest secret. Kole chose his words carefully.
"Resemblances can be deceiving."
"I suppose." Bran kicked at loose stones as they walked. "Still strange, though. You'd think the king's son would look more like the king."
They reached the main keep without further conversation. Bran headed for the family quarters while Kole climbed toward his own chambers. But at the final landing, he paused.
The iron figurine's presence called to him through stone and timber. Whatever message it carried, whoever had left it, the time for investigation was running out. Tomorrow would bring chaos—Bran's fall, accusations, the beginning of everything he remembered from the show.
Tonight might be his last chance for answers.
Kole retrieved the figurine from its hiding place and examined it by candlelight. The craftsmanship remained beyond anything he'd seen in Westeros. The wolf's eyes seemed to track his movements, and the carved rune at its base hurt to look at directly.
As he turned it in his hands, searching for additional clues, his enhanced senses detected the faintest sound—footsteps in the corridor outside, too careful to be casual movement.
Someone was coming.
Kole quickly hid the figurine and moved to his door, pressing his ear against the wood. The footsteps paused directly outside his chamber. A soft scraping sound followed, as though someone was examining his door's lock mechanism.
Then silence.
Kole waited thirty heartbeats before cracking the door open. The corridor stood empty, but his enhanced senses detected a new scent in the air—perfume and steel, an unusual combination that spoke of hidden blades and courtly deception.
On the floor beside his door lay a single black feather.
Kole stared at it for a long moment, mind racing through possibilities. A message? A warning? A threat? The symbolism could mean anything or nothing, but its placement was clearly deliberate.
He picked up the feather and closed the door, sliding the bar into place. Sleep would be impossible now, but that might be for the best. Tomorrow required perfect timing and split-second reactions.
As he settled into his chair to wait for dawn, Kole's enhanced hearing caught the distant sound of voices from the broken tower. Male and female, speaking too quietly for normal ears to distinguish words.
But his super-soldier senses had no such limitations.
"—can't keep doing this—"
"—no one comes here—"
"—too dangerous with the king—"
Jaime and Cersei, exactly as he'd expected. And somewhere in the castle, a ten-year-old boy was probably planning his morning climbing expedition, unaware that it would change everything.
Kole closed his eyes and tried to focus on the task ahead. He had one chance to save Bran without revealing his foreknowledge. One opportunity to change the course of events without breaking the cosmic barriers that kept his secrets safe.
The weight of the iron figurine pressed against his consciousness like a promise of revelation. But some mysteries would have to wait.
Dawn was coming, and with it, the first true test of whether knowledge could triumph over destiny.
From the direction of the broken tower, he heard the soft sound of a window being carefully opened. Soon, two lovers would retreat to their separate chambers, leaving behind only the lingering scent of forbidden passion and the stage set for tragedy.
Kole Thorne, ward of Winterfell and keeper of impossible secrets, settled in to wait for the moment when everything would change.
The question was no longer whether he could save Bran Stark.
The question was whether saving Bran would expose him to forces he wasn't ready to face.
Outside his window, the first hint of grey touched the eastern sky. Morning was coming, bringing with it shadows and screams and the sound of a small boy falling toward the stones below.
But this time, someone would be waiting to catch him.
POV: Bran
The morning sun painted Winterfell's walls gold and amber, and Bran Stark felt the familiar itch in his fingers that meant adventure was calling. Mother had forbidden him from climbing after yesterday's scolding about "appropriate behavior during the royal visit," but the broken tower beckoned like a lover's whisper.
Besides, he'd promised Kole he'd tell someone if he went somewhere dangerous. The tower qualified, and he'd kept his word by leaving a note under Jon's door. That counted, didn't it?
The broken tower stood apart from the main keep, its damaged crown reaching toward clouds like a stone finger pointing at heaven. Bran had studied its face a hundred times, memorizing every handhold and foothold, every crack that could support his weight. The climb was challenging but not impossible—exactly the kind of risk that made his blood sing.
He began his ascent slowly, savoring each carefully placed grip. The stone was old and weathered, but solid. His fingers found purchase in cracks worn by centuries of rain and snow, and his feet settled naturally into the familiar rhythm of the climb.
Halfway up, just as he'd told Kole, came the moment of commitment. Too high to retreat safely, too low to see the promised view. Bran grinned and kept climbing.
The voices reached him as he approached the tower's crown. Man and woman, speaking in urgent whispers that carried clearly in the morning air. Bran paused, curious. No one was supposed to use the broken tower—Father had declared it unsafe years ago.
"—this has to stop—"
"—you worry too much—"
"—if Robert finds out—"
Bran pulled himself higher, drawn by curiosity and the thrill of discovering adult secrets. The voices came from the tower's interior chamber, accessible only through a window that faced the godswood. If he could reach it without being seen...
The final stretch required all his skill. The handholds grew smaller and more widely spaced, forcing him to stretch his small frame to its limits. But finally, breathing hard from exertion and excitement, he reached the window ledge.
Inside, golden hair caught morning sunlight like spun metal. Bran's eyes widened as recognition struck him like a physical blow.
Queen Cersei knelt before Ser Jaime, her pale skin gleaming in the filtered light. Neither wore clothing, and they moved together with urgent passion that made Bran's cheeks burn with embarrassment and confusion.
He should leave. Climb down immediately and pretend he'd never seen anything. But fascination held him frozen as his mind struggled to process what his eyes reported.
The queen was supposed to be married to King Robert. Everyone knew that. So why was she here with Ser Jaime, doing things that looked suspiciously like what the stable boys whispered about when they thought no one was listening?
Ser Jaime's hands tangled in the queen's golden hair, and she made soft sounds that carried clearly through the open window. Bran felt heat spread across his face as understanding dawned.
This was definitely not something Mother would approve of.
A loose stone shifted under his foot, scraping against the tower's face with a sound like a blade on whetstone. Both figures inside the chamber froze, turning toward the window with expressions of shock and growing horror.
"Someone's there," Queen Cersei whispered, her voice carrying clearly in the sudden silence.
Bran tried to scramble away from the window, but his feet couldn't find purchase on the weathered stone. Panic made his movements clumsy, and suddenly he was falling backward into empty air, the tower's face rushing past his vision in a blur of grey stone and brilliant sky.
The scream tore from his throat before he could stop it—high and desperate, the sound of a child facing death. Wind roared in his ears, and the courtyard stones rushed up to meet him with terrible finality.
This was how he was going to die. Ten years old, falling from a broken tower because he couldn't resist the urge to climb. Mother would cry, and Father would blame himself, and Robb would have to be Lord of Winterfell sooner than anyone expected.
But the impact never came.
Instead, the world exploded into chaos. Metal shrieked and sang as every piece of iron in the courtyard seemed to tear free from its moorings. Nails pulled from walls, hinges screamed against stone, and a dozen swords rattled in their sheaths with music like wind chimes in a hurricane.
Bran felt his fall change direction, trajectory shifting as though invisible hands had caught him and hurled him sideways. He crashed into a pile of hay that definitely hadn't been there when he started climbing, landing with bone-jarring force that drove the air from his lungs but left him blessedly, miraculously alive.
Pain lanced through his left leg, and his shoulder felt like someone had hit it with a war hammer. But he was breathing, and his heart was beating, and the stones beneath him were hay-soft instead of death-hard.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard voices shouting, feet running, his mother screaming his name with a volume that could wake the dead. But louder than all of that was the sound of metal settling back into place—dozens of small impacts as nails and hinges and horseshoes returned to their proper positions.
Bran tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His vision swam, and his left leg sent spears of agony shooting up to his hip. But he was alive, against all probability and possibility.
Someone had saved him. But who? And how?
Through the crowd of gathering faces, he glimpsed Kole Thorne standing near the broken tower's base. The ward's hands were extended as though he'd been reaching for something, and blood ran from his nose in twin crimson streams. Their eyes met across the courtyard chaos, and Bran saw something in Kole's expression that made his breath catch.
Knowledge. Purpose. And underneath both, a fear so profound it made Bran's own terror seem like a minor concern.
Kole had known this was going to happen. Somehow, impossibly, he'd been waiting for it.
But before Bran could process that revelation fully, darkness closed over his vision like a gentle hand, and consciousness fled toward merciful oblivion.
POV: Kole
The screaming started before the echo of Bran's fall had faded. Catelyn's voice cut through the morning air like a blade, and suddenly the courtyard filled with running feet and shouted orders. Kole stood frozen near the tower's base, hands still extended from his desperate intervention, blood streaming from his nose in twin rivers that tasted of copper and desperation.
Around him, metal objects settled back into their proper places with a sound like rain on stone. Nails driven deep into wooden beams, horseshoes scattered across the yard, even the iron fittings on nearby doors—all had answered his panicked call, creating the chaotic magnetic field that had shifted Bran's trajectory just enough to save his life.
But the cost of that salvation was written in the faces of everyone who'd witnessed it. Maester Luwin knelt beside Bran's motionless form, his scholarly features tight with concentration as he checked for injuries. But his eyes kept darting toward Kole with expressions that mixed fascination and deep concern.
"Fetch my instruments," Luwin commanded, his voice cutting through the crowd's babble. "And someone prepare a litter. The boy's alive, but his leg is badly broken."
Catelyn pushed through the circle of onlookers, her face white as fresh snow. "How? How is he alive? That fall should have—"
"The hay cart," Ser Rodrik observed, his gruff voice carrying authority that parted the crowd. "Must have broken his fall."
Kole forced himself to look at the cart in question—an ordinary wagon filled with winter fodder that had definitely been positioned elsewhere when he'd checked the courtyard earlier. But questioning its placement would invite scrutiny he couldn't afford.
"Lucky," Tyrion Lannister's voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. The Imp emerged from the crowd, his mismatched eyes fixed on Kole with predatory intensity. "Remarkably, impossibly lucky. Almost as though someone arranged for that cart to be positioned in exactly the right place at exactly the right time."
The accusation hung in the air like smoke, and Kole felt the weight of dozens of stares. His enhanced senses detected elevated heart rates, the sharp scent of fear-sweat, the subtle rustling of hands moving toward weapon hilts.
"Are you suggesting someone pushed the boy?" Ned Stark's voice carried winter's edge as he emerged from the crowd, Ice's pommel visible over his shoulder.
"Not at all," Tyrion replied smoothly. "Merely observing the remarkable chain of coincidences that led to young Lord Bran's survival." His gaze never left Kole's face. "Tell me, ward—where were you when the boy began his climb?"
The question carried weight beyond its surface meaning. Kole felt like a deer caught in torchlight, surrounded by wolves who could smell blood in the water.
"Walking the yard," he said carefully. "I heard the scream and looked up in time to see him fall."
"And your first instinct was to... what? Reach out as though you could catch him from fifty feet away?"
Kole's enhanced reflexes wanted to run, but he forced himself to remain calm. "Instinct isn't always logical."
"No," Tyrion agreed, his smile sharp as broken glass. "It rarely is."
Before the interrogation could continue, Catelyn's voice cut through the tension like a sword stroke.
"Enough! My son is injured, and you're standing here playing word games!" She knelt beside Bran's still form, her hands hovering over his broken body with maternal desperation. "Maester, will he live?"
Luwin's examination continued with methodical precision. "The leg is badly broken, and he struck his head. But his breathing is steady, and I detect no signs of internal bleeding. With care and time, he should recover."
Relief flooded through the crowd like a tide. But Kole caught the careful qualifications in Luwin's words—should recover, not would. And the maester's eyes kept finding his face with expressions that promised future conversations.
"How?" Catelyn whispered, and the word carried the weight of a mother's prayers answered against impossible odds.
"Divine providence," Ser Rodrik suggested. "The gods protect the innocent."
"Indeed," came a new voice from the crowd's edge. Jaime Lannister approached with casual arrogance that barely concealed something else—fear? Recognition? His golden hair caught morning sunlight, and his green eyes held depths Kole couldn't read. "Young Lord Bran seems to have remarkable luck. Perhaps the old gods favor climbers."
The comment seemed innocent enough, but Kole caught the subtle emphasis on certain words. Jaime had seen something from the tower window—enough to know that luck alone hadn't saved Bran Stark.
Their eyes met across the courtyard, and understanding passed between them like lightning. Jaime knew about the metal manipulation, just as Kole knew about the queen's infidelity. They were bound now by mutual secrets, mutual vulnerabilities.
"The boy needs rest," Luwin announced, rising from his examination. "I'll set the leg properly once we get him to the maester's tower. But he should make a full recovery, given time."
As they prepared to move Bran, Kole felt a hand on his shoulder. Ned Stark stood beside him, grey eyes studying his face with paternal intensity.
"Walk with me," Ned said quietly.
They moved away from the crowd toward the godswood's edge. Ned's silence stretched like a bowstring until they reached the shade of ancient trees.
"That was well done," Ned said finally.
"My lord?"
"Being in position to help. Reading the situation quickly enough to act." Ned's voice carried approval mixed with something else—suspicion? "Almost as though you expected something to happen."
The words hit like a physical blow. Kole forced his expression to remain neutral while his mind raced through possible responses.
"I was worried about him," he said truthfully. "Last night he talked about climbing the broken tower. It seemed dangerous."
"And you were watching for him."
"Yes."
Ned nodded slowly. "That shows good instincts. The kind of awareness that keeps people alive." He paused, studying Kole's face with uncomfortable intensity. "The kind that comes from experience with danger."
The conversation balanced on a knife's edge. One wrong word could shatter his carefully constructed cover story.
"I don't remember my life before Winterfell," Kole said carefully. "But sometimes I have... feelings. About situations that might turn dangerous."
"Feelings."
"Instincts. Like something learned but forgotten."
Ned considered this for a long moment. Around them, the godswood felt heavy with watching presence, as though the old gods themselves were listening to their conversation.
"There's something I want you to know," Ned said finally. "About what happened today. People will talk. They'll ask questions about the hay cart, about coincidences, about metal objects that seemed to move on their own."
Kole's blood chilled. "My lord?"
"Ser Rodrik mentioned unusual sounds during the fall. Metallic noises, like sword blades singing in the wind." Ned's grey eyes never left Kole's face. "Maester Luwin noticed that several iron nails seemed to have pulled loose from the practice yard's wall."
The facts hung in the air like accusations. Kole felt the cosmic curse stirring, ready to scramble any attempt at explanation into meaningless poetry.
"I don't understand," he said honestly.
"Perhaps not. But understand this—Winterfell protects its own. Whatever happened today, whatever caused those unusual sounds or displaced objects, it saved my son's life." Ned's voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "And I won't forget that."
The promise wrapped around Kole like armor, but also like chains. Ned's protection came with expectations, obligations, and a scrutiny that could prove dangerous if applied too closely.
"Thank you, my lord."
"Don't thank me yet." Ned's smile held winter's edge. "Thank me when you've survived the attention that saving Bran's life will bring. The royal family has sharp eyes and long memories. Tyrion Lannister especially."
They walked back toward the courtyard in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. But as they approached the crowd still gathered around Bran's makeshift litter, Kole noticed something that made his enhanced senses scream warning.
Jaime Lannister was gone. And so was Queen Cersei.
The implications hit like a physical blow. If they were consolidating their story, planning their response to Bran's survival, then the game was about to become infinitely more dangerous.
Bran had seen them together. That much was obvious from the circumstances of his fall. But he was alive, conscious, and eventually would be able to talk about what he'd witnessed.
Which meant Kole's intervention hadn't prevented tragedy—it had only delayed it.
Somewhere in Winterfell's depths, plans were being made. Knives were being sharpened. And a ten-year-old boy's survival had just painted a target on his back that could be seen from King's Landing.
Kole touched his nose, where dried blood still caked his nostrils. The physical cost of using his abilities was manageable. But the political cost of exposure might prove fatal for everyone he cared about.
As they reached the crowd, Maester Luwin approached with a iron nail in his weathered palm.
"Lord Stark," the maester said quietly. "A word, if you please. About certain... unusual observations from this morning's events."
Ned nodded grimly. "Of course, Maester. We have much to discuss."
The reckoning was coming. Kole could feel it in the weight of watching eyes, in the whispered conversations that stopped when he drew near, in the careful distance other servants now maintained around him.
He'd saved Bran's life, but in doing so, he'd shattered the careful invisibility that had protected him for two years.
Now everyone would be watching. Everyone would be asking questions.
And somewhere in the castle's depths, enemies were already planning their response.
The game of thrones had found Kole Thorne, ward of Winterfell and keeper of impossible secrets.
The only question was whether he'd survive long enough to play it.
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