Chapter 7: Whispers from the South
POV: Robb
The raven arrived at dawn, black wings against grey sky, and Robb Stark knew from the bird's labored flight that it carried more weight than parchment and ink. Maester Luwin's face was ashen as he climbed the stairs to the solar, his chain of office jangling with each hurried step.
Kole followed behind the maester like a shadow, his presence both comforting and unsettling. There was something in the ward's expression—not surprise, never surprise, but the awful anticipation of someone watching a sword fall in slow motion.
"My lord," Luwin said, offering the scroll with hands that trembled slightly. "From King's Landing."
Robb broke the royal seal with fingers that felt clumsy and distant. The parchment crackled like winter ice as he unfolded it, and the words swam before his eyes like fish in murky water.
He read it once. Twice. Three times.
The letters remained the same, but their meaning felt impossible to process. His father—Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms—accused of treason. Arrested. Confined to the Red Keep's dungeons. Facing judgment for crimes against the crown.
"No." The word escaped his throat like a dying breath. "This is... this is madness."
Robb's hands began to shake, the parchment rustling with the tremor of rage and disbelief that coursed through his veins like poison. Around him, the solar felt too small, too confining, the ancient stones of Winterfell suddenly unable to contain the fury building in his chest.
"The Lannisters are lying," he said, his voice growing stronger with each word. "Father would never commit treason. Never. This is their doing—Cersei's, Joffrey's, whoever's pulling the strings now that Robert is dead."
He looked up to find Kole watching him with those grey eyes that seemed to hold depths of knowledge no nineteen-year-old should possess. There was pain there, and something else—guilt? Fear? The ward's jaw worked as though he was struggling to form words.
"We march south immediately," Robb continued, his mind already racing through logistics and possibilities. "Call the banners. Every lord, every knight, every man who can hold a sword. We'll ride to King's Landing and—"
"The golden lions feast while the headsman sharpens his—"
Kole's words cut off abruptly, his face flushing with frustration as the sentence collapsed into meaningless sounds. He pressed his palm against his forehead like a man fighting a headache.
"What?" Robb demanded.
"Sorry. Sometimes... sometimes words come out wrong. The head injury." Kole's explanation sounded hollow even to Robb's ears. "I was trying to say we should be careful. Think this through."
"Think it through?" Robb stood so quickly his chair scraped against stone. "They have my father in chains! They're calling him a traitor when he's served the realm faithfully for decades!"
"I know. But rushing south without a plan—"
"Will what? Give them time to execute him?" Robb began pacing the solar's length, his father's words echoing in his memory: A lord protects his people. A son protects his family. "No. We gather our strength and we ride hard. Every day we delay is another day he suffers in their dungeons."
Maester Luwin cleared his throat with the delicate sound of someone interrupting a force of nature. "My lord, perhaps we should consider... other options. Negotiation. A formal appeal to—"
"To whom?" Robb whirled on the old man, his grief transforming into anger that needed a target. "Robert is dead. Joffrey sits the Iron Throne, and he's a vicious child who probably ordered this arrest himself. Who exactly should we appeal to?"
The chamber fell silent except for the whisper of wind through the windows and the distant sounds of castle life continuing despite the crisis that threatened to tear their world apart. Robb felt the weight of leadership settling on his shoulders like a iron cloak—heavy, cold, and impossible to remove.
By midday, ravens had flown to every corner of the North. By evening, the responses began arriving with the fury of a summer storm. The Greatjon's reply came scrawled in letters that looked like battle scars across the parchment: THE LANNISTERS WILL PAY IN BLOOD. WE RIDE FOR HOUSE STARK.
Similar sentiments arrived from Karstark, Mormont, Glover, and every other lord who had sworn fealty to Winterfell. Within hours, the great hall filled with the sound of boots on stone and voices raised in anger that shook the ancient rafters.
Robb stood before the high table, looking out at faces he'd known since childhood—men who had served his father, who had bent the knee to Stark lords for generations, who now looked to him for leadership in the darkest hour their house had faced since the rebellion.
"My lords," he began, his voice carrying clearly through the vaulted chamber. "You know why we're here. You know what the South has done to our lord, our friend, our—"
"Enough words!" The Greatjon's voice boomed like thunder, drowning out Robb's carefully planned speech. The massive lord stood at his place near the high table, his face red with wine and rage. "We all know why we're here! The fucking lions think they can cage a wolf!"
A roar of agreement rose from the assembled lords. Swords began appearing on tables, steel singing against leather as men drew their blades in symbolic preparation for war.
"We'll ride south and free Lord Eddard by force!" the Greatjon continued, his voice growing louder with each word. "Show these southron cunts what Northern steel tastes like!"
"Aye!" Lord Karstark stood, his own sword gleaming in the torchlight. "They want war? We'll give them war!"
The hall erupted in chaos—cheers, curses, the scrape of chairs as men leaped to their feet in their eagerness to spill blood. Robb felt the energy of it washing over him like a tide, the primitive satisfaction of righteous anger given voice and purpose.
But through the noise, he heard another voice. Quiet, desperate, fighting to be heard above the din.
"Wait." Kole had risen from his place at the side table, his face pale as fresh snow. "Please, just... consider alternatives. Negotiation. Hostage exchanges. Anything to buy—"
"Buy what?" the Greatjon roared. "Time for them to sharpen the headsman's axe?"
Kole's face went white as winter. For a moment, he looked like a man who'd been struck by lightning, his mouth working soundlessly as though fighting some invisible constraint.
"They'll kill him if you—" he began, then stopped abruptly, his hands clenching into fists. "The golden crow sings while the—" Again he stopped, frustration and something that looked like terror warring in his expression.
"More poetry?" Lord Karstark sneered. "The ward's cracked head speaking riddles while Lord Eddard rots in chains?"
Kole's frustration finally exploded into action. He slammed his fist down on the table with enhanced strength that split the oak like kindling.
Every sword in the hall began to vibrate.
The sound was impossible to ignore—steel singing against steel, a metallic harmony that rose from dozens of blades simultaneously. Conversations died mid-word as men stared at their weapons in shock and growing unease.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the Greatjon, never at a loss for words, simply stood with his mouth open as his sword continued to hum with impossible resonance.
"Enough," Robb said quietly, his voice carrying clearly in the unnatural stillness. "All of you. We'll continue this discussion tomorrow, after tempers have cooled and we've had time to plan properly."
The lords filed out in subdued confusion, casting glances back at Kole that mixed fear with speculation. Within minutes, the great hall stood empty except for Robb, Maester Luwin, and the ward who had somehow made every piece of steel in Winterfell sing with a single blow.
"We need to talk," Luwin said quietly to Kole. "About what just happened. About what you're becoming."
But Robb barely heard the exchange. His mind was consumed with images of his father in chains, of the choices that lay ahead, of the war that seemed inevitable despite every attempt at reason.
The North was marching to war. And somehow, impossibly, their success might depend on a ward with mysterious gifts and an apparent ability to make metal bend to his will.
The question was whether that would be enough to save Ned Stark's life.
POV: Kole
After the lords dispersed, Kole found Robb in the godswood, kneeling before the heart tree with his head bowed in prayer or despair. Snow had begun falling—fat, lazy flakes that caught in the branches like scattered stars and turned the ancient grove into something from a winter fairy tale.
Kole approached carefully, his enhanced hearing picking up the whispered words Robb spoke to the carved face that had watched over Starks for centuries.
"Father, if you can hear me... I don't know what to do. I don't know how to save you."
The raw pain in Robb's voice hit Kole like a physical blow. This was his fault. His choice to stay at Winterfell instead of riding south with Ned, his inability to speak warnings that might have prevented this disaster, his cosmic curse that turned every attempt at useful prophecy into meaningless poetry.
He sat on the frost-covered ground beside Robb, offering presence instead of words that would only be scrambled into nonsense.
"I have the powers of a demigod and the influence of a prisoner. What good is seeing the future if I'm mute in the present? What's the point of all this strength, all these abilities, if I can't save the people I care about?"
"You knew something like this might happen, didn't you?" Robb asked without looking up from his prayers. "Your warnings, your cryptic words—you've been trying to tell me the South is poison."
Kole nodded, not trusting his voice. The cosmic curse would scramble any attempt to explain his foreknowledge, but simple acknowledgment seemed safe enough.
"I wish I could explain everything," he said carefully. "But I can't. All I can do is stand beside you in what's coming."
"Then that's what I need." Robb finally looked up, his young face aged by grief and responsibility that no nineteen-year-old should have to bear. "Not prophecies. Not riddles. Just loyalty."
They sat together in comfortable silence as snow continued to fall around them. The godswood felt separate from the world's troubles—a pocket of peace in a realm spiraling toward war. But Kole knew the tranquility was an illusion. Tomorrow would bring more ravens, more demands for action, more pressure to march south into a trap he could see but couldn't articulate.
"The lords want blood," Robb said eventually.
"Lords always want blood. It's easier than thinking."
"But they're not wrong, are they? We can't just leave Father to rot in their dungeons. We can't let the Lannisters think they can destroy House Stark without consequences."
Kole chose his words with surgical precision. "Sometimes the best way to save someone is to appear weak while you're actually getting stronger. Let them think they've won while you gather allies and plan carefully."
"That sounds like cowardice."
"It sounds like strategy. Your father taught you that, didn't he? That honor without intelligence is just a faster way to die?"
Robb was quiet for a long moment, considering this. Around them, the snow continued to fall with the gentle persistence of winter making its claim on the world.
"Will you come south with us?" Robb asked finally. "When we march? I know you wanted to stay and protect Winterfell, but I... I could use someone who sees things differently than the lords. Someone who might help me think instead of just fight."
The request was everything Kole had hoped for and feared. Riding south with Robb meant a chance to influence events directly, to possibly prevent the worst disasters that awaited the young lord. But it also meant leaving Winterfell vulnerable to Theon's eventual betrayal, and abandoning Bran and Rickon to whatever schemes Ramsay Bolton was already crafting.
He couldn't be in two places at once. And the cosmic curse meant he couldn't explain why the choice mattered so much.
"I think you need me here more than there," Kole said finally. "Someone has to protect what you're fighting for. Someone has to make sure there's still a Winterfell for you to come home to."
Robb's disappointment was visible, but he nodded with the understanding that came from growing up in a world where duty often conflicted with desire.
"You're probably right. But I'll miss having you at my side."
"You'll have good men with you. The Greatjon, Lord Karstark, your mother's uncle. They'll keep you safe."
"If only it were that simple. If only I could tell you about the Red Wedding, about Roose Bolton's betrayal, about the choices that will lead you to your death. But every time I try, the curse scrambles the words into nonsense."
They stood as the snow began falling harder, transforming the godswood into a cathedral of white silence. As they walked back toward the castle, Robb gripped Kole's shoulder with brotherly affection.
"Whatever happens," Robb said, "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad Father found you beyond the Wall."
"So am I," Kole replied, meaning it despite everything. "So am I."
That night, as Kole lay in his chambers listening to the sounds of an army being born—horses being shod, weapons being sharpened, supplies being gathered—he felt the weight of impossible choices pressing down on him like a physical thing.
Tomorrow, Robb would ride south to save their father. Within weeks, if Kole's memories of the show were accurate, Ned Stark would be dead and the War of the Five Kings would begin in earnest.
And there was nothing he could do to prevent it except watch, wait, and try to save the pieces that remained when everything inevitably fell apart.
The iron figurines hidden beneath his mattress seemed to pulse with sympathetic resonance, as though they understood the burden of knowledge without power, of seeing disaster approach and being unable to speak its name.
Somewhere in the castle's depths, plans were being made that would determine the fate of everyone he cared about. And all he could do was prepare for the storms ahead while praying he'd be strong enough to weather them.
The game of thrones was accelerating beyond anyone's ability to control. And Kole Thorne, ward of Winterfell and keeper of impossible secrets, was running out of time to prepare for the consequences of choices he couldn't prevent.
But he would be ready. Whatever came next, whatever betrayals and disasters awaited, he would be ready to protect the people who mattered when the world finally caught fire around them.
The snow continued to fall outside his window, and winter was coming whether anyone was prepared for it or not.
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