NOVEL NEXT CHAPTER 81: Southward Eyes
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POVs: Redna, Rickard Stark
Location: White Harbor, Winterfell
Part I: Redna – Waters of White Harbor
The sea was quieter in White Harbor than it ever was near Wolfsgrasp. Here, the waves didn't roar—they whispered. Redna preferred whispers. They told you more than shouts ever could.
She stood along the edge of the stone quay, watching dockhands unload casks of wine, grain, and rarer goods brought up from the south. The merchant ship bore no sigil—only sails stitched in dull gray, common enough to slip through without much inspection. That made her curious.
She drifted down the pier, hood drawn, ears sharpened beneath its shadow. Conversations flowed like riverwater:
"…those Reachmen always haggling, and then crying when they lose a coin—"
"…heard the Manderly boy's doing well in that Hollow Vale school…"
"…seven bless, that place sounds more like a war camp…"
That last one made her pause.
The Hollow Vale. The term had caught on quickly. A name Arthur had chosen himself—intentionally rootless, neutral, almost vague. Yet already it was traveling, sewn into sailor gossip and market talk like smoke into wool.
She waited until the crates were rolled up the slope toward the gates, then slipped between a stack of barrels beside the ship. A merchant she recognized from Gulltown emerged—clean robes, soft hands. Not a sailor. Definitely not a soldier. His boots were new. His ring bore a tiny, etched flame.
Redna frowned.
A few moments later, she caught sight of another. A gaunt man in a septon's brown robes—too simple for the glimmer in his eyes—handed the merchant a rolled bundle of thin paper sealed with wax. Redna didn't catch the sigil, if there was one. But she saw the man's lips move:
"…Valyrian. Anything linked. Even books."
Then the two parted, vanishing into separate streets.
She waited half a minute before moving.
Redna's Journal (later that night, in code):
"Faith-backed inquiries. Seeking bloodlines or artifacts 'of the flame.' Possible interest in Hollow Vale operations. Spreading rumors in port cities. Must inform Arthur and Rickard immediately. Suspect links to Oldtown faction. The Reach, perhaps. Possibly the Crown."
Part II: Rickard Stark – The Heart of Winterfell
Rickard Stark studied the letter in silence.
It lay upon the table in his solar, unrolled and pinned at both ends. The wax seal had been cracked—not by force, but by care. It bore the personal mark of a Manderly merchant-scribe, passed through trusted hands.
He read the words again.
"There is talk in Oldtown… of northern practices declared impure. Maesters whisper of strange training, strength drawn not from steel but breath and flame.
They've begun calling it the Hammer Doctrine—mockingly. But some take it seriously.
Be warned, Lord Stark. The Seven do not enjoy being mocked. Nor does their Reach."
Rickard leaned back slowly, eyes hard. His fingers curled against the armrest.
So the whispers had reached that far already.
Arthur's reforms—his training, his refusal to name lords and ladies above worth—were beginning to shake more than the North. They stirred fear in the South. Not because of violence, but because of what they implied: that power might be earned, not inherited.
And now the Faith was listening.
He looked toward the fire and saw his son's seat—empty for now. Benjen was with Maester Walys, reading some old account of kings long forgotten.
Rickard muttered, almost to himself, "They call us savages. But they'd sooner burn what they fear than learn why it exists."
A knock.
"Enter."
Redna stepped in, her face veiled in travel dust, cloak still damp with harbor air. She unrolled her notes—precise, coded, and already annotated.
He read them without interruption.
When he finished, he nodded once.
"Faith-backed traders," he said, voice grim. "As merchants or spies?"
"Both," Redna said. "But they're not just watching. They're searching—for anything 'linked to the flame.' I think they mean Valyrian descent. Or remnants of it."
Rickard closed his eyes for a moment. "Then Arthur is in greater danger than I feared."
"They won't strike openly. Not yet," Redna said. "But they're testing the waters. Quietly. Like they always do."
"And the Hollow Vale?"
"Safe. For now. But watched. They view it as heresy. A challenge to divine order. Oldtown is listening."
Rickard exhaled. "Then so must we."
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POV: Rickard Stark
Location: Winterfell Solar – That Night
Rickard Stark moved through the dim-lit corridors of Winterfell, the halls quiet but never truly still. Even the stones had grown more alert of late—strained by whispers, cracked beneath old weight.
He returned to the solar, where Redna remained seated, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. Outside, the wind had picked up, brushing snow against the shutters like skeletal hands tapping for entry.
Rickard didn't sit.
Instead, he walked to the map table where the North spread across hide parchment. Pins marked key settlements. Recent additions glinted like fresh wounds—points of interest in Arthur's growing network of influence. Wolfsgrasp. The Hollow Vale. Training posts in Barrowlands. Scouts near Sea Dragon Point.
"It was inevitable," he said quietly. "The more he gave the North structure, the more it would provoke the South's fear."
Redna nodded. "They don't fear Arthur the man. Not yet. They fear the example."
Rickard turned. "Faith-based merchants bearing sermons instead of trade. And now Oldtown? What next?"
"Aerys," she said.
The word hung in the air like frost.
Rickard's eyes darkened. "Does he know?"
"He suspects," she said. "Or rather, those around him do. He listens through madness—rants of rebellion, of northern sorcery. Varys will try to stall it. But not forever."
Rickard moved to the hearth. "He sees the North through fire-colored glass. Everything shaped by what burns."
"Then let him look away for now," Redna offered. "Let us keep Arthur beneath the ice."
He didn't respond. The flames crackled. A log split with a sharp crack.
After a pause, Redna added, "There's more. I have confirmed a Reach noble house has begun circulating contracts—covert, encoded—to send agents north in the guise of chroniclers. They seek 'anomalous traits' in bloodlines."
Rickard turned slowly. "Valyrian?"
"Or rumored to be. There's an obsession among certain Faith sects—those who claim divine right to extinguish 'tainted' lineages."
Rickard's eyes narrowed.
"And what would they do if they found one?"
Redna said nothing. She didn't need to.
POV: Rickard Stark (continued)
Location: Godswood, Winterfell – Later that night
The heart tree stood still beneath the moonlight. Its face carved in sorrow, as it had been for centuries. Rickard stood before it alone, arms behind his back, breath misting in the cold.
He'd dismissed the guards. He wanted no ears, no steel but his own.
"Old gods," he murmured. "Do you watch still? Or do you sleep now, beneath your roots?"
The wind whispered through branches, brushing ice from the boughs.
He continued, "They call Arthur a threat to the order. To their kings, their fire, their blood. And maybe he is."
The silence was not judgmental. It was ancient. A stillness that had endured the fall of dragons, kings, and bastards alike.
"He does not ask for power," Rickard said. "But it follows him. I've seen it—seen men twice his age bow without command. Women listen. Boys mimic. Not because he commands. Because he teaches."
He exhaled, voice quiet. "And that frightens them more than swords ever could."
Behind him, a wolf howled once.
Rickard turned toward the path back to the keep.
"Then we prepare," he muttered. "If the South dares to strike at us for what we teach, then let them come—ignorant, blind, and afraid."
He walked away, leaving only footprints in the snow. The heart tree watched.
POV: Redna (Final segment)
Location: White Harbor, Docks – The Next Morning
She watched the morning fog lift over the ships. Another trader arrived—this one marked in soft green and gold.
She observed quietly, unnoticed, as another man with septon's rings stepped down and exchanged quick, practiced words with a harbor official.
She noted the pattern. The arrival. The smile. The way the coins were passed, as if sealing something unspoken.
Redna turned, not hurrying. She'd already memorized the merchant's face, the insignia on the crate, the direction of the cart.
She had what she needed.
Now she would return north—to Winterfell, to Arthur, and to Rickard.
Because the South had turned its eyes northward.
And the North?
The North was no longer blind.