NOVEL NEXT CHAPTER 83: The Dread Game
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POV: Anonymous spy in Dreadfort, Redna's handler
Location: Dreadfort outskirts and Winterfell
Snow fell in dry sheets over the pale banners of House Bolton, dulling the crimson flayed man until it looked like rust.
The Dreadfort never changed, not truly. Its silence was heavy, its walls too still. Even when the wind howled, the place felt as though it were waiting—watching.
The man they called Willen now rode slow beneath those same walls. He wasn't a knight, nor a sellsword. A tanner's son once, a smuggler after, and now something else entirely: a shadow with a coin sewn into his cuff and the word Khar Vezhaan still cold in his ears.
His last contact had been two nights ago—a coded flare over the Wolfsgrasp basin. Green, then black. It meant danger. Possibly worse.
He had been sent by Redna, Arthur's veiled informant, to watch the shifting sands of Bolton allegiance. So far, there were too many signs to count.
Roose Bolton was rarely seen in daylight.
Letters came and went without sigil or seal.
And now, a girl—barefoot, cloaked, anonymous—had been spotted speaking to a wine trader who was never seen again after crossing the eastern wall.
Willen dismounted near the back compound, leading his horse through the alley of frostbitten kennels. None of the dogs barked. Not one.
He waited for his contact.
Nothing came.
Not the usual coin left under the ash barrel. Not the boot tap beneath the broken stair. Not even the scratch against the stable wall that meant Delay. Eyes watching.
It was silence. Full and final.
He glanced upward—briefly. Smoke from the master hall chimney. Activity. Not panic. But something felt off, like watching a pond freeze from beneath the water.
He moved quickly now, circling back toward the treeline and into the waiting snowdrift. His gloves were wax-lined. His blade, bronze-tipped, not steel. He didn't leave marks unless he meant to.
Midnight passed.
Then he saw it.
A raven—black but speckled oddly with pale streaks—flew from the tower with a note tied in two cords: one red, one brown.
That meant "Internal Dispute. No Result."
Redna would want that confirmed.
He scribbled it down in ciphered ink and vanished into the frost.
Winterfell – Two Days Later
The parchment landed on Redna's desk just past the first bell. She was in her usual room beneath the rookery, away from servants' eyes and maester's chatter.
Sarra entered, glancing over her shoulder.
"Another missing?"
Redna nodded. "Willen. Gone silent."
"You think he's dead?"
"I think he was never supposed to find what he found."
She tapped the letter twice with the back of her knuckle, a habit formed in Old Volantis when reading forgeries.
"No crest. No wax. But the script matches. And the raven carried a broken feather—cut on purpose."
Sarra frowned. "Roose?"
"Maybe. But I think it's worse."
Redna slid another letter across. It was a shipment manifest, unremarkable save for one line: "Northern Winter Dry—fermented by lake salt, sealed for pious markets."
Sarra blinked. "Faith-backed?"
"Maybe smugglers using the Faith's name. Or maybe not."
A long pause.
"Who was the girl?"
"No name. No trail. But she's been seen twice—once at the Dreadfort, once near Moat Cailin." Redna leaned forward. "Same cloak. Same pace. Never speaks. Just listens and walks."
"Assassin?"
"No," Redna said. "Something else. Too calm."
Sarra's mouth thinned. "How do you want to play this?"
"We hold. Don't act yet. We don't know who's playing the game." Redna sighed, eyes flicking to the map nailed behind her—small red threads connecting ravens, markers, and shadows.
"Arthur needs to know," Sarra said.
Redna looked out the frost-rimmed slit window. Beyond it, the sun was just rising over Winterfell's outer yard—Arthur was already out there, training guards in silence.
"He will," Redna murmured. "But not until I know if this is a trap... or an invitation."
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POV: Redna's handler (internal notes) & Rickard Stark
Location: Winterfell
Redna's agent—known only to Arthur and one scribbled name in a cipher book—slipped through the back halls of Winterfell at dusk, headed for the solar tower.
No torches. No guards.
Only a single candle burned beneath the stone arch as he stepped inside.
Rickard Stark looked up from a northern chart, the kind used by trappers and old forest clans—not maesters. The Lord of Winterfell wore his usual simplicity: black wool, grey wool, and the shadow of thought.
"You're the handler," Rickard said without turning.
"Yes."
"How many have you lost?"
"One. Perhaps two." The man hesitated. "Willen is overdue."
Rickard closed the book.
"And what do you suspect?"
"Roose Bolton is receiving unmarked letters. Trade manifests bear pious markers. Redna believes they are linked to southern interests."
"Faith-backed?"
"Or worse. There's talk of a girl. Silent. Consistent in movement. Never sleeps where she's seen."
Rickard's face didn't change. But he reached slowly for a second parchment—a report from Maester Walys. Not a coded message, but a general analysis on troop morale and noble dissatisfaction.
"You see this line?" Rickard pointed.
The handler nodded. "House Flint believes Arthur may be cultivating loyalty that rivals blood."
Rickard looked up. "I have known many who hide ambition behind virtue. But he… does not. And that is more dangerous to the old guard than ambition ever was."
The man paused. "Redna asked if you would sanction an extraction."
"No." Rickard's voice was firm. "We do not light fire where the snow might shield us."
"Then what?"
Rickard's eyes moved to the window, where Arthur stood teaching children with wooden spears. He said nothing for a long while.
Then: "Let them think they are winning. Let Roose think himself clever. Let the girl deliver her message."
"And if it's poison?"
Rickard's hand curled. "Then we learn who it was meant to kill—and who it was meant to save."
Later – In the Quiet Hall of Winterfell
Arthur stood in the training yard's shade, arms folded behind him, watching Benjen spar with the Hornwood boy again. It was not about strength anymore. It was about rhythm.
He didn't move, didn't speak, until Redna stepped beside him.
"Willen's gone," she said softly.
Arthur closed his eyes.
"And?"
"We suspect Roose is involved—but the shape of it is wrong. This isn't a move of control."
Arthur nodded. "It's fear. Or obligation."
She added, "There's a girl—never seen twice by the same man. Traders whisper she leaves no prints in fresh snow."
"Symbolism," Arthur murmured. "Or something worse."
"What do we do?"
He said nothing at first.
Then: "We keep training. We keep building. And we prepare for what comes after they think they've won."
He stepped forward, calling out to the students in the yard. His voice didn't rise, but it carried.
"When you are faced with a foe who hides his dagger," he said, "don't draw your own. Show him your hands—empty. Let him strike first. Then you know where his heart is."