NOVEL NEXT Chapter 92: Fire in the Hall
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POV: Rickard Stark – Great Hall, Winterfell
The feast should have felt like celebration. The harvest had been generous. Winter provisions stored; trade routes thriving from White Harbor south into the interior. The hall held the warmth of cider and the scent of fresh-baked bread. Musicians played songs of snowborn warriors and red wolves, and banners fluttered overhead.
Rickard Stark watched it all from the high dais, expression unreadable. Too many of the minor lords had sent nephews or cousins, not heirs. Too many smiles looked studied. And most troubling of all—no ravens had answered his queries from the Citadel in weeks.
Arthur sat near the hearth, silent, flanked by Vaeren and Thom. Lyanna leaned back on her bench, observation sharp and steady. Redna was absent—by his design.
Maester Walys poured spiced wine into Rickard's cup. "The men are grateful," he said gently.
Rickard lifted the cup but did not drink. He murmured, "Fear hides easily beneath a full belly."
POV: Redna – Watchpost Above the Hall
Perched in a carved alcove, Redna watched guests sweep into the hall. She wore the guise of a serving handmaid, but beneath her cloak two knives rested in still readiness.
She noticed every shift in voice, the pause before toasts, the hesitations between platters. Arthur's warning ran through her mind: "Listen for absence. For the man who never coughs. The man who doesn't drink."
Her eyes landed on one man. Lean, dark-haired, moving too evenly. He carried a tray, but his boots gleamed as if untouched by the stone floor. His gaze never drifted.
Her breath slowed.
"He's here."
She slipped from her post and moved down.
POV: Anonymous Saboteur – Beneath the Feasting Fires
His identity no longer mattered. He was Hollow—no family, no fear, no personal hunger. Only memory of the whisper in his ear: He who walks with light must be dimmed.
He advanced toward Rickard's table, a second jug of cider in hand. The first had been slipped with a subtle toxin—enough to weaken. The second held the true poison: fever-inducing, slow. Enough to deliver leadership into chaos.
His sleeve hid the vial.
He leaned forward, hand poised.
POV: Redna – The Grab
A whisper of movement, and her hand snapped his wrist. His jug clattered across the table. Rickard startled; guests gasped but stayed seated.
Arthur appeared behind her, fingers pressed tight to the man's throat. The hall fell silent.
Redna ripped back the sleeve. A thin glass tube hit the floor, unbroken.
"This is an attempt to poison the Warden of the North," Arthur said quietly, but with a voice loud enough for the hall.
The saboteur's eyes flicked to the hearth. Fear bloomed. His lips parted. "I'm—so sorry."
He tipped forward. Wine flowed and mixed with blood as he convulsed. He collapsed, foam coating his mouth, eyes wide.
POV: Rickard Stark – The Stark Verdict
Rickard stood before the gathered nobles and sworn guests. Snow drifted outside as music and food had been cleared. Only the long tables remained.
On the nearest board, Redna laid the vial on clean cloth. "Poison sourced from the South—licorice, ironroot."
A Dreadfort bannerman spoke first: "This is madness. No proof it was the Faith—"
Rickard stood straighter. "Silence. That's how we lost those who watched the Wall."
He paced slowly. "My sons sleep in this keep. My daughter trains in these halls. And now they send poison—because they believe we do not bow fast enough."
He paused and looked each man in the eye. "If they fear strength, let them fear it plainly within steel and snow. They shall not hide beneath us."
He raised his voice. "If the South wants our fire—let them walk through winter to get it."
POV: Redna and Arthur – Quiet Aftermath
Later, they stood beneath the silent trees of the godswood, breath visible in the cold air.
"There will be more," Redna said. "Disguised merchants. Agents sworn in fresh names. Fanatics wearing smiles."
Arthur did not flinch. "We don't kill them all," he said.
Redna frowned. "Why not?"
"Because if we do, they send armies. But if one returns trembling to the South with stories of wolves who don't fight in anger—they'll fear us more than they hate us."
Redna offered a weary smirk. "That's merciless."
Arthur nodded softly. "It's measured."
POV: Anonymous Observer – Snowfall Over Wolfsblood Ridge
In the hills near Hollow Vale, Vaeren guided a new scout cell through silent drills. Below, Thom taught wound-binding to two young girls from a local farm.
In Winterfell, Lyanna trained women and lowborn alike beneath drifting snow—precise arcs, deliberate strikes, unbroken rhythm.
Deep beneath the keep, in the crypts, Maelen whispered to his wolf beside flickering torchlight. "They want to fracture us. To make us doubt each other."
The wolf made no sound—only stayed close, silent and alert.
The night sky held no answers.
But the North listened.