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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Winterfell
Redna waited beneath the eaves of the old armory, where the stonework still bore scorch marks from a fire before her time.
Arthur found her leaning against the arch, arms crossed, hood half-raised though no snow fell. She didn't greet him. That wasn't her way.
"You're watching the guards again," Arthur said.
She nodded. "They rotate early now. Since the raid."
"They should."
Redna flicked her fingers toward the courtyard where new timber gates were being measured. "The North's rebuilding faster than I expected. But speed doesn't stop poison. Or whispers."
Arthur waited.
She didn't disappoint.
"I want to build a web," she said plainly. "A small one. No lords, no letters. Just ears in the right places. Eyes that know how to stay low."
Arthur's brow rose.
Redna pulled out a thin roll of cloth. Inside were small tokens—half-coin slivers, knotted strands of dyed wool, wax seals with no imprint.
"White Harbor. Barrowton. Last Hearth. I have three who listen, two who write, and one who… forgets nothing."
Arthur studied the pieces. "Why now?"
She met his eyes.
"Because what happened at the ridge, the raiders at the shore—none of that was random. Someone is moving pieces, and we're still playing catch-up."
Arthur said nothing for a long time.
Redna added, quieter, "You're strong. So is the group. But none of that means anything if someone poisons the well while we sleep."
He nodded slowly. "And you?"
She smiled faintly. "I don't want power. Just information. And a little distance."
Arthur considered. Then: "I'll speak to Rickard."
Rickard Stark's Solar – Late Afternoon
The flames in the hearth snapped louder than usual.
Rickard Stark poured two cups of warm blackroot tea but didn't offer either. Arthur remained standing, arms behind his back.
"You've never brought me a plan before," Rickard said mildly.
Arthur didn't smile. "This one doesn't come from me."
Rickard raised an eyebrow.
"A girl. Redna. One of the group."
"The thief?"
Arthur didn't flinch. "Not anymore."
Rickard sipped. "Continue."
"She wants to build a listening web. No highborn players. Just smallfolk. Low-risk movements. Information before it ripples too far."
Rickard studied the steam rising from his cup.
"And you support it?"
Arthur didn't answer directly. "Information is like steel. Better to wield it early than have it buried in your back."
Rickard hummed, eyes narrowing. "And what happens when your… Redna starts pulling from wells deeper than yours?"
"She answers to me."
"And you answer to?"
Arthur met his eyes. "No one. But I listen to you."
Rickard stood, setting the untouched cup on the windowsill.
"The North won't shelter shadows," he said evenly. "But we also won't die blind. Build your network—but keep it lean. If it grows too fast, I'll burn it from the roots myself."
Arthur inclined his head. "Agreed."
As Arthur turned to leave, Rickard added, "And if Redna steps out of line?"
"I'll stop her."
Rickard nodded once. "Then I'll hold you accountable."
Outside, the air had cooled. The sky was paling from orange to steel-blue.
Arthur pulled his cloak tighter, thoughtful.
The North had given him room to grow.
Now it watched to see what shape he took.
Winterfell – Lower Yard
That evening, Redna found a scrap of cloth tied beneath her bunk frame.
It hadn't been there this morning.
She unrolled it, eyes scanning the thin writing inked in charcoal—messy, slanted, but practiced.
"Move begins. Dreadfort line breached. Word on the road: 'The Bastard of Winter is not alone.'"
She read it twice.
Then burned it.
The Apothecary Cellar – Night
Vaeren Vell read the fumes of his distillate like others read letters. He tilted a glass vial just as Redna stepped into the cellar.
"You ever feel," she said, "like you're holding something that could kill everyone if it slips?"
Vaeren raised an eyebrow. "You just described alchemy."
Redna smirked. "We've got a whisper from the Dreadfort. They're talking about Arthur."
Vaeren put down the flask. "Roose Bolton?"
"Or one of his people. Not clear."
Vaeren wiped his hands. "You told Arthur?"
She hesitated. "Not yet."
Vaeren shrugged. "Then we prepare. You build your network. I'll start preparing for poison in our water supply."
She stared at him. "That a joke?"
"No," Vaeren said. "But it should be."
Outer Trees – Nightfall
Arthur sat by the godswood, cloak drawn close, eyes closed in shallow meditation. Not qi circulation. Not combat focus.
Something quieter.
Maelen crouched nearby, skin cold, hands deep in the fur of a borrowed wolf. His breathing matched the beast's, slow and alert.
"You felt it too?" Maelen asked.
Arthur opened one eye.
Maelen nodded. "A shift. In the north. Something is watching."
Arthur didn't speak.
The wolf growled softly.
Above them, a crow landed—silent and sharp-eyed.
One black eye. One pale.
Maelen blinked.
Arthur looked up.
The bird did not caw.
It simply stared.
Then lifted into the air and vanished north.