Chapter 3: The Banners Gather, The Ancient Echoes Stir
The courtyard of Winterfell was a sea of grim faces under a sky the colour of old iron. The household guard, supplemented by men-at-arms and even some hardy stablehands and groundskeepers who could wield a spear or an axe, stood assembled. Their breath misted in the frigid morning air, a collective plume of anticipation and simmering anger. They had heard the whispers, the horrifying confirmation of their Lord's and his heir's fate. Now, they awaited the word of the new Lord Stark.
Voldemort, clad in the austere dark leathers Eddard favoured, stood on the steps leading to the Great Hall, Ice strapped to his back. The Valyrian steel was a potent symbol, its dark ripples seeming to drink the meagre light. He had spent the last hour mentally preparing, not just the words he would speak, but the precise emotional resonance he needed to project. Grief, yes, but not a debilitating one. Righteous fury, controlled and channelled. Grim determination. The unwavering resolve of a Stark about to lead his people into the storm.
He looked out over them, his grey eyes – Eddard's eyes, yet now possessing a depth of ancient coldness that none could fathom – sweeping across their ranks. He saw loyalty, fear, anger, and a desperate need for leadership. He would give it to them, and in doing so, bind them ever tighter to his will.
A hush fell as he raised a hand.
"Men of Winterfell," his voice rang out, clear and strong, carrying across the yard with an unnatural resonance, a subtle infusion of his own magical power lending it an almost hypnotic quality. It was Eddard's cadence, Eddard's Northern tones, but with an underlying authority that was pure Voldemort. "You have heard the tidings from the south. Tidings of treachery, of madness, of murder."
A low growl rumbled through the crowd, a collective affirmation of their outrage.
"My father, Rickard Stark, your Warden, summoned to King's Landing to answer baseless charges, was brutally, inhumanly slain by the command of Aerys Targaryen." He let the words hang, heavy and damning. "My brother, Brandon Stark, your future lord, met a similar fate, a victim of the same royal depravity."
He paused, allowing the stark horror of the statement to sink in. He projected Eddard's grief, a wave of controlled sorrow that washed over the assembly, and saw it reflected in their hardened faces. He saw fists clench, jaws tighten. Good. Their anger was his tool.
"They say the King is mad," Voldemort continued, his voice dropping slightly, drawing them in. "But madness is no excuse for tyranny. Madness is no excuse for the slaughter of honourable men. Madness is no excuse for spitting on the ancient rights and dignities of the North!"
This time, the response was louder, a surge of defiant roars. "No!" "Shame!" "Death to the Targaryens!"
Voldemort raised his hand again, and the crowd, surprisingly quickly, fell silent once more. His presence, his aura, was more commanding than Eddard's alone would have been.
"Aerys Targaryen has thrown down a gauntlet of blood and fire," he declared, his voice now like the crack of winter ice. "He has spat on our honour, murdered our kin, and sought to break the spirit of the North. He believes us to be distant, isolated, easily cowed." He let a dangerous smile, more wolfish than Stark-like, touch his lips for a fleeting moment. "He is wrong."
A thunderous cheer erupted. The men stamped their feet, raised their weapons, their voices a unified chorus of defiance.
"The North remembers!" Voldemort bellowed, using the ancient Stark words, infusing them with a chilling promise. "We remember the oaths of loyalty that bind us. We remember the blood that has been spilled. We remember the price of tyranny!"
He drew Ice, the massive Valyrian steel blade hissing from its scabbard. The dark metal seemed to absorb the grey light, and for a moment, a trick of the eye or something more, the ripples within it seemed to glow with a faint, crimson light.
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North!" he proclaimed, his voice now imbued with the full force of his will, a power that few in this world could comprehend, let alone resist. "And I say to you now: we will answer this outrage! We will call our banners! We will march south! And we will not return until justice has been served, until the Mad King has paid for his crimes in blood and sorrow!"
The courtyard exploded. Helmets were thrown in the air, swords and axes brandished, a deafening roar of approval shaking the very stones of Winterfell. They chanted his name: "Stark! Stark! Eddard Stark!"
Voldemort stood impassive, letting their adulation, their fury, wash over him. It was intoxicating, this raw, untamed loyalty. So much easier to manipulate than the sycophantic fear of his Death Eaters, who followed him for power or out of terror. These men believed they were following a righteous cause, embodied by their honourable lord. The deception was exquisite.
"Ser Rodrik!" Voldemort commanded over the din. "Begin the preparations immediately. Every man fit to fight will be armed and drilled. Send out the fastest riders to our bannermen. Tell them their Lord calls. Tell them to gather their strength and make for Winterfell. We ride as soon as the hosts are assembled!"
"Aye, Lord Stark!" Rodrik Cassel's voice was hoarse with emotion, his eyes shining with fierce pride. He turned and began barking orders, the courtyard transforming into a hive of purposeful activity.
Voldemort watched them for another moment, the architect of this burgeoning storm. Eddard Stark would have done this out of duty, out of a heavy heart. Voldemort did it with a cold, exhilarating sense of power and anticipation. The game was afoot.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of activity, perfectly orchestrated by the new Lord of Winterfell. Ravens flew, carrying carefully worded messages to Storm's End and the Eyrie, messages that conveyed Eddard's profound grief and unshakeable resolve, subtly underscoring the Mad King's barbarity to sway any wavering opinions in the south. Riders on swift horses thundered out to the keeps of the Northern lords, bearing the stark summons.
Voldemort, meanwhile, immersed himself in a dual existence. By day, he was the grieving but resolute Lord Stark, overseeing preparations, consulting with Ser Rodrik on military matters, and with Vayon Poole on the immense logistical challenge of supplying an army. He met with the stonemasons to ensure Winterfell's defenses were sound, with the smiths to expedite weapon and armour production, his questions pointed, his expectations exacting. Eddard's knowledge provided the framework; Voldemort's intellect sharpened every decision.
By night, however, or in the stolen hours of supposed solitary grief, he delved into the ancient texts Maester Walyskan had dutifully provided. The chamber Eddard used as a solar became Voldemort's laboratory of lore. Piles of brittle scrolls and heavy, leather-bound tomes covered the large oak table. The air grew thick with the scent of old parchment and drying ink.
His primary interest lay in the magical undercurrents of this world, the forces that Eddard had taken for granted or dismissed as mere legend. He devoured accounts of the First Men, their pacts with the Children of the Forest, the nature of the Old Gods and the weirwood net. The concept of a vast, interconnected consciousness embedded within these ancient trees fascinated him. Was it a source of power? A means of communication? A way to see, truly see, across vast distances and perhaps even through time?
Eddard's nascent greensight was becoming more pronounced under Voldemort's focused will. It wasn't just fleeting images anymore. Sometimes, as he read of the Children, their skin like bark and their eyes like pools of molten gold, he would get vivid flashes: shadowy figures moving through primeval forests, the sound of singing in a forgotten tongue, the chilling howl of a direwolf that seemed to echo from the dawn of time.
One evening, while poring over a fragmented scroll allegedly transcribed from a song of the Children, a particularly strong vision seized him. He saw a man, tall and gaunt, with eyes that burned like blue stars, leading an army of the dead, their flesh withered, their bones clattering. A wave of unnatural cold accompanied the vision, so intense that the fire in his hearth seemed to dim. The Others. The White Walkers. Eddard's mind supplied the names, the folklore dismissed by most learned men. But the vision felt terrifyingly real, a potent warning. This was not a mere political squabble for a throne; a far greater, more ancient threat loomed. Voldemort filed this away. Such a power, if it could be understood, could perhaps be controlled, or at least deflected towards his enemies.
He found frustratingly little on the practical applications of blood magic beyond vague warnings and tales of dark rituals. The Valyrians, with their dragon-forged steel and sorcery that had built an empire and then consumed it, were an enigma. The texts spoke of their power with awe and terror, but the specifics of their magic were lost, buried under the ruins of their homeland. "Dragonfire and spells" was a common refrain regarding Valyrian steel, but what spells? What rituals? Ice, leaning against the wall, seemed to watch him, its secrets locked within its smoky depths. He ran a finger along its edge, feeling the impossible sharpness, the faint thrum. It was more than just metal. It was a conduit.
The concept of a Philosopher's Stone, as he understood it from his own world, had no direct parallel in the Westerosi texts. But there were whispers of longevity, of unnatural life, tied to the deep magic of the earth, to the weirwoods, or to obscure Valyrian practices. He began to formulate theories, dangerous and heretical by the standards of this world, involving the unique properties of weirwood sap, perhaps combined with blood sacrifice and incantations adapted from his own vast grimoire of dark arts. The heart trees, with their bleeding faces and roots sunk deep into the earth, felt like focal points of immense, untapped power.
The Deathly Hallows remained a more abstract pursuit, a conceptual understanding that their principles of power might be mirrored or recreated here. If Valyrian steel, like Ice, represented ultimate martial power (the Elder Wand), what of the Resurrection Stone? The crypts beneath Winterfell, where generations of Starks lay entombed, pulsed with a faint, cold energy. Eddard's memories contained a deep-seated reverence and a touch of fear regarding the lowest levels, where the Kings of Winter rested with iron swords across their laps to keep vengeful spirits from rising. Voldemort wondered if these weren't just superstitions. Could those spirits be… contacted? Commanded? As for a Cloak of Invisibility, the silent, watchful nature of the godswood, the way shadows clung to the ancient trees, suggested possibilities beyond mere mundane stealth.
His internal world was a constant, subtle war. Eddard's ingrained honor sometimes recoiled from the cold, ruthless calculations Voldemort made. When considering how to best utilize the… less savoury reputation of House Bolton, a pang of Eddard's distaste, his mistrust of Roose Bolton's chilling pragmatism, would surface. Voldemort acknowledged it, analyzed it – Stark honor was a useful tool for maintaining the loyalty of most Northern houses – but he would not be constrained by it. He found he could suppress Eddard's more inconvenient scruples, or rather, reinterpret them through a lens of grim necessity. "Sometimes, harsh measures are needed to protect the flock," he might rationalize, a perversion of Eddard's own sense of duty.
The thought of Lyanna still brought a sharp, complex ache. Eddard's love for his sister, his fury at Rhaegar, was a powerful motivator. Voldemort found this useful. It provided a deeply personal, easily understandable reason for his commitment to the war, beyond the murder of his father and brother. It humanized him in the eyes of others. He would find Lyanna. What he would do then… that depended on the circumstances, and on what served his ultimate goals.
Benjen, Eddard's younger brother, now the Stark in Winterfell in Voldemort's absence (though under the guidance of Rodrik and Walyskan), was another point of… Stark-induced concern. Eddard's memories were fiercely protective of the boy. Voldemort saw Benjen as a potential asset, another Stark to secure the lineage, but also a potential vulnerability if not properly managed. He made a mental note to ensure the boy's education included a healthy dose of… pragmatism, should he ever return to oversee it personally.
The first of the Northern lords began to arrive, not in person initially, but their sons or trusted castellans, leading advance parties and bearing pledges of support.
Greatjon Umber, a giant of a man renowned for his booming voice and fierce loyalty, sent his eldest son, also named Jon, often called Smalljon. Smalljon was a younger, somewhat less boisterous version of his father, but with the same unwavering look in his eyes.
"Lord Stark," Smalljon boomed, kneeling briefly in the Great Hall. "My father, the Greatjon, sends his oath. He is gathering every man and boy who can hold a spear from Last Hearth to the Bay of Seals. He says the King will hear the roar of the North even in his Red Keep before we are done!"
Voldemort regarded him with Eddard's serious expression. "Your father's loyalty does him honor, and the North. Tell him his strength will be sorely needed. We face a formidable, if mad, foe." He felt Eddard's genuine appreciation for the Umbers' steadfastness, a warmth that he allowed to surface. It was an easy emotion to feign when it aligned with his objectives.
Rickard Karstark of Karhold arrived himself, a grim, bearded man whose ties to the Starks were bound in blood – the Karstarks were an offshoot of the main Stark line. His grief was raw, his anger palpable.
"Ned," Karstark said, forgoing formal titles in his distress as he clasped Voldemort's arm. "They've killed our blood. Our kin. This cannot stand."
Voldemort met his gaze, mirroring the pain. "It will not, Rickard. We will make them pay. Every drop of Stark blood spilled will be answered tenfold." The cold fury in his voice was genuine, though its source was far darker than Karstark could imagine. The Karstarks were fierce warriors, essential to his army. Their personal grief made them even more reliable.
Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, too fat to ride swiftly, sent his second son, Ser Wylis, with a retinue of well-equipped knights. White Harbor was the North's only true city, a source of wealth and naval power.
Ser Wylis, a cheerful man despite the grim circumstances, pledged his House's full support. "My father, Lord Wyman, bids me tell you, Lord Stark, that the Merman's Court is yours. Our ships, our treasury, our knights – all are at your command. He says, and I quote, 'The Starks took us in when we were exiles, homeless. The Manderlys do not forget their debts, nor do they forgive such slights against their liege lord.' He is… preparing a feast for your arrival in White Harbor, should your path take you there before you march south."
Voldemort almost smiled. Manderly's loyalty was legendary, his wealth substantial. A feast… a useful opportunity to solidify support and gather intelligence. "Your father is a true friend, Ser Wylis. His support is invaluable. Convey my gratitude, and tell him I look forward to partaking of his renowned hospitality when the time is right."
The most unsettling arrival, however, was a small, quiet delegation from the Dreadfort, bearing word from Roose Bolton. Bolton himself did not come, nor did he send his son. Instead, a pale, soft-spoken maester and a captain of his guard with unsettlingly light eyes delivered a sealed message.
The message was concise, written in a neat, precise hand. It offered condolences, pledged Bolton's forces to the Stark cause, and stated that Lord Bolton was already making preparations and awaited Lord Stark's commands. There were no flourishes, no emotional declarations, merely a cold statement of intent.
Voldemort read it, his expression unreadable. Eddard's memories recoiled from Bolton, from the rumors of flaying, from the man's chillingly calm demeanor and disturbingly pale eyes. Voldemort, however, recognized a kindred spirit, or at least, a similar pragmatism, unburdened by sentiment. Bolton was dangerous, ambitious, and utterly ruthless. Such a man could be an invaluable weapon, or a deadly enemy if not handled correctly.
"Convey to Lord Bolton," Voldemort said to the Bolton maester, his voice carefully neutral, "that I accept his pledge. His… unique skills and the famed discipline of his men will be a significant asset to our cause. Tell him to continue his preparations and await my further instructions on deployment."
The Bolton captain's lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile. "Lord Bolton will be… pleased to serve, Lord Stark."
After they had departed, Ser Rodrik voiced his unease. "Bolton, my lord… he's not a man to be trusted lightly."
"In war, Ser Rodrik," Voldemort replied, his gaze distant, "we sometimes sup with devils, so long as our spoon is long enough. Bolton's men are effective. We will use them effectively." He made a mental note: Roose Bolton would require careful observation and manipulation. Perhaps even a taste of true fear, should he show signs of overreaching.
The greensight continued to offer its cryptic pronouncements. During his meeting with the Karstark delegation, he'd seen a flash of Karhold's banners turning against Winterfell's – a distant future, perhaps, born of some betrayal or slight? He would be wary. While discussing naval power with Ser Wylis Manderly, he'd seen ships burning in a bay, not Targaryen ships, but those bearing the kraken of House Greyjoy. The Ironborn… they will seek to profit from the chaos. Another front to consider.
He issued his first major strategic directives. The Northern lords were to muster their forces and converge, not directly at Winterfell, which would strain its resources, but at Moat Cailin, the ancient, crumbling fortress that guarded the Neck and the primary southern approach to the North. It was a strategically vital chokepoint.
"Moat Cailin is the gateway to the North," he explained to Ser Rodrik and a council of his newly arrived bannermen's envoys. "We will hold it, refortify it. From there, we will have a secure base from which to strike south. It will also send a clear message to Aerys: the North stands united and defiant at its very threshold."
His reasoning was sound, militarily astute, something Eddard Stark would certainly have proposed. But Voldemort's reasons went deeper. Moat Cailin, according to the old texts, was a place of immense historical and, potentially, magical significance. Built by the First Men, parts of it were said to be even older, perhaps touched by the Children of the Forest. Its black basalt towers, though ruined, were rumored to hum with ancient energies. Voldemort wanted to assess it, to see if its location, its history, could be of use to his… other pursuits. Perhaps a nexus of power for certain rituals, or a place where the veil between worlds was thin.
He also began to subtly implement changes within Winterfell. He ordered the weirwood in the godswood to be given even greater reverence. No branches were to be trimmed without his express permission. He spent more time there himself, ostensibly in prayer and reflection, but actually attempting to deepen his connection to the weirwood net, to hone his greensight, to feel the pulse of the Old Gods. He felt a subtle shift in the tree's aura, as if it were responding to his powerful, alien consciousness, a mixture of curiosity and ancient, wary sentience.
He reorganized the training of the household guard, incorporating drills that, while seemingly conventional, emphasized speed, stealth, and coordinated small-unit tactics – skills that would be useful not just for an army, but for a more… select group of enforcers he might cultivate later.
His mastery over Eddard's persona was becoming seamless. He could laugh with the Umber boy over a tale of his father's excesses, share a moment of quiet, grim understanding with Karstark, discuss logistics with Poole with Eddard's customary diligence, and project an aura of unimpeachable honor and leadership to all. Yet, beneath it all, the cold, calculating mind of Lord Voldemort was constantly working, analyzing, planning his true conquest.
The North was stirring. Banners were being unfurled, swords sharpened, old grievances rekindled, and new, terrible purposes being set in motion. Lord Eddard Stark was marching to war to avenge his family and defend his homeland. But the entity wearing his face had its sights set on a dominion far vaster, a power far more absolute, than any throne in Westeros. The echoes of ancient magic were stirring in response to his presence, and he was eager to answer their call. The world was a tapestry of souls and power, and he, the ultimate weaver of dark designs, had found a new, rich loom.