Chapter 4: The Road to the Neck, A Serpent's Shadow Lengthens
The day of departure from Winterfell dawned grey and solemn, mirroring the mood of those who remained behind. A light dusting of fresh snow had fallen overnight, muffling sounds and lending an ethereal quality to the ancient stones of the Stark stronghold. Voldedort stood in the main courtyard, already mounted on a sturdy Northern warhorse, the beast's breath pluming in the chill air. Around him, the household guard of Winterfell, several hundred strong, were a formidable sight in their leathers and mail, their direwolf banners snapping crisply.
Benjen Stark, barely a man at fourteen, stood before him, his young face a mixture of grief, fear, and a desperate attempt at stoic bravery. He was to remain as the Stark in Winterfell, a heavy burden for such young shoulders, though Maester Walyskan and Ser Rodrik's elder brother, Desmond Cassel (who was to serve as castellan in Rodrik's absence), were there to guide him.
Voldedort looked down at the boy – his brother, a voice that was undeniably Eddard's whispered from the depths of their shared consciousness. He felt a surprising, uncomfortable surge of protective instinct, a remnant of Eddard's affection. He suppressed the more sentimental aspects, but allowed a facade of grave, brotherly concern to settle on his features.
"You have a great responsibility now, Benjen," Voldedort said, his voice pitched to carry both authority and a measure of reassurance. "Winterfell must remain strong. Listen to Maester Walyskan and Ser Desmond. See to the needs of our people. The North looks to us for an example."
Benjen nodded, his chin trembling slightly. "I will, Eddard. I… I will make you proud. Make father and Brandon proud."
They are beyond pride now, boy, Voldemort thought with cold detachment, but he inclined his head. "I know you will." He reached down and clasped Benjen's shoulder, a gesture that was pure Eddard, yet underpinned by the calculating mind of a puppeteer ensuring his pieces were in place. "Hold the North. We will return when justice is done."
Maester Walyskan stepped forward, his face etched with worry. "My lord, the road is long and fraught with peril. May the Old Gods watch over you and grant you victory."
"They will, Maester," Voldedort replied, a subtle emphasis on the 'they will' that hinted at a certainty beyond mere faith. He had begun to feel the weirwood net, that vast, silent consciousness, as a tangible presence, an awareness that prickled at the edges of his own. It was not an ally, not yet, but it was a power he was beginning to understand, perhaps even to influence in some small way. "Continue your research into the ancient lore. There is much we have forgotten, much that might aid us."
Walyskan bowed. "As you command, Lord Stark." He seemed to want to say more, perhaps a word of caution about the darkness of vengeance, but Voldedort's gaze, cold and unyielding, brooked no further counsel.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, his own mount restless beside Voldedort's, gave the signal. Horns blared, a mournful, resonant sound that echoed off the granite walls. The great gates of Winterfell creaked open, and with a clatter of hooves and a jingle of mail, the vanguard of the Northern army began its march south.
Voldedort cast one last look at Winterfell, his ancestral home, now his fortress, his primary base of operations in this new world. The grey towers, the smoking chimneys, the small figures waving from the battlements. For Eddard, it was a poignant farewell. For Voldemort, it was merely leaving a secured asset. He turned his horse and rode out, the direwolf banner of House Stark streaming above him, a symbol of righteous fury he would twist to his own terrible designs.
The initial days of the march were a slow, deliberate procession through the Stark lands. The Kingsroad, such as it was in the North, was often little more than a muddy track, and the early spring thaws had turned parts of it into a quagmire. The air was sharp, the landscape stark and beautiful in its own harsh way – rolling hills, dark forests of pine and sentinel trees, the occasional frozen lake gleaming like polished steel under the weak sun.
Voldedort rode at the head of the column with Ser Rodrik, the ever-reliable master-at-arms. Rodrik, despite his grief, was a fount of practical knowledge about campaigning, Northern lords, and the terrain. Voldedort listened intently, absorbing information, comparing it with Eddard's memories, and filing away details that might prove useful.
"The Greatjon will meet us near the White Knife, my lord," Rodrik said one morning, gesturing towards a map etched on a piece of cured leather. "His lands are vast, his men fierce. He's a force of nature, that one. Needs a firm hand, but once he's with you, he's with you to the death."
Voldedort nodded. He remembered Eddard's first encounter with the Greatjon Umber, a boisterous challenge that had ended with Eddard disarming him and earning his fierce loyalty. Such direct, physical dominance was something Voldemort understood and approved of, though his own methods tended towards the more subtly coercive.
"His loyalty is not in question," Voldedort affirmed. "His numbers and the ferocity of his men will be crucial when we face the southern knights." He used Eddard's knowledge of military matters seamlessly. "We must also ensure coordination with Lord Manderly's forces. White Harbor can resupply us by sea if need be, and their knights are well-armored."
As they rode, Voldedort was acutely aware of the men behind him. Their mood was grim but resolute. Songs were rarely sung around the campfires at night; instead, there were hushed conversations, the honing of blades, the mending of gear. They were an army driven by grief and a thirst for vengeance, potent fuel for the fires he intended to stoke. He made a point of moving among them during the evening halts, not with Eddard's quiet reserve, but with a more calculated presence – a word of encouragement here, a sharp question about readiness there, a shared moment of grim reflection on the King's injustice. He was forging them into his instrument, and they responded with growing fervor to this Lord Stark who seemed harder, more focused, more dangerously resolute than the man they thought they knew.
Eddard's memories continued to surface, unbidden, often triggered by the landscape. A particular copse of ancient oaks reminded him – them – of a place where he and Brandon had sheltered from a summer storm as boys, laughing as lightning split the sky. The memory came with a pang of loss so sharp it almost made Voldedort flinch. He analyzed the sensation with cold curiosity. This… affection, this bond of brotherhood, was a weakness. Yet, the rawness of it, when channeled, could be a powerful motivator for those who believed he shared it. He filed the memory, cataloged the emotion, and learned to use its echo to color his interactions.
Passing a tumbledown crofter's village, Eddard recalled Lyanna once stopping to give a piece of silver to a starving child, her expression fierce with a compassion that brooked no argument. Voldedort found the memory… irritating. Sentimentality for the lowborn. Yet, he also recognized the propaganda value. The Starks were protectors of the smallfolk. A useful image to maintain. He ensured his outriders treated the local peasantry with fairness, a stark contrast to the rapacious behavior often associated with armies on the march. It cost him nothing and bought goodwill.
His attempts to refine the greensight were ongoing. During the long hours in the saddle, he would try to focus his will, to push his consciousness out, seeking glimpses of the wider world. Sometimes, he achieved a fleeting success. One afternoon, concentrating on Robert Baratheon, he saw a vivid image of a stormy sea, a ship with a stag banner struggling against massive waves – Robert's journey from Storm's End to the Vale to confer with Jon Arryn, no doubt hampered by the weather. Another time, focusing on King's Landing, he saw not Aerys, but a flash of green fire erupting in a dark cellar, followed by the scent of wildfire, acrid and terrifying. The pyromancers… Aerys's obsession. This was useful, a hint of the King's desperate measures.
But the greensight was still wild, often uncontrollable. He would be examining a map, and suddenly a vision of a snow-covered battlefield would overwhelm him, not with men, but with skeletal figures wielding swords of ice, their eyes burning with an eerie blue light. The cold that accompanied these visions was palpable, bone-chilling. The Others again. Always the Others. They were a persistent, ominous thread in the tapestry of his newfound sight. He began to suspect that the greensight was inherently attuned to these ancient, primal threats, perhaps more so than to the petty squabbles of men. This did not displease him; understanding true power was always his primary goal.
His magical research hadn't stopped with leaving Winterfell's library. The North itself was a vast, ancient repository of magical traces, if one knew how to look. He would dismount near circles of standing stones, weathered remnants of the First Men's era, and subtly extend his senses. He could feel faint, dormant energies clinging to them, echoes of rituals performed millennia ago. He examined the flora with a keen eye, noting plants that Eddard's lore dismissed as common weeds but which his own vast botanical knowledge (from his world's herbology) hinted might have unusual properties when combined with the unique magical field of this world.
Once, camped near a particularly dark and ancient stretch of the wolfswood, where Eddard's memories whispered of direwolves and things older still, Voldedort felt a distinct, almost predatory intelligence watching him from the depths of the trees. It wasn't the passive awareness of the weirwood net; this was something more feral, more… sentient. He made no overt move, but a cold smile touched his lips. This land was far more alive with magic than its mundane inhabitants suspected. He had even, on a moonless night when he was sure he was unobserved, drawn a small amount of weirwood sap he'd collected into a vial and attempted a minor transfiguration, whispering an incantation from his old world. The sap had resisted, then pulsed with a dull red light before inert. Not a failure, but an indication that this world's magic had different rules, different sympathies. Integration, not mere imposition, would be key.
The Greatjon Umber joined them as they neared the crossing of the White Knife, his arrival preceded by the thunder of hooves and a bellow of a greeting that could likely be heard back in Winterfell. He was a mountain of a man, bearded and boisterous, his eyes alight with battle-lust and genuine pleasure at seeing Eddard.
"Ned, you old wolf!" the Greatjon roared, dismounting with surprising agility and crushing Voldedort in a bear hug that would have cracked the ribs of a lesser man. Voldedort endured it, even managing a passable imitation of Eddard's stoic but friendly response. He felt the raw, untamed power of the man, a useful if somewhat unpredictable force.
"Greatjon," Voldedort said, extracting himself. "Your arrival is welcome. Your men look ready."
"Ready to flay some Targaryen hides, by the gods!" Umber boomed, then his expression sobered slightly. "A black business, Ned. Your father… Brandon… Damn that madman to all seven hells!"
"He will find his own hell soon enough, Greatjon," Voldedort replied, his voice cold. "But we must be disciplined. Rage is a weapon, but it must be wielded with skill."
The Greatjon looked at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Eddard Stark was known for his quiet honor, not usually for such chilling pronouncements on the tactical use of rage. But then he grinned, a fierce, wolfish expression. "Aye, you've got the right of it there, Stark! A cold rage is the deadliest! My lads are yours to command."
Other Northern lords and their levies began to swell their ranks: Mors 'Crowfood' Umber, the Greatjon's uncle, a gnarled and savage warrior; the Glovers of Deepwood Motte, their masterly woodsmen invaluable as scouts; the Hornwoods and the Cerwyns, smaller houses but fiercely loyal. Each lord or their representative was met by Voldedort, their pledges accepted, their forces integrated into the growing army. He dealt with each according to their temperament, using Eddard's knowledge of their personalities and histories, but always with that underlying cold assessment, that subtle weaving of influence. He was particularly interested in any who possessed unique skills or knowledge – trackers, healers who knew old Northern remedies, even storytellers who might recall forgotten legends.
One evening, as they made camp, a rider arrived from the west, bearing the banner of House Reed of Greywater Watch – a black lizard-lion on grey-green. He brought word that Howland Reed, Lord of the Crannogmen, would meet them at Moat Cailin. Eddard's memories held a deep respect for the reclusive Howland Reed, who had fought alongside him during Robert's Rebellion – no, wait. That was a flash of future memory from Eddard, something that hadn't happened yet in this timeline prior to his fainting. Voldemort paused, intrigued. The assimilation was clearly not just a static download of past experiences; it was a dynamic process, and the greensight was bleeding premonitions of Eddard's original future into his awareness. Howland Reed… a key figure in the events at the Tower of Joy. Interesting. The crannogmen, with their knowledge of the swamps of the Neck and their rumored use of poisons and guerilla tactics, would be invaluable.
The logistical challenges of moving such a diverse and rapidly growing force were immense. Vayon Poole, left in Winterfell, would be struggling, but on the march, Voldedort took direct command of supply and foraging. He implemented systems of rationing and organized foraging parties with a ruthless efficiency that surprised many of his commanders. His own experiences commanding the Death Eaters, albeit a different kind of army, had taught him much about the sinews of war. He ensured the men were fed, if simply, and that discipline was maintained. There was little grumbling; the cause, and their Lord's new, formidable demeanor, kept them focused.
One night, a strategic council was held in Voldedort's command tent. Present were Rodrik Cassel, the Greatjon, Rickard Karstark (who had caught up with a large force of his own), and the envoys from Manderly and other significant houses. Maps were spread across a makeshift table.
"Aerys will expect us to strike directly south, perhaps towards Harrenhal or even King's Landing itself," Voldedort began, his finger tracing a path on the map. "He will be fortifying those approaches."
"Then let him!" the Greatjon boomed. "We'll smash through whatever he puts in our way!"
Voldedort allowed a cool smile. "Your enthusiasm is appreciated, Greatjon. And your men will indeed do much smashing. However, a hammer blow is most effective when the foe does not see it coming, or when he is unbalanced." He looked around the tent. "Robert and Jon Arryn will be mustering their own forces in the Vale and the Stormlands. The Lannisters… remain silent in the West. Tywin Lannister is no friend to Aerys, but he is also no sworn ally of ours. He will watch, and strike where he sees advantage." This assessment came from Eddard's knowledge, sharpened by Voldemort's cynicism.
A greensight flash, brief but intense: a lion, golden and proud, standing over a fallen stag, while a wolf watched from the shadows, a calculating look in its eyes. He blinked, the image fading. The Lannisters will indeed play their own game.
"Our immediate objective," Voldedort continued, smoothly incorporating the insight, "is Moat Cailin. We secure it. We refortify it. It becomes our shield and our spearhead. From there, we control access to the North. We can sally forth, and we will have a strong position to fall back to if needed. It will also allow time for Robert and Jon Arryn to fully commit their forces and coordinate a broader strategy."
"Sound thinking, Ned," Karstark grunted, stroking his beard. "The Moat is key. Always has been."
"But we do not simply sit there," Voldedort added, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Once it is secured, a portion of our force, the swiftest and hardiest, will make a rapid strike. Not where Aerys expects. Perhaps into the Riverlands, to rally houses like Tully who have their own grievances with the crown. Hoster Tully's daughters are betrothed to myself and Jon Arryn – or were, in my case. Lyanna's abduction changed much, but the ties of friendship remain. We will remind them of their loyalties, and of the opportunity to cast off a tyrant."
This was a subtle shift from what Eddard might have planned. Eddard would have sought alliances, yes, but Voldedort saw the Riverlands as a place to sow chaos, to destabilize the Targaryen regime from within, creating opportunities he could exploit later. He also needed to secure Catelyn Tully, Eddard's betrothed. Not for emotional reasons, but because the marriage alliance was strategically vital for binding the Riverlands to the North. A wife… a Stark heir… necessary components for the role I play.
The lords murmured their agreement. The plan was aggressive but strategically sound.
Finally, after weeks of hard marching, the landscape began to change. The rolling hills gave way to flatter, marshier ground. The air grew damp, heavy with the scent of peat and stagnant water. They were approaching the Neck.
And then, Moat Cailin rose before them.
Even in its dilapidated state, it was an imposing sight. Three massive towers of black basalt, scarred and crumbling, yet still defiant, guarded the causeway that was the only safe passage through the treacherous swamps and bogs of the Neck. The Children's Tower, the Gatehouse Tower, and the Drunkard's Tower, their names echoing centuries of history and bloodshed. The curtain walls between them were largely fallen, great blocks of stone scattered like the toys of angry giants.
Voldedort reined in his horse, his eyes scanning the ancient fortress. Eddard's memories supplied the history: built by the First Men to defend against southern invaders, never taken by assault from the south. But Voldemort felt more than just history. He felt a deep, resonant thrum of power emanating from the black stones, from the very earth beneath. The air here was thick with ancient magic, far stronger than anything he had sensed at the standing stones or even in the Winterfell godswood. This was a nexus.
A cold wind whistled through the arrow slits of the ruined towers, sounding like a mournful sigh, or perhaps, a hungry whisper.
"So, this is Moat Cailin," the Greatjon rumbled beside him, his usual boisterousness subdued by the grim majesty of the place. "Seen better days, eh, Stark?"
"It will see them again, Greatjon," Voldedort replied, his voice soft but filled with an unnerving certainty. His gaze was fixed on the central Gatehouse Tower, the largest of the three. He felt a pull towards it, a sense that secrets lay buried within its stones, secrets that might be useful to him. "This is where the North makes its stand. And this," he added, more to himself than to anyone else, a predatory gleam in his eyes, "is where we begin to unearth its true strength."
The shadow of Lord Voldemort, cloaked in the guise of Eddard Stark, had reached the Neck. And the ancient, slumbering powers of Moat Cailin were about to receive a most unwelcome awakening. The war for the Iron Throne was just beginning. The war for the soul of Westeros, and for powers beyond mortal reckoning, was well underway.