Chapter 8: The Trident's First Blood, A Serpent's Bite
The dawn broke over the Green Fork tinged with an ominous red, the sun's rays struggling to pierce a low-hanging mist that clung to the river valley. It was a morning heavy with unspoken anxieties and the metallic scent of anticipation. In the Northern camp, the sounds were muted but purposeful: the clink of mail being donned, the soft rasp of whetstones on steel, the murmur of prayers to Old Gods and, for a few, the Seven. Horses snorted nervously, their breath pluming in the cool air.
Voldedort stood before his command tent, already clad in dark, unadorned plate armour that had once belonged to Rickard Stark. It fit him well enough, though he found the sheer weight and constriction of it a nuisance compared to the freedom of robes. Ice was at his side, its dark Valyrian steel seeming to absorb the weak morning light, a stark contrast to the polished steel of the Tully honour guard who had arrived with Ser Brynden and were now arrayed around him. He exuded an aura of glacial calm, a stark counterpoint to the nervous energy rippling through the camp. His mind, however, was a whirlwind of calculations, greensight echoes, and the cold, thrilling hunger for the imminent conflict.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, his face grim but resolute, approached. "My lord, the men are formed. Tarly's pickets are already exchanging arrows with our scouts down by the ford. He means to make his stand there, as you predicted."
"Predictable men fight predictable battles, Ser Rodrik," Voldedort replied, his voice devoid of any emotion save a chilling certainty. Eddard's natural frown was etched on his face, but his eyes held a depth of ancient calculation that Rodrik, for all his years serving the Starks, had never quite seen before. "His confidence in that defensive position will be his undoing."
The Greatjon Umber lumbered up, his massive frame encased in heavy plate, a monstrous, twin-bitted axe strapped to his back. His usual boisterousness was tempered by a feral grin. "Ready to give these southern peacocks a taste of Northern iron, Stark! Just point us at the bastards!"
"Your enthusiasm is, as always, appreciated, Greatjon," Voldedort said, a flicker of what might have been amusement in his eyes. "You hold the right. Remember the plan: hit them hard, turn their flank, but do not overextend. We bleed them first with arrows, then crush them between our hammer and Lord Reed's anvil."
Rickard Karstark, his expression as grim as a winter tombstone, merely nodded his assent. His Karstark spearmen were known for their dour resilience, and today, fueled by the memory of their murdered kinsman, they would be a wall of Northern granite.
Ser Wylis Manderly, his cheerful demeanor somewhat strained by the pre-battle tension, confirmed his knights were ready. "The Merman's Court will ride where you command, Lord Stark. We'll give them a bath in their own blood if need be."
Voldedort surveyed his commanders. They were loyal, brave, and, for the most part, competent. They believed they were fighting for Eddard Stark, for the honor of the North. They had no inkling of the true, monstrous intellect guiding their actions, the ancient evil that wore their beloved lord's face.
"The Old Gods watch over us today," Voldedort declared, his voice carrying a subtle, commanding resonance that settled the nerves of those around him. "But victory is forged by men. By Northern men. Show these southrons what it means to rouse the wolf." He mounted his black warhorse, a powerful beast that seemed to share its rider's unnerving calm. He would not lead the charge himself – that was not his style, nor was it Eddard's. His place was at the strategic heart of the battle, observing, directing, a puppet master pulling the strings of war.
The Northern army advanced, a dark tide flowing down the gentle slopes towards the Green Fork. The mist was beginning to burn off, revealing Randyll Tarly's host arrayed on the far bank and along the ridges commanding the main ford. Their banners – the striding huntsman of Tarly, the golden rose of Tyrell (for Tarly commanded many Reach levies loyal to Mace Tyrell, who was himself still in the Reach or at Storm's End), the various sigils of lesser loyalist houses – made a brave show in the morning light. Their numbers appeared formidable, their disposition defensively sound.
Voldedort took his position on a small hillock that offered a panoramic view of the battlefield, surrounded by his Tully honour guard, a handful of his own Stark household guard, and raven handlers ready to dispatch messages. Ser Brynden Tully was beside him, his experienced eyes scanning the enemy lines.
"Tarly's chosen his ground well, as expected," the Blackfish commented, his voice tight. "His archers on those low ridges will command the approaches to the ford. And his infantry looks solid. This will be a bloody business, Lord Stark."
"All battles are bloody, Ser Brynden," Voldedort replied coolly. "The question is, whose blood will predominantly stain the field?" He raised a hand, and a horn blew a mournful, drawn-out note. It was the signal for Lyam Hornwood's archers to begin their work.
A dark cloud of arrows arced high into the air from the Northern lines, a deadly rain aimed at Tarly's exposed archers on the ridges. An answering flight swiftly followed from the Reachmen. The battle had begun not with the clash of steel, but with the deadly whisper of fletching.
Voldedort watched, his expression unreadable. His greensight had shown him the optimal positioning for Hornwood's men, slightly further back than conventional wisdom might dictate, but utilizing a subtle fold in the terrain that offered them better cover and a slightly superior angle of fire. The initial volleys seemed to favor the Northmen; more Tarly archers were tumbling from the ridges than Hornwood was losing.
"Hornwood's lads are finding their marks," the Blackfish observed, a note of grudging admiration in his voice.
"Precision before passion, Ser Brynden," Voldedort murmured. He continued to watch the archery duel for a time, gauging its effect. Tarly's men were disciplined, holding their ground despite the casualties, their return fire still potent. But the Northern arrows, guided by Voldedort's almost preternatural understanding of trajectory and wind (aided by subtle, imperceptible magical adjustments to the air currents around his own archers), were taking a steady toll.
Then, with another horn signal, the main Northern assault began. The infantry, a solid mass of Stark and Karstark spearmen, with Glover axemen interspersed, advanced towards the ford, their shields locked, their war cries a guttural roar that echoed across the valley.
"The wolves are loosed," the Greatjon bellowed from the right flank, his Umber berserkers surging forward with him, eager to come to grips with the enemy.
The crossing of the ford was brutal. Tarly's remaining archers, now focusing their fire on the dense ranks of Northern infantry, unleashed volley after volley. Men screamed and fell, clutching at feathered shafts, but the Northern advance did not falter. They pushed into the shallows of the Green Fork, the water turning murky red around their legs, their shields raised against the arrow storm.
On the far bank, Tarly's heavy infantry, renowned for their discipline, awaited them, a glittering line of steel. The clash, when it came, was a thunderous, chaotic explosion of violence. Steel rang on steel, men roared and died, the air filled with the screams of the wounded and the guttural war cries of the North.
Voldedort watched the melee with cold, analytical detachment. Eddard's heart might have felt a pang for every Northman who fell, for the sheer, brutal horror of the close-quarters fighting. Voldemort, however, saw only the ebb and flow of forces, the expenditure of resources, the critical pressure points. He saw a Karstark captain go down, his shield splintered, and immediately dispatched a runner to Ser Rodrik with orders to reinforce that section of the line with a company of fresh Stark household guard he had held in reserve just behind the main assault.
His greensight flared, a chaotic torrent of immediate futures: a Tarly counter-charge forming on their left, a moment of weakness in Karstark's line where an officer fell, the Greatjon's Umbers beginning to push back the enemy's flank but risking envelopment if they advanced too far, too fast.
"Ser Brynden," Voldedort said, his voice cutting through the din of battle, "Tarly is about to commit his mounted reserve against our left. Have your Tully spearmen ready to receive their charge. Greatjon is making progress, but tell him to consolidate, not to break formation. We need him to hold their flank, not shatter prematurely."
The Blackfish, impressed by Stark's uncanny battlefield awareness, relayed the orders immediately. The man seemed to see everything, to anticipate every enemy move.
The battle raged for what felt like an eternity. The Northern center, under Ser Rodrik, was locked in a bloody stalemate with Tarly's best troops. Casualties were heavy on both sides. Rodrik, fighting in the thick of it like a common soldier, was an inspiration to his men, his shield battered, his sword arm tireless. The Greatjon, a berserker fury, had indeed begun to turn Tarly's left flank, his Umbers carving a bloody swathe through the Reachmen, but they were taking heavy losses in return.
Voldedort felt a flicker of Eddard's anxiety. The line was holding, but it was bending. Tarly was a skilled commander, his troops disciplined and brave. The Northern fury was being met with stubborn Southern resistance. This was the critical point. If the line broke before Howland Reed's flanking force made its presence felt, the battle could be lost.
He allowed himself a rare, subtle use of more direct magic. Focusing his will, he sent a wave of disquiet, a psychic nudge of unease, towards a formation of Tarly's spearmen who were pressing hard against a wavering section of the Karstark line. It wasn't a compulsion, merely a heightened sense of fear, a sudden, inexplicable urge to look over their shoulders. Their cohesion faltered for just a moment, their advance losing its momentum. It was enough for the Karstarks, grimly inspired by their lord who fought like a man possessed, to rally and push back. No one would ever know of the Dark Lord's intervention, attributing the shift to the fortunes of war.
And then, from the south, along the riverbank behind Tarly's main line, came the first signs of chaos.
A plume of black smoke billowed into the sky – Tarly's supply wagons, Voldedort knew. Then came the unmistakable sounds of fighting, not the ordered clash of battle lines, but the panicked shouts and screams of a rear guard taken by surprise.
Howland Reed's crannogmen, along with the dismounted Glover archers and light infantry he led, had emerged from the swamps like vengeful spirits.
"The anvil strikes!" the Blackfish exclaimed, a fierce grin spreading across his face.
Voldedort allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. The timing was perfect. He watched as Tarly's reserves, which had been moving to reinforce his weakening left flank against the Greatjon, hesitated, then began to peel off to deal with the sudden, unexpected threat to their rear.
"Now, Ser Wylis!" Voldedort commanded, his voice like the crack of a whip. "The Manderly knights! Charge their center! Break them while they are disordered!"
The silver-and-blue banners of House Manderly surged forward, a wave of heavy cavalry held in reserve for precisely this moment. With lances leveled, they thundered across the remainder of the ford, their war cry of "White Harbor!" adding to the cacophony. They smashed into Tarly's already beleaguered center, which was now being pressed from the front by Rodrik's men and distracted by the chaos in their rear.
The impact was devastating. The Manderly lances shattered shields and punched through armour. Horses screamed, men were trampled. Tarly's line, which had held so stubbornly for so long, began to buckle.
Randyll Tarly himself, a bull of a man, was visible amidst the chaos, roaring orders, trying to rally his men, his Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane, flashing in the sun. He was a formidable warrior, and his personal bravery shored up his troops for a time. But the pressure was too great, coming from too many directions.
The greensight gave Voldedort another flash: Tarly, his helmet knocked awry, looking back at the burning wagons, his face a mask of fury and dawning realization that he had been outmaneuvered. Then, an image of the Greatjon, bloodied but unbowed, smashing through the remnants of Tarly's left flank and beginning to roll it up.
"They are breaking!" Ser Rodrik's voice, hoarse and triumphant, came via a runner. "Tarly's left has collapsed! The center is giving way!"
Voldedort watched as the disciplined lines of the Reachmen began to waver, then dissolve into pockets of desperate resistance, and finally, into outright rout. Men threw down their weapons and fled, trying to escape the Northern fury and the terrifying, unseen attackers in their rear.
"Send in the Tully light horse," Voldedort ordered the Blackfish. "Harass their retreat. Take prisoners if they surrender readily, but show no mercy to those who resist. We need to make this victory absolute." He needed to shatter Tarly's army, not just defeat it. A lesson had to be sent.
The pursuit was brutal. The Northern infantry, weary but elated, pushed forward, while the Manderly knights and Tully cavalry rode down the fleeing Reachmen. The Greatjon and his Umbers, showing surprising stamina, were at the forefront of the chase, their axes reaping a bloody harvest.
Voldedort allowed Eddard's persona a moment of grim satisfaction, but beneath it, his own cold intellect was already assessing the outcome. Casualties on his side had been significant, especially among the Karstark spearmen and Umber shock troops who had borne the brunt of the initial fighting. But Tarly's army was shattered, its cohesion gone, its reputation for invincibility broken. The strategic victory was undeniable.
He watched as Randyll Tarly, surrounded by a handful of his household knights, fought a desperate rearguard action before finally being overwhelmed and captured by a combined force of Manderly knights and Umber warriors. The Greatjon himself had the satisfaction of disarming the Lord of Horn Hill.
As the sun began to dip towards the western horizon, casting long, bloody shadows across the ravaged battlefield, the fighting finally died down. The Green Fork, true to Voldedort's earlier premonition, ran red. The field was a ruin of broken bodies, shattered weapons, and fallen banners. The air stank of blood, sweat, and fear.
Voldedort rode slowly across the battlefield, his face a mask of Stark gravity. He acknowledged the cheers of his victorious but exhausted men, his gaze sweeping over the carnage. Eddard Stark would have felt a profound sorrow at such a sight, a heavy weight of responsibility for the lives lost on both sides. Voldemort felt only the cold, clean satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed, of power asserted and an enemy crushed. He noted the areas where his own losses had been heaviest, already calculating how to replenish his ranks, how to learn from any minor tactical errors.
Howland Reed emerged from the treeline along the river, his crannogmen materializing silently behind him. They were largely unscathed, their guerilla tactics having proven devastatingly effective against Tarly's unprepared rear.
"Lord Tarly is taken, Lord Stark," Reed reported, his voice calm amidst the surrounding chaos. "His army is no more. Many prisoners, much spoil."
"You and your men fought with the courage and cunning of the First Men, Lord Reed," Voldedort said, allowing a rare note of what sounded like genuine praise into Eddard's voice. Reed's contribution had been vital. He had also noted the almost supernatural stealth and deadliness of the crannogmen. Such skills could be… exceptionally useful in other contexts.
The Greatjon brought Randyll Tarly before him, disarmed and bound, his face a mask of thunderous fury and humiliation.
"Lord Stark," the Greatjon boomed, grinning triumphantly. "I present Randyll Tarly, late of Horn Hill, now a guest of the North."
Tarly glared at Voldedort with unconcealed hatred. "You fight like a savage, Stark. Ambushes and tricks. Not like an honorable man."
Voldedort looked down at him from his horse, Eddard's grey eyes cold as winter ice. "Honor, Lord Tarly, did not save my father and brother from the Mad King's butcheries. It did not save your men from their own folly today. You chose your side. You have lost. You will be treated according to the customs of war, so long as you do not give me cause to do otherwise." He had no interest in Tarly's Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane, for himself – Ice was far more attuned to his current needs – but it would be a significant trophy.
He gave orders for the prisoners to be secured, the wounded to be tended (his own first, then the enemy, a calculated display of Northern "mercy" that would be reported south), and for the dead to be gathered for burial. The spoils of war – weapons, armor, horses, coin from Tarly's war chest – would be collected and distributed, a vital means of rewarding his men and re-equipping his army.
As night fell, the Northern camp was a mixture of exhaustion, elation, and grim remembrance. Campfires burned brightly, but the songs were subdued, tinged with the knowledge of comrades lost.
Voldedort sat in his tent, the captured Heartsbane lying on the table before him, a testament to his victory. He felt the thrum of power, the satisfaction of a successful, bloody endeavor. The first major test had been met, the first significant loyalist army broken. The Riverlands were now much more open to the rebellion. Robert and Jon Arryn would hear of this victory soon, and it would give them fresh impetus.
But his mind was already moving beyond the Green Fork. This was merely one battle, one step. The Iron Throne was still a distant goal, and his true objectives – the mastery of this world's magic, the acquisition of ultimate power – lay further still.
He picked up Heartsbane, feeling its Valyrian steel. It was a fine weapon, but it held no special allure for him beyond its symbolic value. His focus was on the deeper currents, the ancient echoes. The victory today had been achieved through strategy, Northern ferocity, and the subtle application of his own unique advantages. Each such victory would cement his power, his legend as Eddard Stark, the avenging wolf of the North.
And under that guise, the serpent would continue to weave its web, drawing all of Westeros into its coils. The Trident had tasted first blood. Soon, Voldedort mused, it would demand a far greater sacrifice. And he would be ready to provide it.