Chapter 10: The Wolf Howls South, Towards the Dragon's Jaw
The victory at the Green Fork, though bought with Northern blood, had acted as a potent stimulant to the rebel cause in the Riverlands. As Voldedort led his army south-east from their fortified camp, leaving behind the grim landmark of their first major triumph, the mood of his host was discernibly altered. The weariness of the Neck was replaced by a battle-honed edge, the uncertainty by a grim confidence. They had met a formidable loyalist commander and broken him. They were no longer just an avenging host from the distant North; they were a proven, lethal force.
The Riverlands unrolled before them, a landscape of rolling plains, fertile fields (many now fallow or trampled), and meandering waterways, all under a sky that often wept a dreary, grey rain. The signs of war were everywhere: burned-out holdfasts, deserted villages, and the wary, haunted faces of smallfolk who had already seen too much of conflict. Eddard's inherent sense of justice and protection towards the common people was a strong current in Voldedort's assimilated consciousness. He enforced strict discipline on his troops regarding their treatment of the locals, a stark contrast to the often rapacious behavior of other armies. This was not born of altruism on Voldemort's part, but of cold pragmatism: a supportive or at least neutral populace was a strategic asset, providing food (through purchase or "fair requisition"), intelligence, and denying the enemy the same. It also burnished the "Honorable Eddard Stark" image, a guise he found increasingly useful.
The march was not a simple, straightforward affair. Voldedort, using Howland Reed's crannogmen and his own Glover scouts as an ever-expanding web of reconnaissance, was constantly gathering information. His greensight, too, was an invaluable, secret weapon. It offered him flashes, often cryptic but increasingly useful, of enemy movements and intentions. He saw Lord Jonothor Darry attempting to rally the remnants of loyalist forces, his movements harried and uncertain after Tarly's defeat. He saw supply trains bearing the Targaryen dragon struggling through muddy roads, vulnerable to interception. He saw the banners of Robert Baratheon, now stained with the grime of hard campaigning, moving inexorably northwards through the Crownlands, his army swelling with eager recruits and defectors.
Based on this multifaceted intelligence, Voldedort adjusted his route, sometimes taking unexpected detours to avoid potential ambushes or to secure a vital bridge or ferry before loyalist remnants could destroy it. His Northern lords, while occasionally puzzled by his seemingly intuitive decisions, had learned to trust his judgment. The victory at the Green Fork had bought him that much, at least.
"You have a nose for trouble, Stark," the Greatjon Umber rumbled one evening, after Voldedort had ordered a last-minute change of route that narrowly avoided a well-laid ambush by Darry skirmishers, an ambush only Voldedort's greensight had clearly foreseen. "Or the Old Gods whisper in your ear more loudly than most."
Voldedort merely offered a cool, enigmatic smile. "The wind carries many secrets, Greatjon, for those who know how to listen." He allowed them to believe what they wished.
His interactions with his commanders were a constant process of assessment and subtle manipulation. He praised the Greatjon's ferocity but also gently reined in his more reckless impulses. He relied on Ser Rodrik's steadfast loyalty and experience, often discussing plans with him to maintain the illusion of shared decision-making, though the final choices were always his own. He noted Rickard Karstark's deepening bitterness and thirst for vengeance, a tool to be used carefully, lest it become uncontrollable. With Brynden Tully, who now rode frequently between the Northern host and Hoster Tully's forces further south, his relationship was one of mutual, professional respect, though Voldedort sensed the Blackfish's keen eyes were always watching, always analyzing this changed Eddard Stark.
He used the march to further test the mettle and loyalty of the newly allied Riverlords. Some he entrusted with minor commands, observing their competence and commitment. Others, whom his intuition (or greensight flashes of them in compromising situations) marked as unreliable, he kept on a tighter leash, their forces often assigned to less critical tasks or placed between more trustworthy Northern units. He was subtly sifting, identifying those who could be true assets, those who were mere opportunists, and those who might, in the future, require… more permanent solutions.
The internal world of Voldedort remained a fascinating, if sometimes jarring, fusion. Eddard's memories of the Riverlands – of youthful visits with his father, of the tourney at Harrenhal, of the faces of Riverlords he had known in less fraught times – surfaced frequently. The beauty of the land, even scarred by war, sometimes evoked a wistful ache that was pure Stark. Voldemort analyzed these emotions with the detachment of a vivisectionist. They were part of the tapestry of the man whose life he had stolen, and understanding them helped him perfect the impersonation.
There were moments, however, when Eddard's moral compass clashed more sharply with Voldemort's ruthless pragmatism. When scouts reported a small, isolated loyalist holdfast whose lord had been particularly brutal to the local smallfolk, the Greatjon and Karstark argued for making a bloody example of the entire garrison and even the lord's family. Eddard's principles recoiled from such barbarity, particularly against non-combatants. Voldemort, while seeing the terror value, also weighed the potential negative repercussions: alienating Hoster Tully, who prided himself on a certain chivalric code, or tarnishing the carefully cultivated image of the "honorable" rebels.
He opted for a solution that was both militarily decisive and politically astute. The holdfast was besieged and taken by storm, with no quarter offered to those who resisted under arms. The brutal lord was captured and, after a swift, public "trial" for his crimes against the people (presided over by Eddard Stark with grim solemnity), was executed. His soldiers were disarmed and scattered. The family was spared, sent to a septry, a gesture of "Stark mercy." It was a calculated performance, satisfying the Northern thirst for justice while maintaining a veneer of honor. Let them see the wolf has teeth, Voldemort thought, but also that it can, on occasion, show restraint. A more effective long-term strategy than simple butchery.
His pursuit of magical knowledge continued, albeit discreetly. The vision of the red comet and the silver-haired woman with dragon eggs still burned in his mind. He sent a carefully worded raven to Maester Walyskan in Winterfell, ostensibly asking for research into historical precedents for the return of "lost lineages" or "ancient powers" during times of great upheaval, couching it in terms of understanding the Targaryen mystique. He also requested any texts Walyskan could find on Valyrian prophecies or dragonlore, however obscure. He knew the maesters were skeptical of such things, but Walyskan was bound to obey.
He also made a point of observing any local Riverland customs or legends that hinted at magic. He questioned local septons (under the guise of understanding the Faith of the people he was now amongst) about miracles or divine interventions, listening for any echoes of true power. He found little beyond folk tales and religious dogma, but his search was patient, relentless. The Trident itself, he knew, was a place of immense historical significance, the site of many ancient battles. He anticipated that its waters, its very soil, might hold magical resonances he could explore once he reached it.
The logistics of the campaign grew more complex as they moved further from their Northern supply base at Moat Cailin. While some Riverlords offered provisions, others were themselves impoverished by the war. Voldedort's prior efficiency in managing supplies was tested. He instituted even stricter rationing for non-essential items and organized large, well-protected foraging expeditions. When one minor Riverlord, suspected of hoarding grain while nominally allied, proved obstructive, Voldedort, through intermediaries, ensured that a "mysterious fire" consumed a portion of that lord's stores, after which the remainder was "gratefully offered" to the Northern army. No direct link could be made to Lord Stark, who publicly lamented the unfortunate accident and accepted the "donation" with grave thanks. Eddard's conscience might have balked, but Voldemort knew that an army marched on its stomach, and sentimentality did not fill bellies.
News from the wider war continued to filter in. Robert Baratheon, after a string of victories, had suffered a setback at Ashford, defeated by Randyll Tarly's father, Lord Caswell, before Tarly himself had marched north to his doom at the Green Fork. Robert, however, was reportedly undeterred, his charisma rallying fresh support even after a tactical loss. Jon Arryn's host was moving steadily through the western Riverlands, bringing the knights of the Vale to bear. Hoster Tully was marshalling the main Riverland strength at Riverrun, preparing to march and join his allies. The time for the convergence of the rebel armies was fast approaching.
"Rhaegar Targaryen himself has taken the field," Ser Brynden Tully reported grimly one evening, arriving at Voldedort's camp with a fresh contingent of Tully knights. The Blackfish had become a key liaison, his respect for "Eddard's" military acumen growing with each interaction. "He has left King's Landing with a formidable army, including a large Dornish contingent under Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard. They say he makes for Harrenhal, to gather all loyalist forces before seeking a decisive battle."
Voldedort processed this information. Rhaegar. The name itself was a potent symbol. For Eddard, it was the man who had stolen Lyanna, the catalyst for so much grief. For Voldemort, Rhaegar was the Targaryen crown prince, the most significant piece on the enemy's side of the board, a man whose defeat would effectively cripple the loyalist cause. The greensight had shown him flashes of Rhaegar: a silver-haired warrior, his armour black as night, a harp in his hands in one vision, a sword dripping blood in another. A complex, dangerous opponent.
"Harrenhal," Voldedort mused, looking at the map spread before him. The vast, cursed fortress dominated the northern bank of the Gods Eye. "A fitting place for a dragon to gather his brood. But also a trap, if one is not careful. Its sheer size makes it difficult to defend effectively if an enemy gains a foothold within its walls." He recalled the fate of Harren Hoare, who had built it and died within it, cooked alive by dragonfire.
"Our forces must unite before Rhaegar can consolidate his full strength," Brynden Tully urged. "The Trident is the most logical place. The Ruby Ford, specifically, offers a strong defensive position if we can secure it first."
Voldedort nodded slowly, his grey eyes fixed on the map. The Ruby Ford. Eddard's original destiny, Robert's great victory. His greensight pulsed, a wave of bloody images, the clash of mighty hosts, a stag and a dragon locked in mortal combat. But this time, there was a subtle difference in the vision, a new element: a direwolf, larger and more terrible than any natural beast, its eyes burning with a cold, intelligent light, moving through the chaos, shaping it, directing it.
"The Ruby Ford it is," Voldedort declared. "Send word to Lord Arryn and Lord Robert. We make for the Trident with all speed. Hoster Tully should march to join us there. We will force Rhaegar to meet us on ground of our choosing, or wither as his support bleeds away."
The order was given. The Northern army, now a seasoned, formidable host, turned its face towards the Trident. The mood was a mixture of grim determination and fierce anticipation. They had tasted victory, but they knew the greatest test was yet to come. Rhaegar Targaryen, the dragon prince, was a foe of a different calibre than Randyll Tarly.
As they marched, Voldedort found his thoughts increasingly drawn to the nature of Valyrian steel and the dragons that had forged it. The vision of the silver-haired woman and the dragon eggs lingered. If dragons could indeed return to this world, it would change everything. Such power, if he could understand it, control it… it was a prospect that dwarfed even the Iron Throne. He made a mental note to intensify his inquiries into dragonlore once the immediate military necessities were dealt with. Perhaps the Citadel in Oldtown, the repository of Westerosi knowledge, held secrets the maesters themselves did not fully appreciate.
The final days of the march towards the Trident were tense. Scouts reported increasing loyalist activity, skirmishes became more frequent as they neared the vital river crossings. The Northern army moved like a coiled serpent, ready to strike, its flanks protected by the vigilant crannogmen and Glover outriders, its core a solid mass of Northern steel.
One evening, camped only a day's march from the Ruby Ford, Voldedort stood alone on a low hill, looking east towards the unseen river. The air was heavy, pregnant with the coming storm of battle. His greensight was a torrent now, a chaotic symphony of possible futures, of clashing steel, of death and glory. He saw Robert's warhammer crushing Rhaegar's ruby-encrusted breastplate. He saw Jon Arryn's knights of the Vale holding a vital flank. He saw Hoster Tully's spearmen repelling a Dornish charge.
And through it all, he saw himself, Eddard Stark, the quiet wolf, at the heart of the whirlwind, his decisions, his commands, shaping the flow of the battle, his Valyrian steel sword, Ice, tasting dragon blood. But superimposed over that image, he saw the shadow of the serpent, its coils tightening around the destiny of this world, its cold, ancient eyes fixed on a prize far greater than any earthly kingdom.
A rider approached, bearing the stag banner of Baratheon. He brought urgent news: Robert's vanguard had reached the Trident, clashing with Targaryen outriders near the Ruby Ford. Jon Arryn was a day's march behind him. Hoster Tully was moving up from the south. The time for maneuvering was over. The Battle of the Trident, the decisive confrontation of Robert's Rebellion, was about to begin.
Voldedort felt a surge of cold, exhilarating power. Everything was converging as he had planned, as he had foreseen. He turned back towards his camp, his face set in the familiar lines of Eddard Stark's grim resolve.
"The dragon has come to the river," he said to Ser Rodrik, who met him at the edge of the camp. "It is time the wolf showed him its teeth. Sound the horns. We march at first light. The Trident awaits."
And as the Northern host prepared for what would be the defining battle of the war, Lord Voldemort, cloaked in the flesh of a hero, smiled inwardly. The grand game was reaching its crescendo. And he was ready to conduct the orchestra of slaughter.