Chapter 30: The Serpent in the Red Keep, A Symphony of Whispers Unveiled
King's Landing. The jewel of the Seven Kingdoms, the heart of its power, and now, the new playground for a Dark Lord cloaked in the unimpeachable honor of Eddard Stark. As Voldedort rode through the Dragon Gate, the stench of the city – a heady mix of humanity, refuse, sea salt, and the lingering ghosts of smoke from the recent sack – assaulted Eddard's Northern sensibilities. For Voldemort, however, it was the intoxicating perfume of opportunity, a vast, teeming anthill of souls whose secrets were now his to command.
The Red Keep, perched atop Aegon's High Hill, loomed before them, a formidable, ancient fortress of red stone, its towers and crenellations a testament to Targaryen ambition and paranoia. It was here, within these blood-soaked walls, that Voldedort, as Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon, would begin to weave his most intricate and insidious designs. His enhanced Mind Arts, a silent, invisible scalpel, were poised to dissect the very soul of this court, to lay bare its every hidden artery of intrigue and ambition. For Lord Voldemort, there were no longer any true secrets in King's Landing; there were only minds to be read, wills to be bent, and a kingdom to be subtly, irrevocably, conquered.
His formal installation as Hand of the King was a relatively brief ceremony in the throne room, presided over by a visibly relieved King Robert, who seemed eager to unburden himself of the tedious responsibilities of governance. The Iron Throne, that monstrous, jagged construct of melted swords, dominated the chamber, a potent symbol of the power Voldedort now effectively wielded. He swore the oaths, Eddard's voice resonating with a grave sincerity that convinced all present of his unwavering devotion to duty. His Legilimency, however, was a whirlwind, effortlessly cataloging the thoughts and emotions of the assembled courtiers.
He saw Queen Cersei's disdain, her mind a viper's nest of plots to undermine him and ensure Lannister dominance. He saw Grand Maester Pycelle, his aged facade of doddering wisdom concealing a sharp intellect and an unshakeable loyalty to House Lannister. He saw Lord Renly Baratheon, the King's younger brother, his thoughts filled with ambition, vanity, and a carefully hidden preference for the company of men, particularly the handsome Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell. He saw Varys, the Master of Whisperers, his mind an intricate, silken web of secrets, his true loyalty still pledged to a distant, exiled dragon. And he saw Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, his eyes twinkling with amusement and avarice, his thoughts a chaotic symphony of schemes designed to enrich himself and sow discord.
They were all an open book to him. Their deepest fears, their most cherished ambitions, their most shameful secrets – all laid bare before his omniscient mental gaze. It was intoxicating.
His first Small Council meeting was a masterclass in subtle manipulation. Eddard Stark, the straightforward Northman, appeared to listen intently, his brow furrowed in concentration, as the council members presented their reports – the realm's dwindling finances (Littlefinger painting a grim but artfully misleading picture), the whispers of Dornish resentment (Varys offering carefully selected tidbits), the logistical challenges of supplying the Crownlands (Pycelle sighing with exaggerated weariness).
Voldedort, however, was not merely listening to their words; he was reading their minds. He saw Littlefinger's intricate network of embezzlement, the hidden accounts, the carefully diverted funds. He saw Varys's true sources, the extent of his spy network, the coded messages exchanged with agents in the Free Cities. He saw Pycelle's deliberate obfuscation of certain issues, his selective reporting designed to protect Lannister interests.
"The Crown's debts are… considerable, Lord Hand," Littlefinger said, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Nearly six million gold dragons, by my reckoning. Mostly to Lord Tywin Lannister, I fear." He presented a ledger, its figures a complex tapestry of lies and half-truths.
Voldedort, as Eddard, examined the ledger with a grave expression. His Mind Arts, however, were effortlessly dissecting Littlefinger's true financial manipulations, tracing the paths of stolen gold, identifying the shell companies and illicit loans. "A dire situation indeed, Lord Baelish," he said, his voice even. "We must find ways to curtail royal expenditure and increase revenue. Perhaps a review of all existing contracts and tax collections is in order. With… fresh eyes." He looked directly at Littlefinger, Eddard's gaze seemingly honest and forthright, but beneath it, Voldemort's silent, knowing challenge was unmistakable. Littlefinger's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a bead of sweat appearing on his brow. He had underestimated this quiet Northman.
When Varys spoke of Dornish discontent, Voldedort listened intently, Eddard's face reflecting concern for the stability of the realm. His Legilimency, however, was delving into the Spider's deeper knowledge, confirming the seething rage of Prince Doran Martell over Elia's murder, the whispers of Dornish plots for vengeance, and Varys's own subtle efforts to fan those flames, to destabilize Robert's reign in preparation for a Targaryen return.
"The Martells are a proud people, Lord Varys," Voldedort said, his tone thoughtful. "Their grief is understandable. Perhaps a gesture of… reconciliation from the Crown is warranted. A formal apology, a promise of justice for those who perpetrated the atrocities against Princess Elia and her children." This was Eddard Stark, the man of honor, speaking. But it was also Lord Voldemort, subtly driving a wedge between Robert and his powerful Lannister allies, knowing Tywin would never countenance any true justice for Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch.
His days as Hand quickly settled into a routine, though one fraught with constant, hidden maneuvering. He would spend hours in the Tower of the Hand, ostensibly reviewing reports, dictating letters, and meeting with petitioners. In reality, he was using his Legilimency to build an unparalleled understanding of the realm's governance, its strengths, its weaknesses, its every hidden mechanism of power. He could "foresee" problems before they arose, "intuit" deception with uncanny accuracy, and make decisions that seemed remarkably astute, even prescient, to those around him.
He uncovered a plot by several minor Crownlords to avoid paying their taxes, a scheme orchestrated by a disgruntled former Targaryen loyalist. He "sensed" that a shipment of grain meant for the city watch was being systematically pilfered by corrupt quartermasters. He "deduced" that a series of seemingly accidental fires in the poorer districts of the city were, in fact, part of an intimidation campaign by a ruthless slumlord. In each case, he acted with swift, decisive Stark justice, his pronouncements fair but unyielding, his solutions remarkably effective. His reputation as an honorable, capable, if somewhat grimly efficient, Hand began to grow, both within the Red Keep and among the common folk of King's Landing.
He also began to subtly reshape the administration to his advantage. Knowing every official's true loyalty, every clerk's hidden ambition or vulnerability, he could recommend promotions for those who would (knowingly or unknowingly) serve his interests, and arrange for the quiet removal or marginalization of those who posed a threat. He did not need to resort to crude purges; a carefully chosen word to King Robert, a strategically leaked piece of information, a subtle manipulation of circumstance, was often enough.
His interactions with King Robert were a constant, delicate dance. Robert, freed from the burdens of actual governance, now spent his days hunting, feasting, and wenching, his reliance on "good old Ned" becoming absolute. Voldedort, using his perfect understanding of Robert's mind, played the role of the loyal, long-suffering friend and advisor to perfection. He would listen to Robert's drunken boasts and maudlin regrets, offer sound counsel (which Robert often ignored, only to seek Eddard's help in cleaning up the ensuing mess), and subtly guide the King's perceptions and decisions.
He even used his Philosopher's Stone-generated wealth to further indebt Robert to him. When the King desired a particularly lavish tourney, or a gift for a new mistress, and Littlefinger wrung his hands about the empty treasury, Voldedort, as Eddard, would quietly offer a "loan" from Winterfell's "surprisingly prosperous" coffers, framing it as a gesture of friendship and loyalty. Robert, delighted, would accept without question, oblivious to the fact that he was becoming a pawn in a far larger, more insidious game. Voldedort was not merely propping up Robert's reign; he was hollowing it out from within, making it utterly dependent on his will, his resources.
His family life in the Red Keep was another carefully managed performance. Catelyn, though still harboring her suspicions about Jon Snow (now a distant concern, safe in Winterfell), found King's Landing, with its intrigues and its southern sensibilities, more to her liking than the harsh North, especially with the prospect of giving birth to Eddard's trueborn heir in the heart of the realm. Voldedort, using his Mind Arts, subtly soothed her anxieties, reinforced her sense of importance as the Hand's lady, and ensured their public interactions were a model of marital accord. He even, on occasion, allowed Eddard's persona to express a carefully calibrated affection, a gesture Catelyn, starved for warmth, received with a mixture of surprise and cautious gratitude. Their son Robb, a boisterous, curious boy, was adapting well to life in the capital, his Stark resilience tempered by his mother's Tully pragmatism. The infant Sansa was a beautiful, placid babe, already showing signs of her mother's southern charm. Voldedort observed his "family" with a detached sort of interest, pieces in the elaborate facade he had constructed.
His magical pursuits, though necessarily more discreet in the crowded confines of the Red Keep, did not cease. He requisitioned a small, disused tower chamber, ostensibly for private study and the secure storage of sensitive state documents. Here, surrounded by subtle, powerful wards of his own devising (wards that would make any Unspeakable from his old world proud), he continued his examination of Rhaegar's journal and Dawn.
He began to suspect that Rhaegar's obsession with the "three heads of the dragon" was not merely about fulfilling a prophecy, but about awakening a specific, potent form of blood magic, perhaps even a means of controlling or summoning dragons themselves, should they ever return to the world. The vision of Daenerys Targaryen and her hatching dragon eggs became more persistent in his greensight, a tantalizing glimpse of a power that could rival his own, or be subsumed by it.
Dawn, too, continued to yield its secrets, albeit slowly. He discovered that the sword resonated strongly with celestial events – meteor showers, comets, eclipses – its power waxing and waning with these cosmic tides. He also began to understand that its unique properties were not just inherent in the metal, but were also tied to the lineage of House Dayne, a lineage that, according to some obscure texts he "discovered" in the Red Keep's restricted library (texts Pycelle had conveniently "forgotten" existed, until Voldedort's Legilimency gently reminded him), had its own ancient, magical origins, perhaps even a connection to the First Men or the Children of the Forest. This knowledge opened up new avenues for his research, new possibilities for understanding and mastering the diverse forms of magic that permeated this world.
His primary focus, however, remained the consolidation of his mundane power, the meticulous, invisible conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. With his omniscient understanding of the court's secrets, he began to subtly dismantle the power structures that opposed him, and to create new ones that served his interests.
He knew, with absolute certainty, the truth of Cersei's incestuous relationship with Jaime, and the bastardy of her children. This was his ultimate trump card, a secret so devastating it could shatter the Lannister alliance, delegitimize Robert's heir, and plunge the realm into a succession crisis that he, Voldedort, would be perfectly positioned to exploit. He did not act on this knowledge immediately; the time was not yet ripe. He preferred to let the rot spread, to allow the Lannisters to further entrench themselves, to make their eventual fall all the more spectacular, all the more complete. He would bide his time, gather more evidence (perhaps even subtly manufacturing it, if necessary), and choose the perfect moment to unleash this truth upon an unsuspecting world.
He also began to subtly undermine Littlefinger's financial schemes, not by exposing them directly, which would create unnecessary chaos, but by redirecting funds, by closing loopholes, by appointing honest (and easily manipulated) officials to key positions in the treasury. Littlefinger, finding his illicit profits dwindling, his network of corruption subtly constricted, grew increasingly frustrated, his clever mind unable to pinpoint the source of his misfortunes, unaware that the quiet, honorable Hand was effortlessly dismantling his empire of greed.
Varys, the Spider, was a more delicate challenge. His network was vast, his motives complex. Voldedort, while knowing Varys's ultimate goal of a Targaryen restoration, chose not to expose him directly. The Spider's network could be useful. Varys's fear of chaos (a chaos he himself often helped to create) could be manipulated. Voldedort began to subtly feed Varys carefully selected pieces of information, some true, some false, designed to guide the Spider's actions, to make him an unwitting pawn in Voldedort's own, far grander game. He even considered the possibility of eventually… co-opting Varys's Targaryen restoration plot, perhaps by placing Jon Snow (his true parentage revealed at the opportune moment) at its head, with Voldedort himself as the power behind the dragon throne. The possibilities were endless.
He ruled King's Landing, and by extension, the Seven Kingdoms, with an iron fist cloaked in Eddard Stark's velvet glove. His days were filled with the tedious minutiae of governance – petitions, disputes, reports, council meetings. But his nights were filled with the exhilarating pursuit of power, the weaving of intricate webs of manipulation, the silent, invisible reshaping of a world that was now utterly transparent to his all-seeing gaze.
He was Lord Voldemort, the Hand of a fool King, the master of secrets, the architect of a new order. The Red Keep, with all its vipers, was his. Its every whisper, every plot, every hidden desire, was an open book to him. And as he turned its pages, he began to write his own terrible, magnificent story upon them, a story of a serpent in the heart of power, a story whose ending only he could truly comprehend. The game of thrones was child's play. He was playing for the soul of a world. And he was winning.