Chapter 2: The Game of Stones
Torrhen Stark, now eleven, began to subtly reshape Winterfell. His parents, still somewhat concerned by his quiet intensity, were nonetheless immensely proud of his burgeoning intellect. King Rickard, a man of action, saw in his son a future leader, even if his methods seemed unconventional. Queen Lyarra, ever perceptive, noted the increasingly complex layers within her son, but attributed it to his deep thoughtfulness. They believed their son was preparing himself for the heavy burdens of Northern kingship. They couldn't have been more wrong.
Torrhen's approach was methodical, like a master craftsman carefully shaping raw material. He started with the training yard, subtly guiding the sword masters to incorporate less emphasis on brute strength and more on tactical finesse, on anticipating an opponent's moves. "A smaller man, Master Serg, can still defeat a larger one with superior strategy," he'd remark, his grey eyes alight with a disconcerting understanding of combat. He'd even demonstrate, often using his own slight frame to outmaneuver older, more experienced squires, not through strength, but through uncanny anticipation and precise footwork.
He expanded his influence to the castle's administration. He would sit in on meetings with the castellans and stewards, absorbing every detail of the treasury, the stores, the reports from various holdfasts. He began to ask pointed questions about trade routes, about the productivity of various mines and forests, about the effectiveness of tax collection. His questions were always framed as a desire to better understand the running of his future kingdom, but his true purpose was far more encompassing. He saw the North as a vast, untapped resource, a powerful, loyal entity that could be honed into an unstoppable force.
His true focus, however, remained the Godswood and the reawakening of his latent magic. The small, uncontrolled bursts of power from before gradually became more frequent, more potent. He found he could, with intense concentration, mend a small tear in his cloak, or quiet a restless horse with a calming thought. He even experimented, in the deepest privacy of his chambers, with summoning a faint, cold whisper of wind, or making a loose stone shiver. These were mere flickers compared to the raw power he instinctively knew he possessed, but they were growing.
His 'studies' with Maester Walys shifted from historical analysis to more practical applications. Torrhen encouraged the Maester to delve into the ancient texts on warging and greenseeing, ostensibly to understand the old ways of the First Men. He spoke of preserving Northern heritage, a sentiment that warmed the Maester's scholarly heart. Walys, ever diligent, would oblige, unaware he was providing his young prince with the keys to ancient and potentially terrifying powers. Torrhen was not interested in communing with animals; he was interested in control, in projecting his will, in manipulating minds.
The true test of his growing influence came with his interactions with Robb. Torrhen, always the quieter of the two, began to exert a subtle dominance over his younger brother. He would engage Robb in mock battles, not just with wooden swords, but with strategic games played out on maps of the North. Robb, boisterous and eager, loved the competition, never realizing he was being molded, his strengths and weaknesses cataloged and subtly exploited. Torrhen would commend Robb's courage, but gently point out tactical blunders, always reinforcing the idea that cunning and foresight were as vital as brute force.
"Robb, you are a strong wolf," Torrhen would say, his voice low and calm, "but a wise wolf hunts with its mind as well as its teeth. Think before you charge, brother. See the whole forest, not just the single tree." Robb, ever loyal and admiring of his elder brother, absorbed these lessons without question. Torrhen was grooming his loyal, straightforward brother to be a formidable, yet predictable, blade in his arsenal. He was building his pack, brick by careful brick.
As Torrhen grew into his teenage years, the shift became more pronounced, though still subtle enough to escape casual notice. He was a handsome young man, with the lean strength of a Stark and eyes that held an unnerving depth. His words, though few, carried a weight that often swayed those around him. The whispers of Tom Riddle within him were no longer mere fragments; they were a distinct, echoing voice, a powerful undertow pulling him towards a darker destiny.
His pursuit of ancient magic intensified. He discovered texts, carefully hidden even from Maester Walys's knowledge, detailing the darker aspects of the Children of the Forest's powers, the blood sacrifices, the manipulation of life and death. He learned of the whispers of blood magic and soul manipulation, concepts that resonated deeply with the fragmented memories of his past life. He still couldn't consciously perform the grand feats of magic he remembered, but the underlying theories, the very philosophy of it, felt instinctively right.
His interactions with the people of Winterfell became a masterclass in subtle manipulation. He would spend hours listening to the common folk, the guards, the servants, learning their grievances, their desires, their loyalties. He used this information with chilling precision. A well-placed word of praise could earn undying loyalty. A quiet word of encouragement to a frustrated guard could turn him into a devoted follower. He identified those with ambition, those with hidden resentments, and those who simply sought recognition. He began to weave a complex web of favors and obligations, binding people to him not through fear, but through perceived kinship and opportunity.
His parents, King Rickard and Queen Lyarra, still viewed him through the lens of paternal affection. King Rickard began to involve Torrhen more directly in political matters, taking him to small council meetings, allowing him to observe the dealings with other Northern lords. Rickard saw Torrhen's keen mind as an asset, believing he was shaping a wise and just king. Torrhen, meanwhile, saw only the cracks in the foundation of Northern unity, the subtle rivalries between houses, the potential for dissent. He cataloged every weakness, every point of leverage.
"The Karstarks hold grudges easily, Father," Torrhen might observe after a particularly tense meeting, "and their pride is a vulnerable point." Rickard would nod, surprised by his son's insight, attributing it to his sharp mind. He never suspected the cold calculation behind the observation.
Torrhen's relationship with Robb also deepened, albeit in a carefully cultivated way. He remained the elder, revered brother, a source of quiet wisdom and unwavering support. He trained Robb relentlessly, not just in swordsmanship, but in strategy, in understanding the battlefield, in anticipating enemy movements. He fostered Robb's fierce loyalty to the Stark name, while subtly intertwining that loyalty with his own person. Robb admired Torrhen, looked up to him, and would undoubtedly follow him into any conflict. This was exactly what Torrhen intended.
One cold winter night, as the snow fell softly outside his window, Torrhen found himself once again drawn to the Godswood. This time, he didn't seek visions. He sought a deeper connection. He pressed his hand against the weirwood, and the familiar chill coursed through him, but this time, it was different. It felt less like a shock and more like a merging. He felt the ancient consciousness of the tree, the echoes of countless seasons, of vows sworn and blood spilt. He didn't just see the past; he felt its raw power, its untamed energy.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he looked at his reflection in a small, smooth stone by the weirwood's base. The face of Torrhen Stark stared back, but the eyes, for a fleeting moment, were not grey. They were a startling, emerald green, glowing with an ancient, predatory intelligence. The serpent was truly awake.
By the age of fifteen, Prince Torrhen Stark was a formidable figure, commanding respect far beyond his years. He was lean and agile, a skilled swordsman, not through brute strength, but through uncanny speed and precision. His mind, however, remained his deadliest weapon. The fragmented memories of Tom Riddle had fully integrated, creating a chilling synthesis of Northern pragmatism and ancient, ruthless ambition. He was Torrhen Stark, the future King in the North, but he was also the nascent Lord Voldemort, patiently biding his time, planting the seeds of his dominion.
His influence extended throughout Winterfell and beyond. He had cultivated a network of informants among the guards, the servants, even among the household staff of other Northern lords who visited. He knew of every alliance, every betrayal, every whispered discontent before it reached his father's ears. He was like a spider, quietly spinning a vast, invisible web across the North, each strand a connection, a piece of information, a lever to pull.
He began to subtly push for changes in Northern policy. He argued for increased patrols along the coasts, citing vague, prescient fears of southern incursions. He advocated for the strengthening of Northern forts and garrisons, framing it as a necessary defense against wildlings, but secretly envisioning them as strongholds for a unified, unassailable North. He even managed to convince his father to invest more heavily in mining operations, not for mere wealth, but for the raw materials of war – iron and steel.
His studies with Maester Walys had become a farce of scholarly pretense. Torrhen now actively sought out and devoured texts on ancient languages, particularly High Valyrian, and the fragmented lore of dragonlords. He understood the significance of dragons, not just as weapons, but as symbols of ultimate power. He knew their importance in the future conflicts, and he was determined to understand their history, their weaknesses, their very essence. He even delved into obscure prophecies, dissecting them with his razor-sharp intellect, searching for loopholes, for ways to bend fate to his will.
His relationship with Robb had shifted slightly. While still close, Robb, now a boisterous and honorable twelve-year-old, found himself increasingly reliant on Torrhen's quiet counsel. Torrhen would offer advice, always sound and strategically brilliant, subtly steering Robb towards actions that benefited his own long-term goals. Robb, ever eager to prove himself, unknowingly became Torrhen's most loyal and effective instrument.
The most profound change, however, was in Torrhen's internal world. The line between Torrhen Stark and Tom Riddle had blurred. The Stark ideals of honor and duty were now seen as tools, useful for inspiring loyalty and maintaining order, but ultimately subservient to the larger goal of absolute control. His empathy had withered, replaced by a cold, clinical assessment of human nature. He saw ambition, fear, and desire as levers, waiting to be pulled.
One day, while reviewing the castle's defenses with his father, Torrhen's gaze fell upon the crypts beneath Winterfell, the ancient resting place of the Kings of Winter. A faint, almost imperceptible shiver ran through him. He remembered, with chilling clarity, the concept of horcruxes, the fracturing of a soul. He knew, instinctively, that the North, with its ancient magic and deep reverence for its dead, held secrets that could aid him in his pursuit of ultimate immortality.
He began to spend quiet hours in the crypts, not out of reverence for his ancestors, but out of a dark, calculated curiosity. He traced the ancient runes on the tombs, felt the raw magic emanating from the very stones. He knew, with a certainty that transcended mere thought, that this ancient place, steeped in the power of countless Stark generations, held the key to his complete reawakening, to the full realization of his power. He would not just rule Westeros; he would rule over life and death itself. The serpent had fully coiled itself around the heart of Winterfell, and soon, its venom would spread across the realm.