Chapter 11: The Trident Beckons, A Confluence of Wolves, Falcons, Stags, and Trout
The final march to the Ruby Ford was thick with an almost tangible anticipation. The Northern army, now a seasoned and cohesive force, moved with a grim, purposeful stride. Gone was the tentative uncertainty of their first days south of the Neck; the victory at the Green Fork had forged them in blood and fire, and their confidence in their enigmatic Lord Stark was absolute. They were the wolves of the North, and they smelled the dragon's scent on the wind.
As they crested the final rise overlooking the sprawling encampment of the allied rebel armies, even Voldedort, looking through Eddard's eyes, felt a flicker of something akin to awe – not at the numbers, for he had seen and commanded far greater hosts in his own world, but at the sheer, potent confluence of wills arrayed against the Targaryen dynasty. Banners, thousands of them, flapped in the humid Riverland breeze: the direwolf of Stark, the falcon of Arryn, the crowned stag of Baratheon, the leaping trout of Tully, interspersed with the sigils of countless lesser lords sworn to their causes. It was a sea of men, horses, and steel, a temporary city of rebellion sprawling along the western bank of the Trident.
The air hummed with a chaotic energy – the clang of smiths' hammers, the neighing of warhorses, the shouts of men, the distant blare of trumpets. It was the sound of an army on the precipice of its defining moment. Voldedort guided his Northern host towards the section of the camp allocated to them, his expression the familiar mask of Stark gravity, but his mind was a razor-sharp instrument, absorbing every detail, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of this grand alliance.
Their arrival did not go unnoticed. As the direwolf banners became visible, a ripple of excitement and respect passed through the assembled forces. The tales of the Green Fork, of Eddard Stark's decisive victory over Randyll Tarly, had preceded them, burnishing their reputation. Northmen were viewed with a new respect, a touch of fear even, by their southern allies.
Before they had even fully made camp, a booming voice, instantly recognizable from Eddard's memories, cut through the surrounding noise. "Ned! By the gods, Ned, you bloody old wolf! You made it!"
Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, contender for the Iron Throne, came striding towards them, a giant of a man in his prime, his black beard wild, his blue eyes blazing with a fierce, almost manic energy. He was clad in dented but serviceable plate, his famous warhammer nowhere in sight for the moment, but his sheer presence was like a physical force. Grief for Lyanna, fury at Rhaegar, and the exhilaration of war radiated from him in palpable waves.
Voldedort dismounted, schooling his features into Eddard's characteristic reserved smile of friendship. "Robert. It is good to see you hale, despite the news of Ashford." He clasped his friend's arm, a gesture of genuine Stark affection that felt strangely natural, even to him. Robert's raw, untamed power was a useful, if volatile, tool.
"Ashford be damned!" Robert roared, clapping Voldedort on the shoulder with a force that would have staggered a lesser man. "A minor stumble! We gave those flowery Tyrell peacocks a few bloody noses before that old fossil Caswell got lucky! But you, Ned! Gods, man, Tarly! You broke Tarly! The whole camp is buzzing with it! How in the seven hells did you manage it?"
"The Northmen fought bravely," Voldedort said, his tone modest but with an underlying firmness. "And the Old Gods were with us. Tarly was… overconfident." He saw no need to detail his precise strategies to Robert, whose tactical acumen was often overshadowed by his sheer battle lust.
"Overconfident and now rotting in one of your Northern cells, I hear!" Robert laughed, a great, booming sound. "Good! One less dragon-licking bastard to worry about! Rhaegar is next, Ned! That silver-haired pretty boy stole your sister, killed my betrothed! I'm going to cave in his pretty chest with my hammer, I swear it by the old gods and the new!" His eyes burned with a mixture of grief and savage anticipation.
Voldedort let a shadow of Eddard's shared grief cross his face. "For Lyanna," he said quietly, the words a potent evocation of their shared cause. He knew Robert's fury was a powerful engine for the rebellion, but also a potential liability if not properly directed.
Just then, a more measured presence made itself known. Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, and foster father to both Eddard and Robert, approached with a retinue of Vale knights. He was older, his hair streaked with grey, his face lined with care and the burdens of command, but his eyes were clear and intelligent.
"Eddard," Jon Arryn said, his voice warm with genuine affection and relief. He embraced Voldedort briefly. "It does my heart good to see you safe and victorious. The tales of your march, of Moat Cailin, of the Green Fork… you have done the North proud, my son."
"Lord Arryn," Voldedort replied, bowing his head with Eddard's customary respect. "Your guidance and wisdom have ever been a light to me. It is an honor to stand with you and Robert against this tyranny." He projected the image of the loyal, dutiful foster son, a role Eddard had played with unfeigned sincerity. Voldemort played it with calculated perfection.
Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, also arrived, leaning heavily on a cane and the arm of his brother, the Blackfish. Lord Tully was a large, florid-faced man, his expression a mixture of relief at the arrival of the Northern host and anxiety over the impending battle. His health, Eddard's memories recalled, had been declining.
"Lord Stark!" Hoster Tully boomed, his voice raspy. "Welcome to the Trident! Your victory over Tarly has put new heart into the Riverlands! My brother has sung your praises as a commander." He eyed Voldedort with a shrewd gaze, noting the subtle changes grief and war had wrought on his prospective son-in-law's father.
"Lord Tully," Voldedort inclined his head. "The Blackfish is a commander of rare skill. His counsel was invaluable. United, our houses will prevail." He made sure to acknowledge the Tully contribution, strengthening the alliance.
The leaders soon repaired to Jon Arryn's command pavilion, a large, functional tent adorned with the falcon banner. Maps of the Trident and the surrounding lands were spread across a large trestle table. The air was thick with the smell of damp wool, oiled leather, and nervous energy. Here, the disparate ambitions and personalities of the rebellion's leaders would need to be forged into a coherent battle plan.
Robert, predictably, was all for a direct, overwhelming assault. "Rhaegar is across the river, they say, near the old ruins of the crossing," he declared, slamming a mailed fist onto the map, dangerously close to a flagon of wine. "Let's ford the Trident at dawn and smash him! No mercy, no quarter! For Lyanna!"
Jon Arryn sighed, a patient sound honed by years of dealing with Robert's impetuosity. "Robert, Rhaegar is no fool. He will have chosen his ground carefully. A frontal assault across a river against a prepared enemy is a recipe for slaughter, as many a commander has learned to his sorrow."
Hoster Tully, wincing slightly as he adjusted his position, added, "Our scouts report Rhaegar's numbers are… formidable. Perhaps even greater than our own combined host. He has the Dornishmen with Prince Lewyn, the remnants of loyalist Riverlords, Crownlands levies, and his own household guard. And who knows what other forces might be marching to join him?"
Voldedort listened, his expression carefully neutral, Eddard's thoughtful frown in place. His greensight had already provided him with flashes of Rhaegar's dispositions: strong contingents of archers covering the fords, heavy infantry formations, and the fearsome Dornish cavalry held in reserve on the flanks. He also saw something else, a concentration of richly adorned tents, a different banner – perhaps a Kingsguard encampment, or Rhaegar's personal command.
"Lord Arryn speaks wisely," Voldedort said, his voice calm and measured, cutting through Robert's bluster. "A direct assault across the Ruby Ford would be costly. Rhaegar expects it. He wants it. He wishes to bleed us on the crossing."
"Then what do you suggest, Ned?" Robert demanded, his enthusiasm slightly dampened by Eddard's and Jon's caution. "We can't just sit here and stare at them across the river!"
"We do not sit," Voldedort replied. "We choose our own ground, or we force Rhaegar to fight on ground less advantageous to him." He drew upon Eddard's military knowledge, honed by Voldemort's own strategic genius. "The Trident has multiple fords. Are all as heavily defended as the Ruby Ford?"
Brynden Tully, who had been studying the map intently, spoke up. "There are other, lesser fords, further upstream and downstream. More difficult to cross with a large army, some with treacherous bottoms. Rhaegar will have them watched, certainly, but perhaps not with the same strength he devotes to the main crossing."
"A feint, then?" Jon Arryn mused. "Threaten one ford to draw his reserves, then strike hard at another?"
"Perhaps," Voldedort said, his eyes gleaming with a cold light. "Or we use the river itself. Lord Manderly's ships, which brought supplies to White Harbor and could potentially navigate parts of the Trident… could they be used to land a force behind Rhaegar's lines, even a small one, to create a diversion, to strike at his command structure?" This was a more audacious thought, born of Voldemort's penchant for unorthodox tactics, something Eddard might not have conceived.
The other lords looked intrigued, if skeptical. "The Trident is wide here, Lord Stark, and the current strong," Hoster Tully cautioned. "And Rhaegar will have patrols on the river."
"A risk, certainly," Voldedort conceded. "But great victories often require great risks." His greensight offered a fleeting image: men in Manderly colours, struggling in boats, but some reaching the far bank, causing a disproportionate amount of chaos. It was a possibility.
He then shifted his focus, subtly guiding the conversation. "Rhaegar is known for his… scholarly inclinations, his belief in prophecy. Does any man here know what prophecies he might be trying to fulfill? Understanding his mindset, his perceived destiny, might give us an insight into his strategy." He looked around the tent, his gaze lingering for a moment on Jon Arryn, who was known for his wisdom and extensive network of informants.
Jon Arryn frowned thoughtfully. "There have always been whispers about Rhaegar. His obsession with Summerhall, his belief that 'the dragon must have three heads.' Some say he believed his children were part of a prophecy. But the specifics… they are shrouded in Targaryen mystery, or madness."
Voldedort felt a flicker of intense interest. The dragon must have three heads. The vision of the silver-haired woman and the three dragon eggs. The pieces were beginning to connect, forming a tantalizing, if still obscure, picture. This war was not just about a throne; for Rhaegar, it might be about fulfilling a mystical destiny. And that, Voldedort knew, could make an opponent both predictable in his grand gestures and dangerously unpredictable in his specific actions.
Robert snorted dismissively. "Prophecies and dragon dreams! He's a madman, like his father! All that matters is that he dies for what he did to Lyanna!"
"His motivations, whatever they are, will inform his battle plan, Robert," Voldedort said patiently. "If he believes himself to be a figure of destiny, he may seek a… heroic confrontation. He may even seek out you, specifically, knowing your personal grievance." This was a calculated statement, designed to appeal to Robert's ego and his desire for personal vengeance, but also a genuine insight from the greensight, which had shown him a vision of Robert and Rhaegar locked in single combat.
The war council continued for hours. Various strategies were proposed, debated, discarded. Voldedort listened more than he spoke, interjecting only to steer the discussion, to subtly plant ideas, to counter flawed proposals with logical, well-reasoned arguments that often incorporated insights gleaned from his greensight, presented as astute military deductions. He was careful not to dominate the council; Eddard Stark was a respected commander, but not an overbearing one. He needed the other lords to feel ownership of the eventual plan.
He noted the dynamics between the other leaders. Robert's rash bravery, Jon Arryn's cautious wisdom, Hoster Tully's anxious pragmatism, the Blackfish's sharp tactical mind. He saw their strengths, their weaknesses, the subtle rivalries and alliances between them. All useful information for future manipulation.
As the day wore on, a consensus began to emerge, heavily influenced by Voldedort's subtle guidance. They would not attempt a direct, unsupported assault on the Ruby Ford. Instead, they would make a strong demonstration there with a significant portion of their forces, primarily Tully and Arryn men, to fix Rhaegar's attention. Meanwhile, Robert, with his Stormlanders and the bulk of the Northern army under Voldedort's direct command, would make a flanking march upstream, under the cover of darkness and terrain, to force a crossing at a series of lesser-known, less defended fords. Once across, they would wheel down and strike Rhaegar's army in the flank or rear, while the forces at the Ruby Ford pressed their attack. It was a complex, risky maneuver, requiring precise timing and coordination, but it offered the best chance of a decisive victory against a numerically strong and well-prepared enemy.
"It is a bold plan," Jon Arryn conceded, looking at Voldedort with a new level of respect. "One that Eddard of old might have hesitated to propose. War has… sharpened you, my son."
Voldedort merely inclined his head. "Desperate times require bold measures, Lord Arryn."
The internal dynamic between the Dark Lord and the Stark was particularly acute during these councils. Eddard's loyalty to Jon Arryn and Robert was a powerful force. He genuinely valued their counsel, respected their leadership. Voldemort had to carefully navigate these ingrained affections, using them to enhance his credibility while ensuring they did not constrain his own, far more ruthless and ambitious, objectives. When Robert, in a fit of passion, proposed a reckless charge that would have decimated his own men, it was Eddard's genuine concern for his friend, filtered through Voldemort's cold logic, that allowed him to gently dissuade Robert without alienating him.
"Your courage is renowned, Robert," Voldedort had said. "But your life, and the lives of your brave Stormlanders, are too precious to be thrown away needlessly. We will find the place to unleash your fury, but it must be a decisive blow, not a desperate gamble." Robert, grumbling but secretly pleased by the acknowledgement of his bravery and importance, had eventually conceded.
Voldedort also continued his discreet inquiries about magic. He spoke with some of the maesters accompanying the southern lords, feigning Eddard's scholarly curiosity about local Riverland history and legends, subtly probing for any mention of Valyrian artifacts, dragonlore, or places of ancient power along the Trident. He learned little of immediate use, but he was patiently gathering threads. He also observed the various religious practices in the sprawling camp – the stern piety of some Vale knights, the more flamboyant displays of faith from some Stormlords, the quiet reverence of his own Northmen for the Old Gods. He sensed little true magical power in the formal rituals of the Seven, but the underlying faith of the people, their hopes and fears, was a potent force in itself, one that could be manipulated.
As evening approached, and the war council broke up to allow the commanders to prepare their troops for the agreed-upon plan, Voldedort found himself standing with Jon Arryn, looking out over the vast rebel encampment towards the unseen enemy across the river.
"Rhaegar is a skilled commander, Eddard," Jon Arryn said quietly, his gaze troubled. "He is not his father. He is loved by many. This battle… it will be the crucible of our rebellion. If we fail here…"
"We will not fail," Voldedort stated, his voice calm but infused with an absolute, chilling certainty that went beyond mere confidence. The greensight had shown him the path to victory, littered with blood and sacrifice, but victory nonetheless. And he, Lord Voldemort, would walk that path, ensuring every step served his ultimate purpose.
"Your faith is strong, Ned," Jon Arryn said, placing a hand on his foster son's shoulder. "May the gods, old and new, grant us their favor tomorrow."
Voldedort looked at the older man, at the genuine affection and trust in his eyes. Eddard Stark would have been moved. Voldemort felt only a fleeting, contemptuous pity for such naive sentimentality. These men, these lords and kings, fought for fleeting glories, for ephemeral ideals of honor and justice. He fought for power eternal, for dominion over the very fabric of existence.
Later that night, in the privacy of his own tent, with only the silent, watchful presence of Ice for company, Voldedort reviewed his plans. The grand strategy for the Battle of the Trident was set by the council, but his own, personal strategy was far more intricate. He would play his part as Eddard Stark, the loyal commander, the brave warrior. He would ensure Robert had his chance to confront Rhaegar, for that personal duel was a key linchpin in the prophecies and the morale of the rebellion.
But he would also be watching, waiting, ready to exploit any opportunity, any chaos, to further his own ends. The death of Rhaegar, the collapse of the Targaryen regime, would create a power vacuum. And into that vacuum, he intended to insert himself, not merely as a kingmaker, but as the hidden master, the true power behind whatever new order emerged.
His greensight pulsed, offering him one final, vivid vision before he submerged it beneath his iron will: the Ruby Ford, choked with the dead and dying, the waters of the Trident running crimson. And in the midst of it all, a black-armored dragon and a crowned stag locked in a fatal embrace. But watching from the periphery, a shadowy wolf with eyes of ice, its form subtly shifting, hinting at something far older, far more terrible, than any mere beast.
The Trident beckoned. The fate of a kingdom hung in the balance. And Lord Voldemort, the serpent cloaked in Stark fur, was ready for the slaughter. The confluence of rebel power was impressive, but he knew that true power lay not in numbers, but in a singular, indomitable will. And his will was absolute.