Chapter 3: The Shadow of the Weirwood
The decade that followed molded Torrhen Stark into a man who commanded awe and respect throughout the North, and a quiet apprehension in those perceptive enough to glimpse the depths behind his winter-grey eyes. By twenty-five, he was a formidable figure, a skilled warrior who moved with a deadly, economical grace, and a strategist whose insights were legendary. King Rickard, now older and relying more heavily on his heir, praised Torrhen's quiet diligence, his unwavering focus on the North's prosperity and defense. He believed his son was a true Stark, embodying the very essence of their house. He was blind to the serpent coiling beneath the wolf's skin.
Torrhen's public persona was meticulously crafted. He was fair, but firm; just, but unyielding when necessary. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did speak, his words carried the weight of irrefutable logic and profound foresight. He was a master of subtle persuasion, always framing his ambitions for the North in terms of its security, its independence, and its rightful place in Westeros. He fostered loyalty not just through his position, but through a genuine sense of purpose he instilled in his bannermen. He knew the North would be his shield, his sword, and ultimately, his throne.
The private world of Torrhen Stark, however, was a labyrinth of ancient magic and burgeoning darkness. The fragmented memories of Tom Riddle were no longer fragments; they were fully formed, accessible, and intertwining with his Stark identity. He no longer questioned who he was; he simply was. He was Torrhen Stark, the Prince of Winterfell, destined to rule the North. And he was Tom Riddle, the heir of Slytherin, destined to conquer the world. The two identities had merged, creating something far more potent and terrifying than either could have been alone.
His magical abilities, once fleeting and uncontrolled, had grown exponentially. The Godswood remained his primary conduit. He spent countless hours there, not merely communing with the weirwood, but actively drawing upon its ancient power. He found he could, with increasing ease, manipulate the very essence of the forest around him. Leaves would rustle to his silent command, small rivulets of water would momentarily freeze or flow faster at his will. He experimented with mental suggestion, planting subtle ideas in the minds of unsuspecting guards or servants, testing the limits of his influence. The echoes of Legilimency and Imperius curses from his past life resonated with chilling clarity.
He began to delve deeper into the nature of life and death magic. The old stories of necromancy, once dismissed as mere superstition, now held a terrifying allure. He revisited the crypts, not just as a place of study, but as a potential source of power. He spent hours tracing the ancient runes on the tombs of the Kings of Winter, feeling the lingering power of their blood and their legacy. He instinctively understood that the collective energy of centuries of Stark rulers, bound to the very stone of Winterfell, could be a formidable source of magical amplification.
He had also mastered the art of Occlumency, the mental discipline to shield his thoughts and emotions. This allowed him to maintain his carefully constructed facade, to appear as the dutiful, honorable Northern prince, while beneath the surface, a storm of dark ambition raged. He could listen to his father speak of his hopes for the North, nod in solemn agreement, all the while calculating how those very hopes could be twisted to serve his own ends.
His knowledge of future events, gleaned from the weirwood vision, was his greatest asset. He used it to meticulously plan. He knew the Red Wedding was coming, the betrayal of Robb and Catelyn. He knew of the War of the Five Kings, the petty squabbles that would decimate the realm. He knew of the White Walkers, the true threat beyond the Wall. Each piece of information was a strategic advantage, allowing him to prepare, to manipulate, to ensure his survival and ultimately, his triumph.
"The South is a viper's nest, Father," Torrhen would often advise Rickard, his voice calm, yet imbued with an almost prophetic certainty. "Their squabbles will eventually spill over the Neck. We must be prepared, stronger than ever." Rickard, ever the cautious Stark, found his son's warnings increasingly prescient and began to heed them, unknowingly playing into Torrhen's grand design. More men were trained, more supplies hoarded, more defenses strengthened. The North was becoming an unbreakable fortress, ready for a war no one else yet saw coming.
He cultivated key alliances within the North, not through mere traditional fealty, but through personal connections. He made frequent visits to the seats of his bannermen, spending time with their heirs, subtly assessing their strengths and weaknesses, their hidden desires. He offered counsel, presented opportunities, and subtly leveraged his foreknowledge to demonstrate his unparalleled wisdom. Lord Umber's hot temper could be channeled; Lady Mormont's fierce loyalty could be exploited; Lord Bolton's ambition, a dangerous tool, could be carefully wielded. He was building an army of loyalists, not just to the Stark name, but to Torrhen Stark himself.
The lingering problem of the White Walkers remained a chilling undercurrent to his ambitions. He knew he could conquer Westeros, but a realm of the dead was a hollow victory. He sought out every scrap of lore about them, about dragonglass and Valyrian steel. He even began to subtly direct Maester Walys to send ravens to the Citadel, requesting obscure texts on "ancient winter legends" and "materials effective against frostbite in unusual circumstances." He was preparing for a war of extinction, a war no one else even believed was real.
His inner conflict, once a raging storm, had settled into a cold, pragmatic acceptance. The moral qualms of Torrhen Stark had been subsumed by the ruthless logic of Tom Riddle. He would do what was necessary, no matter the cost, no matter the lives. The North would be strong, and it would be his. And from its frozen heart, he would cast a shadow that would envelop all of Westeros.
The air in Winterfell was thick with anticipation, a rare respite from the usual Northern stoicism. At twenty-eight, Torrhen Stark was not merely the Crown Prince; he was the undisputed master of Winterfell's daily functions, his father, King Rickard, content to let his brilliant son handle the intricacies of governance. The whispers of his uncanny foresight, his almost supernatural grasp of strategy, had spread throughout the North, cementing his image as a truly exceptional leader. He was respected, admired, and in some corners, subtly feared.
But the most significant event was the arrival of envoys from the Vale. Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King and a powerful figure, had sent a raven proposing a betrothal between Torrhen and his eldest daughter, Anya Arryn. On the surface, it was a sound political match, uniting the North and the Vale, two powerful, ancient kingdoms. To King Rickard, it was a cause for celebration, a solidifying of alliances, a guarantee of future stability. To Torrhen, it was another calculated move on his grand chessboard.
He had foreseen this. Not this specific betrothal, perhaps, but the need for a strong alliance beyond the Neck. He knew the coming conflicts would require more than just Northern might. The Vale, with its formidable mountains and loyal banners, was a crucial piece. Anya Arryn herself was a minor detail, a means to an end. He observed her upon her arrival: a slender girl of eighteen, with the typical Arryn features, blue eyes, and fair hair. She was quiet, perhaps a little shy, but he detected a streak of stubbornness beneath her demure exterior. She was intelligent enough not to be a hindrance, and malleable enough to be shaped.
"A good match, my son," King Rickard boomed, slapping Torrhen on the shoulder, his face beaming. "Lord Arryn is an honorable man. This will secure the North's southern flank."
"Indeed, Father," Torrhen replied, his voice calm, his thoughts racing. He had studied the Arryns meticulously. Their history, their loyalties, their internal squabbles. He knew of the growing resentment between certain Vale lords and the Arryn family, of the vulnerabilities within the seemingly impregnable Eyrie. He would use this marriage not just to ally, but to subtly infiltrate, to plant his influence deep within the Vale.
The wedding, celebrated within Winterfell's Great Hall, was a grand affair, drawing lords and ladies from across the North and the Vale. Torrhen played his part flawlessly. He was courteous, attentive, and projected an air of gentle respect towards his new bride. He exchanged vows with a solemnity that convinced all present of his sincere commitment. Anya, though a little overwhelmed by the grandeur, seemed content, even a little awed by her husband's quiet charisma.
That night, after the feasting and the bedding ceremony, Torrhen found himself alone with Anya in their chambers. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Anya sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped nervously in her lap.
"My Lord husband," she began, her voice a soft murmur.
Torrhen turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Anya," he said, his voice a smooth, low rumble. "We are now bound. The future of our houses, and indeed, the future of the North and the Vale, rests upon this union." He paused, his gaze fixed on her. "I am a man of the North, Anya. My duties are paramount. My house, my people, come first."
Anya nodded, relief flickering in her eyes. "I understand, My Lord. My father spoke of your devotion to your people. I share that devotion for the Vale."
"Good," Torrhen said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "Then we are agreed. This marriage will be one of partnership, of mutual benefit. We will work together, to strengthen our realms, to ensure our survival against the storms that are surely coming."
He did not touch her that night, nor for many nights after. He began their marital relationship with intellectual and political discussions, subtly drawing her out, assessing her strengths and weaknesses. He found her to be intelligent, perceptive, and fiercely loyal to her family and her people. These were traits he could use. He would shower her with quiet respect, with intellectual camaraderie, and subtly, insidiously, twist her loyalties from her father to him, to their shared purpose. He knew the power of a queen, even a queen of the North, and he intended to wield it.
Meanwhile, his private research continued unabated. With the North secured through his strategic governance and the Vale now under his indirect influence, his mind turned increasingly towards the White Walkers and the pursuit of immortality. He had begun to experiment with minor magical rituals in the deepest, most secluded parts of the crypts, always ensuring he was utterly alone. He found that the ancient, potent energy of the Stark bloodline, combined with the raw power of the weirwood, created a unique magical confluence. He could feel it, humming beneath the earth, waiting to be tapped.
He discovered ancient, faded carvings within the deepest parts of the crypts, not of Stark ancestors, but of symbols that resonated with the forgotten lore of the Children of the Forest. These symbols spoke of a power deeper than simple warging, a power of creation and destruction, of binding and unbinding. He also sought out any remaining traces of Valyrian magic, often sending ravens to the Citadel with highly specific, obscure queries that baffled the Maesters. He was meticulously piecing together a grand theory of magic, merging the ancient powers of Westeros with the terrifying knowledge of Tom Riddle.
The ultimate goal, the creation of Horcruxes, remained a chilling fascination. He understood the fundamental mechanics, the act of splintering one's soul. But he sought a method unique to Westeros, one that would imbue his Horcruxes with the ancient power of the land itself. The crypts of Winterfell, steeped in Stark blood and history, seemed the perfect place to begin. He needed a conduit, a vessel, something to anchor his essence. He began to eye the ancient weapons held within the Stark armory, particularly a certain family heirloom.
The serpent was not merely married; it was implanting itself, piece by calculated piece, into the very heart of Westeros. The Northern chill was about to spread south, bringing with it a winter unlike any seen before.
Years passed, years of meticulous planning and subtle manipulation. Torrhen Stark, now King in the North after the quiet passing of his revered father, Rickard, was an unchallenged ruler. His reign was marked by prosperity and order, the North united under his iron will, disguised as wise leadership. Anya, his Queen, had borne him a son, Barthogan, a quiet, thoughtful boy with his mother's Arryn blue eyes but his father's unsettling intelligence. She was a loyal and devoted wife, a testament to Torrhen's subtle mastery of her affections. She saw him as a brilliant, dutiful husband, a loving father, and a king whose foresight was unparalleled. She never suspected the serpent beneath the surface.
Torrhen's influence over the North was absolute. His personal guard, chosen from among the most loyal and ambitious young men, were utterly devoted to him, unknowingly trained in tactics and strategies gleaned from future battles. He had subtly reshaped the Northern economy, focusing on self-sufficiency and resource stockpiling. He had expanded the Night's Watch, sending generous supplies and a steady stream of recruits, always emphasizing the "ancient duty" and the "threats from beyond." He was building his defenses, preparing for the true war.
His magical prowess had grown terrifyingly strong. He no longer needed to visit the Godswood for a mere connection; the connection was constant, a hum beneath his skin. He could weave minor spells with a flick of his wrist, unseen and unheard by others. He could influence the minds of those around him, a subtle suggestion here, a nudge there, making them believe his ideas were their own. He could see flashes of the past and future with clearer precision, though he still needed the weirwood for truly profound visions. He was a master of Legilimency and Occlumency, his mind an impenetrable fortress, his perception a boundless sea.
The White Walkers remained his paramount concern. He knew the timeline, the approximate year of their assault. He had directed expeditions beyond the Wall, ostensibly to map wildling territories, but secretly to search for caches of dragonglass and to observe the movement of the Others. He had even sent discreet envoys to Dragonstone, under the guise of trading agreements, subtly seeking information about dragon eggs and Valyrian steel. His knowledge of the Targaryen lineage, and their eventual demise, allowed him to approach these matters with chilling efficiency.
His most profound breakthrough, however, came in the crypts of Winterfell. He had spent countless hours there, alone, delving into the raw, ancient power of the Stark ancestors. He had found a way to draw upon the accumulated strength of their lineage, the echoes of their blood and their unwavering loyalty to the North. He had discovered a method, born from a fusion of ancient Westerosi magic and his fragmented memories of Tom Riddle, to create a Horcrux unique to this world.
It was not a traditional Horcrux, not a mere splinter of soul hidden in an object. This was something far more ancient, far more potent. He had found a way to bind a portion of his soul to the very essence of Winterfell itself, to the heart of the crypts, where the blood of the First Men ran deepest. He would use the ancient magic of the weirwood and the sacred connection of the Stark bloodline to anchor his life force to the enduring legacy of the North.
The ritual was long and arduous, performed in the deepest, most shadowed part of the crypts, beneath the very sarcophagus of Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. He used his own blood, mingled with the soil of the crypts, and ancient, forgotten incantations whispered in a language long dead. The pain was excruciating, a searing agony that tore at his very essence, but he welcomed it. He was not just splitting his soul; he was merging it with the living history of the North, becoming one with its ancient power.
When it was done, he felt it. A profound sense of detachment, a chilling emptiness where a piece of his soul had once resided. But also, a soaring sense of invulnerability. He was no longer just a man; he was woven into the fabric of Winterfell. If his body fell, his essence would endure, anchored to the very foundations of his kingdom. He had taken the first step towards true immortality, a step unique to this land, a Horcrux forged in the heart of ice and blood.
The Serpent's whisper was no longer a nascent thought; it was a cold, calculating roar within him. He was ready. The pieces were in place. The North was his, the Vale subtly influenced, his body honed, his magic awakened, and his soul secured. He would not just survive the coming storm; he would command it. The game of thrones was about to begin, and Torrhen Stark, the Lord Voldemort of Winterfell, was the only one who truly understood the rules.
Torrhen Stark, now in his early thirties, presided over a North that was a beacon of strength and preparedness. His rule was absolute, though cloaked in the guise of traditional Northern governance. His wife, Queen Anya, was his confidante and ally, completely unaware of the dark currents beneath his calm exterior. Their son, Barthogan, was being raised in the shadow of his brilliant father, absorbing lessons in strategy and leadership that were far more complex than any other child of his age. Torrhen was not merely training an heir; he was training a loyal instrument, a piece that would undoubtedly play a crucial role in the coming years.
The rumors of King Aerys II Targaryen's madness had grown louder, more alarming. They reached Winterfell as whispers, then frantic ravens. The burnings, the paranoia, the increasingly erratic behavior of the "Mad King" were a clear sign to Torrhen that the timeline he had foreseen was rapidly approaching its climax. The stage was being set for Robert's Rebellion, and Torrhen had spent years meticulously preparing his kingdom for it.
He had subtly shifted the Night's Watch to a more strategic defensive posture, emphasizing not just the Wildling threat, but the 'ancient cold' that lay beyond. He had ordered the systematic collection and forging of dragonglass weapons, under the pretext of 'experimentation for northern survival,' a bizarre but ultimately harmless pursuit, the Maesters thought. He had even sent discreet, anonymous letters to the Citadel and certain scholars in Oldtown, detailing the urgent need to research ancient legends of ice and fire, subtly directing their academic curiosity towards the coming threat.
His own magical abilities had reached an astonishing level. He could perform complex spells with a silent thought, his control over his powers absolute. He could manipulate the elements, conjuring chilling winds or deflecting snow, though he rarely did so overtly. His Legilimency was so refined that he could subtly probe the minds of others without their knowledge, extracting information, planting suggestions. His Occlumency shields were impenetrable, his inner world a fortress of ice and steel. He had also made progress in understanding the nature of Valyrian steel, sensing a deep, intrinsic magic within the metal itself, a magic that resonated with his own growing power.
The North's army was unparalleled. Not just in numbers, but in training, discipline, and loyalty. Every Northern lord, every common soldier, believed in Torrhen Stark. They believed he possessed an almost supernatural wisdom, a foresight that kept them safe and prosperous. They would follow him anywhere, into any war. This unwavering loyalty was Torrhen's true army, a force forged not just of steel, but of belief.
The news of Lyanna Stark's abduction by Rhaegar Targaryen, followed swiftly by the summons of King Aerys for Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark to King's Landing, arrived like a thunderclap. Torrhen felt a cold satisfaction. This was it. The spark that would ignite the realm. He had known it was coming, every detail of it, and he had made his preparations.
King Rickard, furious at the insult to his daughter and the demand for his son, prepared to ride south. Torrhen, playing the dutiful son, argued against his father going alone, warning of the Mad King's erratic behavior. "Father, his paranoia grows. You walk into a viper's nest. Allow me to ride with you, with a formidable escort."
Rickard, ever proud, dismissed his son's concerns. "I am the King in the North, Torrhen. I will answer the King's summons, and demand justice for my daughter and my heir. My honor demands it."
Torrhen nodded, his expression grave, yet a faint, almost imperceptible gleam in his eyes. He knew his father and brother were walking into a trap. He had already set his own trap for the trap. He had sent secret, meticulously worded messages to several key Northern lords, detailing the "potential treachery" of the Mad King and subtly hinting at the need for the North to act decisively if their King and Prince were harmed. He had also sent a discreet, coded message to Jon Arryn, laying the groundwork for a larger rebellion.
When the news of Rickard and Brandon's horrific deaths reached Winterfell, the North erupted in righteous fury. Grief and outrage consumed the people. But Torrhen, though outwardly grieving, felt a cold, calculated calm. This was inevitable. This was the catalyst. He had prepared for this moment for decades.
He called his banners, not for vengeance, but for justice. "The Mad King has murdered our King and our Prince!" Torrhen declared, his voice ringing through the Great Hall, imbued with a powerful, almost magical resonance that stirred the hearts of all who heard him. "He has violated the sacred laws of guest right, of honor, of kingship! We will march south, not to conquer, but to punish. To ensure such treachery never darkens our lands again!"
He sent ravens to Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon, confirming his intention to join their rebellion. His messages were carefully crafted, emphasizing Northern honor and the need to restore justice to the realm. He offered his full support, his vast, well-trained army, and his unparalleled strategic mind. He would be the unseen force, the silent hand guiding the rebellion from the shadows.
As the Northern host gathered, a sea of grim faces beneath the Direwolf banners, Torrhen stood before them, his gaze sweeping over the assembled thousands. He saw their loyalty, their pain, their fierce desire for retribution. He felt a surge of exhilaration, cold and dark. This was not just a war; this was the beginning of his true ascent.
The serpent was no longer merely whispering. It was preparing to strike. The long winter had begun, and Torrhen Stark, the Lord Voldemort reborn in the North, would be its master. The storms were gathering, and he would ride them, not as a victim, but as the ultimate predator. The realm was his for the taking, and his path to absolute dominion lay open before him.