Chapter 2: The Weirwood's Whisper, The Serpent's Gaze
The transition from the biting cold of the godswood to the relative warmth of his chambers had been a blur, a sequence of concerned faces and hushed murmurs that Voldemort, still grappling with the raw influx of Eddard Stark's existence, had processed with a detached sort of curiosity. He'd allowed them to guide him, to fuss over him, the perfect image of a lord undone by catastrophic grief. It was a role, and Voldemort, in his long and varied existence, had played many.
He now lay abed, the heavy furs pulled up to his chin, the room lit by the flickering orange glow of a hearth. Maester Walyskan had insisted on a calming draught, some herbal concoction that Voldemort, with his innate paranoia and understanding of potions, had only pretended to sip before setting aside. He needed his senses sharp, his mind clear. The assimilation was still settling, like silt in disturbed water, and he was meticulously sifting through the layers.
The body was… remarkably sound. Eddard Stark, for all his Northern austerity, had been a man in his prime. Strong limbs, a steady heartbeat, senses keen and unclouded by age or dark magical decay. Voldemort flexed his fingers – Eddard's fingers – feeling the subtle play of muscle and sinew. It was a vessel of considerable potential, a far cry from the weakened forms he had been forced to inhabit, or the monstrous, snake-like body his ambition had once twisted his own into. This form commanded respect, exuded a natural authority. Useful.
But it was the mind, the soul, that was the true prize and the current battlefield. Eddard's memories were no longer just a flood; they were becoming an ordered, accessible archive. He could recall the exact timbre of Rickard Stark's voice lecturing him on honor, the rough-and-tumble play with Brandon in the Winterfell courtyard, Lyanna's laughter, bright and fleeting as a summer snowflake. He felt the phantom weight of Benjen's youthful hero-worship, the solemn duty of a Lord, the ancient, almost instinctual connection to the North and its harsh, unforgiving beauty.
And the grief. It was a persistent ache, a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. Eddard's love for his father and brother was a palpable force, a wound that bled sorrow and a desperate, burning rage. Voldemort found it… distasteful. Such raw emotion was a vulnerability, a chain. Yet, he couldn't entirely dismiss it. It was now part of him, interwoven with his own ancient malice. The anger, at least, was something he could understand, could harness. The Mad King's actions were an affront, not just to the Starks, but to any semblance of order, any form of power that was not his own. Aerys Targaryen was an insect to be crushed, a chaotic element to be eradicated.
"The North remembers," a phrase echoed in Eddard's consciousness, resonating with a deep, primal loyalty. Voldemort considered it. Yes, the North would remember. And he, wearing Eddard's face, would ensure they remembered what he wished them to.
A soft scratching at the door. Voldemort didn't stir, merely tracked the sound with his new, keen hearing. "My lord?" Maester Walyskan's voice, hesitant.
"Enter," Voldemort commanded. The voice was Eddard's, perhaps a shade deeper, colder than the maester was used to, but grief could do that to a man.
Walyskan shuffled in, his chain of office clinking softly. His gaze was filled with a mixture of concern and pity. "How are you feeling, Lord Eddard? You took a terrible shock."
Voldemort pushed himself up, leaning against the carved weirwood headboard. The wood felt strangely… alive beneath his touch, a faint thrum of ancient energy that resonated with the nascent greensight now stirring more insistently within him. He focused on the maester, Eddard's natural frown creasing his brow.
"The shock remains, Maester," he said, his tone heavy. "But clarity follows. My father… my brother… they were murdered. There is no other word for it."
Walyskan nodded slowly. "Indeed, my lord. King's Landing has become a viper's nest under Aerys. Many whisper of his growing madness."
"Whispers will not bring them back," Voldemort stated, a chill entering his voice that made the old maester draw his robes a little tighter. "Aerys has declared war on my House. On the North. He will find the North responds in kind."
"Lord Robert Baratheon and Lord Jon Arryn will surely feel the same," Walyskan offered. "You are not alone in this, my lord. The bonds of fostering, of friendship…"
Voldemort's mind, a fusion of his own cunning and Eddard's knowledge, immediately assessed this. Robert Baratheon: a formidable warrior, charismatic, driven by his own furies, not least the abduction of Lyanna Stark, his betrothed. Jon Arryn: wise, respected, a father figure to both Eddard and Robert, Lord of the strategically vital Vale. Yes, they would be the pillars of any rebellion. Eddard would have turned to them without question, bound by honor and affection. Voldemort saw them as powerful, necessary tools. For now.
"Their grief will mirror my own," Voldemort affirmed, his gaze distant, as if picturing his foster father and brother-in-arms. "Send ravens, Maester. To Storm's End. To the Eyrie. Inform them of what has transpired. Inform them that Eddard Stark calls his banners." He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. "And inform them that I ride south. Not just for justice. For vengeance."
The last word was spoken with a venom that was pure Voldemort, though Walyskan would attribute it to Eddard's righteous fury. The maester bowed his head. "At once, my lord. The words will be chosen carefully."
"Ensure they convey the… barbarity of the King's actions," Voldemort added, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Let all of Westeros know what manner of king sits the Iron Throne." Let them fear. Let them choose sides. Chaos is a ladder. The thought, an echo from a different schemer in a different world, amused him.
As Walyskan turned to leave, Voldemort spoke again, his voice softer, more contemplative, yet edged with an intensity that brooked no refusal. "Maester, before you go… the library here in Winterfell. It contains many ancient texts, does it not? Lore of the First Men? The Children of the Forest?"
Walyskan paused, surprised by the shift in topic. "It does, my lord. Many scrolls and books, some dating back thousands of years. Though much is fragmented, tales and legends mostly."
"I find myself… drawn to the old ways," Voldemort said, a careful choice of words. "In this time of… reflection… I wish to understand the roots of the North. The sources of its strength." He made a gesture that encompassed the room, the castle, the land beyond.
"A commendable pursuit, my lord," Walyskan said, though a hint of puzzlement lingered in his eyes. "The strength of the North lies in its people, its harsh lands, and the enduring legacy of the First Men. The Old Gods watch over us." He gestured vaguely towards the window, beyond which lay the godswood.
The Old Gods, Voldemort mused. Eddard's faith had been a quiet, personal thing, tied to the weirwoods and the silent watchers. Voldemort sensed power there, a primal, earth-bound magic vastly different from the structured incantations of his own world. The greensight was part of it. He needed to understand its full scope, its limitations, how it could be… enhanced.
"Leave me the relevant texts," Voldemort instructed. "Especially anything pertaining to the weirwoods, their properties… their sight."
"Sight, my lord?" Walyskan queried.
"The old tales speak of it, do they not?" Voldemort pressed, his gaze sharp. "Men who could see through the eyes of the trees, glimpse things hidden."
"Greensight," the maester breathed, a touch of awe and apprehension in his voice. "A rare gift, almost faded from the world. Some say the blood of the First Men carries it. Your ancestors, the Starks of old, were said to possess it more strongly."
And now, I possess them, Voldemort thought with grim satisfaction. "Legends often hold a kernel of truth, Maester. I wish to explore these kernels."
Walyskan bowed again, deeper this time. "As you wish, my lord. I will have a selection brought to your chambers. Will you require anything else?"
"Send for Ser Rodrik Cassel and Vayon Poole," Voldemort ordered. "There is much to discuss regarding the preparations."
"Immediately, Lord Stark."
Once the maester had departed, Voldemort allowed a thin, cruel smile to touch Eddard's lips. The old fool suspected nothing. Grief was the perfect smokescreen. He rose from the bed, noting the way the muscles in this body responded, the feeling of contained strength. He moved to the narrow window, looking out over the snow-dusted courtyard of Winterfell. His castle. His domain. His new chessboard.
The greensight… it wasn't just a passive reception of visions. Since the assimilation, he felt it as an active sense, a subtle hum beneath the surface of his perception. As he gazed at the courtyard, a fleeting image superimposed itself over the mundane scene: blood on the snow, not animal blood, but human. Grey banners, a direwolf sigil, trampled under the hooves of golden-lion-emblazoned warhorses. The image was gone in an instant, leaving behind a faint tang of ozone in his mind.
Lannisters, he identified immediately from Eddard's memories. Tywin Lannister, the Hand who had resigned, a man of ruthless pragmatism and ambition. A potential rival, or a useful, if dangerous, ally under the right circumstances. This vision… a warning? A future possibility? He would need to learn to control and interpret these flashes more precisely.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, arrived first. A man of grizzled hair and unwavering loyalty, his face was a mask of grim sorrow. "My lord," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "The news… it is an evil day."
Voldemort met his gaze, projecting an image of shared grief and steely resolve. "It is, Ser Rodrik. An evil that must be answered." He saw the unquestioning loyalty in the knight's eyes, the readiness to follow his lord into the jaws of hell itself. Such devotion was potent.
"The men are already stirring, my lord. Word spreads like wildfire. They loved Lord Rickard. And Brandon… he was the North embodied for many of them. They cry for blood."
"And blood they shall have," Voldemort said, his voice resonating with a promise that was both Eddard's and his own. "But rage alone does not win wars. We need strategy, preparedness. How soon can we mobilize the household guard? What is the state of our armory?"
Rodrik, a practical man, shifted easily into his familiar role. "The household guard can be ready to ride within days, my lord. Well-trained, well-equipped. The armory is stocked, though a prolonged campaign will require more smithing. We have steel, but perhaps not enough for a southern war of the scale this might become."
Voldemort nodded. Eddard's knowledge supplied the details: the various Northern houses, their levies, their traditional strengths. House Manderly with their knights and silver, House Bolton with their formidable infantry and… unsettling reputation. House Karstark, Umber, Glover… all fiercely loyal to the Starks.
"Send word to all our bannermen, Ser Rodrik. Not by raven initially, but by rider. Trusted men. The message must be stark and clear: Winterfell calls. Their lord has been murdered by the King. Their future lord likewise. We prepare for war."
"And what of young Benjen, my lord?" Rodrik asked, his brow furrowed. "And… Lady Lyanna?"
The mention of Lyanna sent a sharp pang through the Eddard-aspect of his consciousness. Grief, yes, but also a burning question. Rhaegar Targaryen. Voldemort felt a surge of possessive anger that was surprisingly potent, stemming from Eddard's bond with his sister. Another loose end. Another potential leverage point.
"Benjen is young, but he is a Stark," Voldemort said, his voice firm. "He will remain in Winterfell, under your tutelage and Maester Walyskan's. He must learn to lead, should the worst befall me." A contingency I have no intention of allowing, he added silently. "As for Lyanna… Rhaegar will answer for that as well. Once Aerys is dealt with, the matter of my sister will be settled." He deliberately left the nature of that settlement vague.
Vayon Poole, the steward of Winterfell, arrived next, his face pale and drawn. He was a man of ledgers and logistics, not battles, but his role was crucial.
"Lord Stark," Poole began, his voice trembling slightly. "A terrible, terrible business. The cost… the implications…"
"The cost of inaction is far greater, Master Poole," Voldemort cut in, his tone leaving no room for dithering. "You will oversee the gathering of provisions. Grain, salted meats, fodder for horses. We march south, and an army needs its belly full. Assess our granaries, our treasuries. Report to me by day's end with a full accounting of our resources."
Poole swallowed, visibly steeling himself. "Yes, my lord. Of course. I… I shall begin immediately." He clutched the roll of parchment he always seemed to carry as if it were a lifeline.
"And Poole," Voldemort added, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Discretion. The North is united, but whispers can be dangerous. Ensure loyalty within the household. Any dissenting voices, any sign of Targaryen sympathy, however faint, is to be reported to me directly."
Poole blanched. "Targaryen sympathy? Here in Winterfell, my lord?"
"Madness is infectious, Poole. And fear breeds strange allegiances," Voldemort said cryptically. "Just be vigilant." He needed absolute control, a secure base of operations. Winterfell would be his fortress, not just against southern enemies, but against any internal dissent that might arise once his… unique methods became apparent.
After the steward scurried off, Voldemort turned back to Ser Rodrik. "The men will need a focus for their anger, Rodrik. They need to see their lord. Tomorrow, at first light, I will address the household guard in the main yard. Ensure all are present."
"They will be heartened to see you strong, my lord," Rodrik said, a measure of relief in his own voice.
Strong is an understatement, Voldemort thought. They will see a Lord Stark more formidable than any they have ever known.
When he was finally alone again, the silence of the chamber pressed in. Voldemort walked to the small, iron-banded chest where Eddard kept his personal effects. Inside, nestled amongst simpler things, was Ice. He drew the Valyrian steel greatsword. The blade was huge, wider than a man's hand, smoke-dark, its ripples catching the firelight. It felt impossibly light for its size, perfectly balanced. A weapon of immense power and history.
He could feel a faint thrum of magic from the steel, ancient and potent. Not like the magic of wands, but something inherent, something forged in dragonfire and spells long lost. The Elder Wand's equivalent? Perhaps not this single blade, but the knowledge of its forging… the lost arts of Valyria… intriguing. He made a mental note. Valyria and its secrets would require investigation.
He spent the next few hours in solitude, not with the maester's dusty scrolls – those could wait – but in deep introspection, a meticulous ordering of his new, dual consciousness. He was Voldemort, but he was also, in a very real and inescapable way, Eddard Stark. He could access Eddard's sense of honor, his loyalty, his love for his family, as easily as he could access his own ambition and cruelty.
It was… a peculiar sensation. Eddard's morality was like an ill-fitting cloak, sometimes chafing, sometimes surprisingly useful as camouflage. He found he could understand why Eddard would make certain choices, even if he, Voldemort, would have chosen differently. This understanding was key. To perfectly emulate Eddard, he needed to think like him, feel like him, at least on the surface.
He experimented. He focused on Lyanna. Eddard's grief and fury were immediate, a burning fire. Voldemort examined it with cold detachment, then amplified it, twisting it into a sharper, more ruthless desire for retribution that would serve his own ends. Rhaegar Targaryen would pay, not just for Lyanna, but for daring to possess something a Stark valued, something that, by extension, now belonged to him.
He thought of Robert Baratheon. Eddard's affection for his friend was genuine, a bond forged in shared youth and hardship. Voldemort saw Robert as a blunt instrument, powerful but predictable. He would use Robert's rage, his claim to the throne (through his Targaryen grandmother, a detail Eddard's knowledge supplied), to shatter the existing power structure. Then, when the dust settled, Robert, like all others, would become either a useful subordinate or an obstacle.
The greensight flickered again, stronger this time. He saw a trident, red with blood, in a rushing river. A stag, crowned, goring a dragon. Then, the stag itself, stumbling, wounded, surrounded by golden lions. The images were clearer, more defined than before, the infusion of his own powerful magical essence acting as an amplifier for Eddard's latent gift.
The Trident… Robert's victory over Rhaegar. Foreseen. Good. The subsequent image of the wounded stag and the lions was more troubling, but also more useful. The Lannisters again. Treachery after the victory? Or a later conflict? He filed it away. Forewarned was forearmed. This greensight, crude as it still felt, would be an invaluable asset, allowing him to navigate the treacherous currents of Westerosi politics with an almost prescient edge.
His thoughts turned to the more esoteric prizes this world offered. The Philosopher's Stone. The knowledge of its potential had bloomed in his mind almost as a byproduct of the soul-devouring, a synthesis of his own alchemical understanding and the unique magical properties of this new reality. It wouldn't be Nicholas Flamel's Elixir of Life, perhaps, but something… analogous. Weirwood sap, imbued with the ancient magic of the earth, subjected to certain… processes. Or perhaps something involving dragonlore, if dragons could indeed be brought back into the world, as some legends hinted. The thought of true, unassailable immortality, without the degrading fragmentation of Horcruxes, was a powerful lure. His current Horcruxes were a lifeline, but also a vulnerability. To transcend them…
And the Deathly Hallows. Their conceptual forms continued to resonate within him. Ice was a candidate for an Elder Wand equivalent, or at least its core principle of martial supremacy. The Resurrection Stone… perhaps something tied to the ancestral crypts beneath Winterfell, where the spirits of Stark kings were said to linger. Or the necromantic whispers he sensed from the Barrowlands not far from here. The Cloak of Invisibility… the silent, watching nature of the Old Gods, the way one could seemingly disappear into the vast, trackless wolfswood… these were threads, clues. He would unravel them. To be Master of Death in one world was a grand ambition; to achieve it in two… that was a goal worthy of Lord Voldemort.
He practiced some wandless magic, simple things from his old repertoire. A silent Lumos caused his palm – Eddard's palm – to glow with a faint, ethereal light. It felt different, the magic drawing not just from his will, but also seeming to pull from the ambient energy of the room, the ancient stones of Winterfell itself. He extinguished it with a thought. Then, he focused on a quill lying on Eddard's writing desk. With a surge of concentration, it quivered, then levitated a few inches off the wood.
The magic was there, his magic, but it was… altered. Flavored by this new world, by the essence of Eddard Stark. It felt rawer, more primal, yet also more deeply connected to the physical environment. His control was still absolute, but the texture of the power was subtly changed. This would require further exploration, careful refinement.
The night deepened. Voldemort did not sleep. Sleep was a vulnerability he could ill afford, especially now, with his mind still forging its new, monstrous equilibrium. He delved deeper into Eddard's memories, absorbing details of Northern culture, allegiances, enmities, strengths, weaknesses. He analyzed the Great Houses: the wealth of the Lannisters, the naval power of the Greyjoys, the fertile lands of the Tyrells, the honor-bound but isolated Arryns, the desert cunning of the Martells. Each was a piece on the board.
He considered the Night's Watch, the Wall, the ancient threat of the Others that Eddard, like most southerners, dismissed as myth and legend. But Voldemort, who had delved into the darkest of forbidden lore, was not so quick to dismiss ancient evils. The greensight had already shown him glimpses of an unending winter, a darkness beyond mere political strife. If such a power existed, it was either a threat to be annihilated or, more enticingly, a power to be understood and perhaps even mastered.
As the first hint of grey dawn touched the eastern sky, Voldemort rose. He dressed himself in simple Northern garb, leather and wool, the kind of attire Eddard Stark favored. He strapped on the belt that held Ice. The weight of the Valyrian steel was a comfort, a promise.
He looked into the polished silver of a mirror. Eddard Stark's face stared back. Long, dark hair, grey eyes that held a new, chilling intensity, a stern, careworn expression that now concealed a mind of infinite cunning and boundless ambition. The grief was still there, a shadow in the eyes, a downturn to the mouth. It was a perfect mask.
Today, he would address the men of Winterfell. He would speak of honor, duty, and vengeance. He would be everything they expected their Lord Stark to be. And as they cheered for Eddard Stark, as they pledged their lives to his cause, they would unknowingly be binding themselves to Lord Voldemort.
The serpent was coiled in the heart of the direwolf. Winter was indeed coming. But it would be a winter of a kind this world had never known, a winter born of dark magic and a will as cold and unyielding as the glacial ice of the deepest hells. And he would be its king.