Chapter 7: The Riverlands Gambit, Whispers of the Trident
The encampment near the Fever River was a sprawling city of muddy tents and flickering campfires, a stark contrast to the claustrophobic gloom of the Neck. For the first few days after emerging from the swamps, the Northern army resembled a bear stirring from a long, uncomfortable hibernation – weary, gaunt, but with a simmering energy now that open country lay before them. The air, though still carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant metallic tang of war, felt cleaner, allowing for deeper breaths.
Voldedort, however, allowed little true rest. While the men attended to their gear, tended to their still-aching feet, and indulged in the relative luxury of more substantial fires and slightly better rations (foraged from the sparsely populated local lands or brought by the first, tentative Riverland traders smelling opportunity), he was a whirlwind of focused activity. The Gatehouse Tower at Moat Cailin had been a crucible for his initial plans; this open encampment was the forge where those plans would be hammered into reality.
His first priority was intelligence and alliance. The Riverlands, Eddard's memories confirmed, were a patchwork of allegiances, historically caught between larger, more powerful kingdoms. Hoster Tully of Riverrun was the Lord Paramount, and his decision to defy the crown was pivotal. But many Riverlords had ties to the Targaryens, or were simply waiting to see which way the wind blew. Voldedort needed to solidify Tully's support and sway as many waverers as possible.
Envoys from Riverrun arrived within two days, a small party of Tully knights led by Hoster's younger brother, Ser Brynden Tully, famously known as the Blackfish. The Blackfish was a lean, weathered man with a hawkish nose and eyes that missed little, a renowned commander in his own right. Eddard's memories held him in high esteem.
Voldedort received them in his command tent, a surprisingly large pavilion that had been laboriously transported through the Neck. Ice was propped against the central tent pole, a silent, brooding sentinel. Howland Reed sat quietly in one corner, his presence almost an extension of the shadows. Ser Rodrik and the Greatjon stood by Voldedort's side.
"Ser Brynden," Voldedort greeted, rising and offering his hand with Eddard's grave courtesy. "Your presence does us honor. News of Lord Tully's stand against the Mad King has been a balm to Northern hearts."
The Blackfish clasped his hand firmly, his grip strong. "Lord Stark. The North marches far. My brother, Lord Hoster, sends his greetings and his firm pledge. The murder of your father and brother, and the insult to our own house through your intended betrothal to my niece Catelyn before… recent events concerning your brother Brandon… these are crimes that cry out for justice. Riverrun stands with Winterfell, Storm's End, and the Eyrie."
"Lord Tully's resolve is a beacon," Voldedort said, his voice resonating with carefully modulated sincerity. "United, our houses will see this tyranny ended." He noted the subtle emphasis the Blackfish placed on Brandon's connection to Catelyn; clearly, the alliance through marriage was still a key factor for House Tully. Voldedort had no sentimental attachment to Catelyn Tully, a woman he'd never met, but the strategic value of the union was undeniable. Eddard would have honored the betrothal out of duty and respect for Hoster Tully; Voldemort saw it as a necessary step to secure the Riverlands.
"My brother is eager to coordinate our efforts," the Blackfish continued, his keen eyes assessing Voldedort. There was a new hardness to Eddard Stark, a chilling focus that Brynden Tully hadn't expected, though he attributed it to grief and the burdens of command. "Randyll Tarly holds the crossings of the Green Fork with a strong host of Reachmen. Lords Darry, Mooton, and Ryger, all Targaryen loyalists, are gathering their strength to join him. We must prevent their conjunction."
"Indeed," Voldedort agreed. "My scouts, guided by Lord Reed's crannogmen, have already been observing Tarly's dispositions. He is a cautious commander, but his lines are somewhat extended." This was partially true; his mundane scouts had reported as much. But his greensight had provided far more detailed, almost real-time glimpses of Tarly's encampment, the disposition of his pickets, the routine of his patrols. He'd seen Tarly himself, a stern, unyielding man, poring over maps, his face a mask of grim determination.
One such vision had been particularly illuminating: Tarly, in his command tent, arguing heatedly with a nervous Lord Mooton, who seemed reluctant to commit his forces fully. This internal division among the loyalists was a weakness Voldedort intended to exploit.
"Lord Reed has spoken of paths through the wetlands west of the Green Fork," Voldedort said, turning his gaze to the quiet crannogman. "Paths that could allow a force to emerge on Tarly's flank."
The Blackfish's eyebrows rose slightly. "The bogs west of the Trident? That is crannogmen territory, largely impassable for a mailed knight, let alone an army."
"Not for an entire army, perhaps," Voldedort conceded. "But for a select force, moving light and fast, guided by those who know the secret ways…" He let the implication hang.
The Greatjon grinned, thumping his mailed fist on the table. "A knife in the dark! I like it, Stark! Give me a thousand good Northmen, and we'll wade through any swamp to get at Tarly's cowardly guts!"
Voldedort allowed a cool smile. "Your enthusiasm is noted, Greatjon. But this requires finesse, not just brute force. Lord Reed, can your men lead a contingent of, say, five hundred light infantry and dismounted Glover bowmen through these paths to a position where they can strike Tarly's supply lines and rear guard, timed to coincide with a frontal assault from our main host?"
Howland Reed considered this, his eyes thoughtful. "It would be perilous, Lord Stark. The paths are narrow, the ground treacherous. But it can be done. My people know the whispers of the marsh. We can guide them."
"Then that is our plan," Voldedort declared, a note of finality in his voice. He then turned to the Blackfish. "Ser Brynden, your brother's forces. Where are they currently positioned?"
"Lord Hoster holds Riverrun with the bulk of our strength," the Blackfish explained. "He is attempting to rally the other Riverlords. Some, like the Freys at the Twins, are… predictably hesitant, waiting to see who offers the better price. Others, like Piper and Vance, are leaning towards us but fear to commit openly until they see a decisive rebel victory."
The Freys, Voldedort thought, Eddard's distaste for Walder Frey surfacing. Avaricious and unreliable. They control a key crossing, however. Another piece to be managed, perhaps through intimidation or a well-placed incentive.
"A decisive victory is what we intend to deliver," Voldedort said, his gaze hardening. "If Tarly's force is broken or forced to retreat, it will send a clear message to the waverers. Your brother's task of consolidating the Riverlands will become much easier." He then outlined his broader strategy: the Northern army, supported by any Tully forces that could be spared, would engage Tarly's main body at the Green Fork. Simultaneously, the flanking force led by the crannogmen would create chaos in Tarly's rear, disrupting his command and supply.
The Blackfish listened intently, his expression growing more impressed. "A bold plan, Lord Stark. Risky, but the rewards are great. If Tarly is defeated, the King loses his most capable commander in the field, and the Riverlands are largely ours."
"Precisely," Voldedort affirmed. He then addressed practical matters: coordinating signals, timing, and the potential need for Tully forces to feign an attack from a different direction to further confuse Tarly. The Blackfish, a seasoned soldier, grasped the details quickly, offering his own astute suggestions. By the time the meeting concluded, a clear operational plan was in place.
As the Blackfish and his retinue departed to carry the plans to Lord Hoster, Voldedort felt a grim satisfaction. The pieces were moving according to his design. Eddard Stark would have sought counsel, built consensus. Voldemort commanded, his intellect and will shaping events, using the input of others only to refine his own pre-determined course.
His exploration of magic in the Riverlands was necessarily more circumspect than it had been in the desolate North or the haunted Moat Cailin. Here, there were more eyes, more people. Yet, he found opportunities. The rivers themselves, the mighty Green Fork and its tributaries, felt different from the sluggish, dark waters of the Neck. There was a liveliness to them, a sense of flowing energy. He would sometimes walk alone by the riverbank at dusk, ostensibly to clear his head, but in reality, to extend his senses, to feel the pulse of this new land.
He noted the prevalence of small, almost forgotten godswood copses, often untended, sometimes only a single, ancient weirwood standing forlornly in a farmer's field. He felt the familiar, faint thrum of the weirwood net, but it seemed weaker here, more fragmented than in the North, perhaps due to the dominance of the Faith of the Seven in the southern regions. Still, each weirwood was a potential listening post, a node in the network he was slowly beginning to comprehend.
He even discreetly collected samples of river water, of certain soils and plants unique to the Riverlands, for later study. His alchemical knowledge, combined with his growing understanding of this world's unique properties, whispered of new possibilities, new concoctions. The Philosopher's Stone remained a distant goal, but every new environment offered potential clues, different ingredients for the grand experiment of ultimate power and immortality.
The internal dynamic with Eddard's persona continued to be a complex dance. As the prospect of large-scale battle loomed, Eddard's memories of leading men, the weight of responsibility for their lives, the grim calculus of war, became more prominent. Eddard Stark had been a reluctant warrior, fighting for duty and justice, not for the love of bloodshed. He had known the cost of victory, the faces of the men who did not return.
Voldemort found these empathic echoes… inconvenient. They were a drag on his ruthlessness. When planning the flanking maneuver against Tarly, a part of him – the Eddard part – felt a pang of concern for the men Howland Reed would lead through the treacherous swamps, for the inevitable casualties. Voldemort ruthlessly suppressed this. Casualties were a regrettable necessity, entries in a ledger. The goal was victory, absolute and crushing.
He found himself having to consciously manage Eddard's more honorable instincts. For instance, when discussing the treatment of potential prisoners, the Greatjon advocated for no quarter, a brutal but effective way to sow terror. Eddard's ingrained code recoiled from this. Voldemort, while appreciating the strategic value of terror, recognized that wanton slaughter of prisoners might alienate potential allies like the Tullys or even some of his own more honor-bound Northern lords. He therefore opted for a more… nuanced approach.
"Prisoners of high rank will be taken, if possible," Voldedort declared to his war council, his voice cold and pragmatic. "They have value, for ransom or exchange. Common soldiers who surrender will be disarmed and… encouraged to return to their homes, spreading word of Northern might and Targaryen folly. Those who resist to the last, however, will find no mercy." It was a compromise that satisfied the Greatjon's bloodlust enough, while maintaining a veneer of Stark justice. Fear is a tool, but so is the perception of honor, he mused. Use both.
The greensight became an increasingly vital tool. In the days leading up to their advance towards the Green Fork, his visions grew sharper, more frequent. He saw Randyll Tarly deploying his archers along a ridge overlooking a ford, a key defensive position. He saw the banners of House Darry moving to reinforce Tarly's eastern flank. He even caught a fleeting, disturbing glimpse of Aerys Targaryen in King's Landing, his eyes wild, screaming at his pyromancers, green flames reflected in their depths. The Mad King grows more desperate. Good.
These visions allowed Voldedort to adjust his plans with an almost prescient accuracy. He instructed his outriders to focus their reconnaissance on areas his greensight had highlighted, often "confirming" his visions with mundane scouting reports to avoid suspicion. He refined the route for Howland Reed's flanking force, guiding them towards less well-defended approaches he had "seen."
The Northern lords, while sometimes puzzled by Lord Stark's uncanny foresight, attributed it to exceptional strategic genius or perhaps even the blessings of the Old Gods, given his Stark heritage. None suspected the true, alien source of his knowledge.
The logistics of supplying the army in the Riverlands, now further from their home base, became more complex. Voldedort, drawing on Eddard's understanding of Westerosi logistics and his own sharp intellect, organized efficient foraging parties (with strict orders against alienating the local populace unnecessarily – loyal Riverlords were to be cultivated), established supply depots, and negotiated for provisions with those Tully bannermen who had already declared for their cause. His efficiency was remarkable, ensuring that while the army marched lean, it did not starve. Vayon Poole, struggling to coordinate resupply efforts from distant Winterfell and White Harbor, would have been astounded by the direct, hands-on competence of his new Lord.
Finally, the time came to move. The Northern host, now bolstered by a contingent of Tully spearmen and archers sent by the Blackfish, broke camp and began its advance towards the Green Fork. They moved with a grim purpose, the memory of the Neck's miseries still fresh, fueling their desire for a decisive confrontation.
Voldedort rode at their head, a figure of iron control. He had chosen his route carefully, using a combination of mundane scouting, Howland Reed's guidance, and the whispers of his greensight to avoid known Targaryen patrols and to move through terrain that offered tactical advantages.
As they drew closer to the Green Fork, the tension in the army became palpable. Scouts reported Tarly's main force entrenched near a series of fords, his numbers formidable. The first major clash of Robert's Rebellion in the north was imminent.
Voldedort felt a cold thrill, a sensation he had not truly experienced since his own wars in a different world. This was not just a game of politics and manipulation; this was the eve of battle, where power would be decided by steel and blood. Eddard Stark's heart might have been heavy with the impending slaughter. Lord Voldemort's soul, however, sang with a dark, terrible anticipation.
He summoned his commanders for a final council, held under the stars on a windswept hill overlooking the valley that led to the Green Fork.
"Tomorrow," Voldedort announced, his voice low but carrying clearly in the night air, "we engage Tarly. Ser Rodrik, you will command the center, with the bulk of the Stark and Karstark infantry. Greatjon, your Umber men will form the right flank; I want you to hit their line hard and try to turn their left. Lord Manderly's knights," he said, addressing Ser Wylis, "you will be our reserve, ready to exploit any breach or counter any flanking maneuver from Tarly."
He then turned to a younger, lesser lord, Lyam Hornwood, known for his steady command of archers. "Master Hornwood, your bowmen will be crucial in softening their lines before our main assault. Find good ground, harass their formations."
His orders were precise, clear, leaving no room for doubt. He exuded an aura of absolute confidence that was infectious.
"And what of our friends in the swamp, Lord Stark?" the Greatjon rumbled, a savage grin on his face.
Voldedort allowed a thin smile. "Lord Reed and his chosen company are already moving. By midday tomorrow, as we commit our main force, Tarly will find his supply wagons burning and his rear guard screaming. The confusion and fear they sow will be our allies."
He looked at each of his commanders in turn, his grey eyes seeming to pierce through them. "Tarly is a good soldier. He will not break easily. But he does not know the North. He does not understand our resolve, our grief, or the fury we bring. Tomorrow, we teach him that lesson. We fight for our murdered kin, for our honor, for the North. We will not falter. We will not yield. We will break them."
As the commanders dispersed to give their orders, Voldedort remained on the hill, looking out over the sleeping army and the dark valley beyond. The wind whispered secrets, and he felt the familiar thrum of his greensight, showing him fleeting images of the morrow: clashing steel, cries of pain, the red ruin of battle, and direwolf banners, tattered but triumphant, planted on a hard-won field.
The Riverlands gambit was about to be played. And Lord Voldemort, the master strategist hidden within the stoic hero, was certain of his victory. The Trident was close, and its waters, he felt, were already stirring in anticipation of the blood that was to come.