Chapter 9: The Price of Victory, The Serpent's Designs Unfurl
The dawn following the Battle of the Green Fork was a grim tableau of war's brutal arithmetic. The victorious Northern army, though their spirits were lifted by the crushing defeat of Randyll Tarly's forces, moved with a heavy weariness. The air, no longer thick with the adrenaline of combat, was instead filled with the groans of the wounded, the clang of shovels digging mass graves, and the somber, muttered prayers for fallen comrades.
Voldedort, having shed Rickard Stark's confining plate armour for simpler leathers, moved through the encampment like a spectre of command. His face, Eddard's face, was a mask of solemn duty, his grey eyes reflecting a shared sorrow that resonated with his weary troops. Internally, however, the Dark Lord was a crucible of cold calculation. The victory was significant, a masterstroke that had shattered one of the Mad King's most capable field armies and firmly announced the North's arrival as a major power in this rebellion. But it had come at a cost.
He stood for a time on the low hill from which he had directed the battle, now a scene of organized chaos as healers – Maesters from the small Tully contingent, Northern women skilled in battlefield medicine, and even some crannogmen with their strange herbal remedies – tended to the wounded. Long trenches were being dug on the edge of the battlefield, where Northmen and, separately, the loyalist dead would be interred. Eddard's inherent respect for the fallen, even enemies, dictated this, a custom Voldemort found inefficient but currently useful for maintaining the facade of Stark honor.
"The butchers' bill is high, my lord," Ser Rodrik Cassel said, his voice hoarse, his armor stained with dirt and dried blood. He had fought like a lion in the center, and the lines of exhaustion were etched deep around his eyes. "Too many good Northmen fell taking that ford. Karstark lost nearly a third of his best spearmen. The Greatjon's Umbers… they paid dearly for their ferocity."
Voldedort looked towards the area where the Umber dead were being laid out, their massive forms somehow diminished in death. "They paid the price for glory, Ser Rodrik. And they bought us a victory that will echo through the Seven Kingdoms." He allowed a tone of grim pride, Eddard's pride, to enter his voice. "Their sacrifices will not be forgotten. Ensure their names are recorded. Their families will receive the honors due to them." And their kinsmen will burn with an even greater desire for vengeance, he added silently. Grief, properly channeled, is a powerful weapon.
He then turned his attention to the practicalities. "The prisoners? Lord Tarly?"
"Tarly is secured in your command tent, under heavy guard. Still defiant, but… subdued. The other high-ranking captives – a Florent, a Rowan, several knights of Tarly's household – are also accounted for. Hundreds of common soldiers surrendered. They are being disarmed and held in a makeshift stockade."
"Good," Voldedort nodded. "The common men… after a few days, they will be stripped of anything of value and allowed to return to their homes in the Reach. Let them spread tales of Northern might and Targaryen folly. Fear can be as effective a weapon as any sword." This was a calculated move. While some of his commanders, like the Greatjon, might grumble for more immediate, brutal retribution, Voldemort understood the longer game. Demoralizing the enemy's heartlands was crucial.
"The spoils, my lord?" Rodrik inquired.
"Being gathered. A considerable amount of armor, weapons, horses. Tarly's war chest was… substantial. It will be used to re-equip our own forces and reward the men for their valor. Every man who fought will receive a share. Loyalty, like fear, must be cultivated." He had already, in his mind, allocated portions of the captured wealth – enough to satisfy his lords and soldiers, with a significant reserve kept under his direct control for… future investments and contingencies.
His next task was to shape the narrative of the victory. Ravens were brought. To Jon Arryn in the Vale, he wrote as Eddard Stark, the dutiful foster son, detailing the hard-won victory, praising the valor of the Northern and Tully men, and emphasizing the strategic blow dealt to Aerys. He subtly highlighted his own role in orchestrating the defeat of a renowned commander, framing it as a testament to Northern resolve under Stark leadership.
To Robert Baratheon, his message was slightly different, tinged with a shared warrior's spirit and a call to further action. "Robert," he dictated, Eddard's voice carefully measured, "The Green Fork is ours. Tarly's pride is broken, his army scattered. The North has drawn first blood in earnest. Press your advantage in the Stormlands. We march to join you and our good-father Jon. Soon, the Mad King will feel the full weight of our combined fury. For Lyanna. For justice." He knew Robert's impetuous nature would respond well to such a message.
To Hoster Tully, the message was one of respect, solidarity, and shared success, emphasizing the crucial role the Blackfish and his men had played, and the now-open path to consolidating the Riverlands under Tully (and by extension, Stark) influence. He also made a point of mentioning his anticipation of… fulfilling the obligations of alliance, a clear reference to Catelyn.
These carefully crafted messages, sent flying on black wings, were designed not just to inform, but to influence, to solidify his own position as a key leader of the rebellion, a man of both honor and formidable capability.
The handling of Randyll Tarly was a delicate matter. The Lord of Horn Hill was a proud, influential nobleman from the Reach, a region still largely loyal to the Targaryens. Voldedort had him brought to his tent, unbound but under the watchful eyes of two massive Umber warriors. Heartsbane, Tarly's Valyrian steel sword, lay on the table between them.
Tarly, though clearly a captive, had lost none of his haughty arrogance. His eyes, the color of hard stone, fixed on Voldedort with unconcealed disdain. "So, the Stark wolf has learned a few new tricks. Ambushes in swamps, attacking a man's rear like a common brigand. Is this the famed Northern honor I've heard so much about?"
Voldedort leaned back in his camp chair, Eddard's expression unreadable. "Honor, Lord Tarly, is a shield. Sometimes, it is also a blade. You came to the Riverlands to uphold the will of a king who burns men alive in their armor and strangles their sons before their eyes. Speak not to me of honor until you have reconciled your own with such deeds."
Tarly's jaw tightened. "Aerys is my king. I follow my oaths."
"And I, mine," Voldedort countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness. "Oaths to my murdered father, my murdered brother, my abducted sister. Oaths to the North. You chose to stand between me and the fulfillment of those oaths. You have paid a price." He gestured to Heartsbane. "A fine blade. It will serve a new master now." He had no intention of wielding it himself; Ice was an extension of his will in this Stark body. But the symbolic power of possessing it was immense. Perhaps it could be… studied. Valyrian steel held secrets, and he was a patient scholar of power.
"What do you want, Stark?" Tarly growled. "Ransom? I warn you, Mace Tyrell will not beggar the Reach for one captive lord, no matter how valued."
Voldedort almost smiled. Ransom was a secondary concern. "Information, Lord Tarly, is often more valuable than gold. The disposition of Targaryen forces. The plans of your king. The true loyalties of the lords of the Reach and the Crownlands." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Cooperation will make your captivity… more comfortable. Defiance will only prolong your discomfort and earn my… displeasure." There was a subtle inflection in his voice on the word "displeasure" that sent a chill even through Tarly's hardened resolve, a hint of something far colder and more ruthless than mere Northern justice.
Tarly remained defiant, at least outwardly, but Voldedort had planted the seed. He would be questioned further, more… persuasively, if necessary, though always maintaining a facade that would not unduly shock Eddard's more honorable bannermen. Subtlety was key.
In the days that followed, Voldedort consolidated his position. The Northern army, though diminished, was now battle-hardened and confident. He established a more permanent fortified camp near the Green Fork, using captured Targaryen supplies and the labor of prisoners to strengthen its defenses. From here, he could control a significant swathe of the northern Riverlands.
Scouts, led by the ever-reliable crannogmen, ranged far and wide, gathering intelligence. More Riverlords, hearing of Tarly's defeat, began to send tentative envoys. Some, like Lord Lychester and Lord Vance (of a different branch than the one already with Robert), came to pledge their swords directly, emboldened by the rebel victory. Voldedort received them with Eddard's grave courtesy, accepting their oaths, assessing their strengths, and subtly binding them to his cause. He found that the Stark reputation for honor, now coupled with a demonstrated capacity for ruthless military success, was a potent combination.
His exploration of magic continued, though in a more constrained fashion. He spent hours with Heartsbane, not practicing with it, but simply holding it, extending his senses, trying to understand the enchantments woven into its fabric. It felt different from Ice. Ice had a cold, ancient resonance, tied to the Stark lineage and the Old Gods of the North. Heartsbane felt… fierier, its magic more volatile, perhaps reflecting the dragonfire said to be used in its forging. He made careful, unseen attempts to draw upon its energies, to probe its magical matrix, but the Valyrian steel was stubbornly resistant, its secrets deeply locked. He knew that true understanding would require more than just idle examination; it might necessitate rituals, reagents, a deeper immersion into the lost Valyrian arts.
The internal dynamic between the Dark Lord and the honorable Stark remained a complex, ongoing negotiation. After the battle, when Voldedort had walked the bloody field, Eddard's soul had recoiled at the sheer scale of the slaughter. The faces of the dead, Northmen and foe alike, had pressed in on his consciousness, a silent accusation. Voldemort had acknowledged these feelings, not with empathy, but with a cold, analytical understanding. This was the "Stark weakness," this sentimentality, this burden of conscience. Yet, he also recognized its utility.
He made a point of visiting the tents where the Northern wounded were being treated. He spoke to the men, Eddard's voice filled with quiet concern, offering words of comfort and praise for their bravery. He even attended the mass burial of the Northern dead, standing bareheaded before the long trenches, his expression one of profound grief that many of his soldiers shared and respected. He spoke briefly, his words simple but powerful, of sacrifice, of duty, of the undying memory of the North.
"They died so that others might live free from tyranny," he said, the words echoing Eddard's deepest convictions, yet delivered with a chilling resolve that was entirely Voldemort's. "They died so that the North would endure. We will honor their memory not just with tears, but with unwavering resolve. We will finish what they began. We will not rest until justice is done, until the Mad King is brought to account, until our home is secure."
The men listened, their hearts heavy but their spirits strangely uplifted by their lord's words. They saw not a distant commander, but a leader who shared their sorrow, who understood their sacrifice. They did not see the cold, calculating mind behind the grieving mask, the entity that viewed their lives as expendable pieces in a cosmic game.
His greensight continued to serve him. He saw glimpses of Robert Baratheon, his army growing, winning a series of small but significant victories in the Stormlands, his momentum building. He saw Jon Arryn, methodically securing the passes of the Vale and marching west into the Riverlands, his host formidable. He also saw renewed activity in King's Landing: more pyromancers, more whispers of wildfire, Aerys growing increasingly paranoid, but also new levies being raised, Tyrell forces from the Reach beginning to move north in greater numbers to replace Tarly's shattered army.
The main loyalist threat in the Riverlands, aside from scattered garrisons, now seemed to be coalescing around Lords Darry, Mooton, and Ryger, who were reportedly attempting to link up with forces loyal to Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard. Harrenhal, the vast, cursed fortress, was also a point of concern, though its current allegiance was unclear.
"We cannot afford to remain idle," Voldedort announced to his war council, which now included Ser Brynden Tully and a few of the newly allied Riverlords. "Tarly's defeat has given us initiative, but the enemy will not remain disorganized for long. We must press our advantage."
"Where do we strike next, Lord Stark?" the Blackfish asked, his eyes keen. He had quickly come to respect this seemingly transformed Eddard Stark, whose grief seemed to have forged him into a commander of remarkable insight and decisiveness.
"Robert and Lord Arryn are moving to converge on the Trident," Voldedort stated, his finger tracing a line on the campaign map. "Hoster Tully is consolidating his strength at Riverrun and will move to join them. We must do the same. Our victory here has secured the northern Riverlands and our supply lines from Moat Cailin. Now, we link our strength with our allies."
He outlined his plan: a swift march south-east, aiming for the Ruby Ford, a strategically vital crossing of the Trident. Securing it would allow the rebel armies to unite and would present a direct threat to King's Landing. It was also, he knew from Eddard's memories of Robert's future victory there, a place of destiny.
"But what of Darry and the other loyalists still in the field here?" Lord Lychester asked, a portly, nervous man despite his newfound rebellious fervor. "They could fall upon our rear as we march."
"They are scattered, their morale shaken by Tarly's fate," Voldedort replied, his voice dismissive. "Lord Reed's crannogmen, along with a contingent of Tully outriders and some of our own Glover scouts, will screen our advance and our flanks. They will deal with any… nuisances. Our main host must focus on the primary objective: the Trident, and the unification of our forces." He had already tasked Howland Reed with a campaign of harassment and misdirection against the remaining Riverland loyalists, to keep them off balance and prevent them from uniting effectively.
There were murmurs of agreement. The plan was bold, but the victory at the Green Fork had imbued the Northern lords with a new confidence in their commander.
In the following days, the Northern army, rested and partially re-equipped, prepared to move. Voldedort received oaths of fealty from more minor Riverlords, swelling his nominal forces, though he placed little true reliance on these eleventh-hour converts beyond their immediate utility as guides or sources of local supplies.
He spent one last evening before their departure walking the perimeter of the now heavily fortified camp. The ghosts of the Green Fork battle still clung to the air, but they were overlaid by the grim determination of the living. He felt the subtle shift in the magical energies of the land, the way the recent bloodshed seemed to have… awakened something, a faint, metallic taste in the ambient power. War, he knew, was a potent catalyst for magical forces, just as it was for political change.
His mind reached out, probing, sensing. He felt the distant thrum of the weirwood net, weaker here than in the North, but still present. He felt the vast, dark expanse of the continent, the stirrings of other powers, other destinies. His greensight offered a fleeting, confusing vision: a red comet blazing across a night sky, a young woman with silver hair and violet eyes emerging from a pyre, unharmed, holding three stone eggs. Dragons again. Not just a memory, then. A future. The Targaryen line was not as extinguished as he, or Eddard, had believed. This was a significant development, a wild card that could change the entire game. He filed it away, a crucial piece of data for his long-term plans.
As he returned to his tent, he saw a light burning in the makeshift shelter where Randyll Tarly was being held. He had ordered Tarly to be treated with a certain degree of respect due to his rank, but also to be kept isolated, allowed to stew in his defeat. Tomorrow, Tarly and the other high-value prisoners would begin the long journey north to Moat Cailin, and eventually, perhaps, to Winterfell itself, as hostages and bargaining chips.
Voldedort paused. He considered paying Tarly another visit, perhaps to apply more… pressure for information. But he decided against it. The man was a proud fool. Breaking him would take time, and his immediate utility was limited. There were larger concerns now.
The Trident beckoned. The great clash that would decide the fate of the Targaryen dynasty was drawing closer. And he, Lord Voldemort, wearing the skin of a Northern hero, would be at its heart, shaping its outcome, turning its bloody tides to his own advantage. The serpent's designs were unfurling, intricate and deadly, across the war-torn landscape of Westeros. Victory at the Green Fork was but a prelude. The true masterpiece of manipulation and conquest was yet to come.