Chapter 14: The Shadow of the Red Keep, A Serpent's Scent of Wildfire
The Trident, once a vibrant artery of the Riverlands, was now a vast, muddy graveyard. The days immediately following Rhaegar's fall were a grim testament to the butcher's bill of war. Even amidst the elation of their monumental victory, a pall of exhaustion and sorrow hung over the rebel encampment. The air was thick with the stench of death, slowly giving way to the smoke of countless pyres where the common dead of both sides were consigned to the flames – a grim necessity to ward off disease. High-ranking nobles, both rebel and loyalist, were given more formal burials or their bodies preserved for transport to their ancestral homes, a somber duty overseen with Eddard Stark's characteristic solemnity.
Voldedort, outwardly the grieving victor, moved through this landscape of carnage with a chilling efficiency. He oversaw the care of his Northern wounded, ensuring they received the best available treatment, his presence a reassurance to his weary men. He meticulously tallied his losses – the North had paid dearly for its prince's folly, but the sacrifice had cemented their reputation and his own. He made a point of attending the simple ceremonies for his fallen lords and common soldiers alike, his face a mask of Stark sorrow, his words carefully chosen to honor their sacrifice and reinforce the righteousness of their cause.
"They did not die in vain," he told a gathering of his Northern captains, his voice resonating with a controlled grief that many found deeply moving. "They died to free this land from a tyrant's madness. They died so that their children might know a world without fear. We will carry their memory forward, not as a burden of sorrow, but as a banner of resolve. We will finish what they started."
Internally, Lord Voldemort cataloged the dead as expended resources, the living as tools to be further utilized. The emotional outpouring was a performance, honed to perfection, designed to bind his followers ever tighter to the persona of Eddard Stark. His true focus was on the future, on the next moves in this grand, bloody game.
The rebel war councils resumed in Jon Arryn's pavilion, though the atmosphere was subtly changed. The desperation was gone, replaced by the heavy certainty of impending victory, yet tinged with new anxieties. Robert Baratheon, though acclaimed as the hero of the Trident, was a brooding, often volatile presence. His personal vengeance against Rhaegar was complete, but Lyanna was still missing, and the crown he now clearly coveted was not yet his. Jon Arryn, weary but resolute, tried to steer the discussions towards a just and stable peace. Hoster Tully, his health clearly failing, was primarily concerned with securing the Riverlands and his family's position in the new order.
"King's Landing," Jon Arryn stated, his finger resting on the map that depicted the formidable defenses of the capital. "Aerys is undoubtedly in a state of terror and madness. But the Red Keep is strong. The city walls are manned. A direct assault will cost us thousands more lives."
"Then we starve them out!" Robert roared, slamming his fist on the table. "Surround the city, let no one in or out! Let the Mad King gnaw on his tapestries!"
"A siege could take months, Robert, even years," Hoster Tully cautioned, his voice wheezing. "And winter is… eventually coming. We need to end this quickly, before the realm bleeds further, before other… vultures begin to circle." All eyes knew he meant Tywin Lannister.
Voldedort listened, his expression thoughtful. He had no desire for a prolonged siege. It was inefficient, bred discontent, and gave too much time for unpredictable factors – like Lannister intervention or Aerys's pyromantic obsession – to come into play. His greensight had been particularly active regarding King's Landing, offering him disturbing, fragmented visions: green fire consuming stone, screams echoing through darkened streets, the Mad King's eyes burning with a terrifying, ecstatic light.
"Lord Arryn speaks wisely of the cost of an assault," Voldedort said, his voice calm and measured. "And Lord Tully is right to urge haste. But Aerys Targaryen is not a rational opponent. He will not surrender to starvation while he has other… options." He paused, letting the implication hang. "The whispers of his stockpiles of wildfire… they are more than mere rumor, I fear. My… sources suggest he means to burn the city to the ground rather than let it fall into our hands. He would see us inherit a kingdom of ash."
A chill fell over the pavilion. Eddard Stark was not known for shadowy "sources," but his pronouncements, ever since the Green Fork, had carried an unnerving weight of authority and foresight. The other lords exchanged uneasy glances. The thought of Aerys unleashing the pyromancers' hell upon his own capital was horrifyingly plausible.
"Wildfire…" Robert breathed, his face paling slightly beneath his beard. Even his bluster was momentarily checked by the thought of such an indiscriminate horror. "The man is truly a monster."
"Indeed," Voldedort affirmed. "Therefore, a prolonged siege, giving him time to enact such a plan, is a greater risk than a swift, decisive action. We must find a way into the city quickly. Perhaps… a weakness in the walls? A gate that can be betrayed? Someone within the city who sees the futility of Aerys's continued reign and desires to save King's Landing from annihilation?"
He was subtly planting the idea of subversion, of treachery from within, a method far more aligned with his own preferences than a brutal frontal assault. Eddard Stark would advocate for it to minimize bloodshed; Lord Voldemort saw it as a cleaner, more efficient path to power, one that might also deliver key assets – like the Red Keep's libraries and any remaining Targaryen secrets – intact.
His focus on Rhaegar's legacy had not diminished. In the aftermath of the Trident, he had ensured his own men were responsible for searching the Prince's elaborate pavilions and personal effects. They had found little of immediate military value – Rhaegar was a scholar and a musician more than a hoarder of treasure – but they had recovered a small, locked chest of books and scrolls. Voldedort had claimed these, ostensibly to search for any information regarding Lyanna's whereabouts, a concern Eddard would naturally prioritize.
In the privacy of his tent, by the light of a single flickering candle, Voldedort had examined these captured texts. Many were volumes of poetry, histories of Valyria, treatises on musical theory. But among them were several scrolls that made his cold heart beat a little faster. They were dense with astrological charts, obscure prophecies, and Rhaegar's own heavily annotated interpretations. The phrase "the dragon has three heads" appeared repeatedly, alongside musings on the Prince That Was Promised, Azor Ahai, and the cyclical nature of a prophesied hero who would fight against a great darkness.
Rhaegar, it seemed, had believed himself, or perhaps his son Aegon, to be this hero. He had been trying to align events, even his own actions, with these ancient predictions. Voldedort found it fascinating. The belief in prophecy was a weakness he had exploited in his own world, yet here, it seemed to be a driving force for powerful individuals. He also found references to the red comet he had seen in his vision, and Rhaegar's belief that its appearance heralded the return of dragons.
Dragons… The thought was a persistent ember in Voldedort's mind. If Rhaegar had believed in their return so strongly, had he taken any practical steps? Were there any hidden dragon eggs, any lost lore he had uncovered? The scrolls offered no direct answers, only cryptic allusions and desperate hopes. But they confirmed the direction of Voldedort's own inquiries. The return of such creatures would reshape the power dynamics of this world utterly. And power, in any form, was something he coveted.
He also spent time with Heartsbane, Randyll Tarly's captured Valyrian steel sword, which he kept carefully wrapped in his command tent. He would draw it when alone, feeling its balance, its impossible sharpness, the faint, fiery thrum of its inherent magic. He compared it to Ice, which felt colder, more ancient, imbued with a different, earthier power. He attempted subtle legilimency on the swords, trying to glean impressions from their long histories, from the hands that had wielded them, from the spells used in their forging. He gained only fragmented, confusing images, but the process itself was a form of magical exercise, helping him attune his own powers to the unique frequencies of this world's enchantments.
The internal landscape of Voldedort continued its complex evolution. The sheer, unrelenting brutality of the Trident had left its mark even on Eddard's stoic soul. The memories of fallen friends, the screams of the dying, the endless river of blood – these were fresh, raw wounds. Voldemort did not feel the grief, but he understood its weight, its texture. He used it to inform his interactions with Robert, whose own grief for Lyanna was now compounded by the grim realities of his victory.
"She would be proud of what you did here, Robert," Voldedort had said, finding his friend brooding by the riverbank, staring at the waters that had claimed his nemesis. "You fought for her. You ended the man who wronged her." He offered comfort, but also a subtle reinforcement of Robert's new role. "Now, you must be strong not just for her memory, but for the kingdom you are about to win."
Robert had looked at him, his eyes red-rimmed. "The kingdom, Ned… sometimes I wonder if it's worth all this. So much death. So much… emptiness."
"It is the burden of leadership, Robert," Voldedort replied, Eddard's voice grave. "To make the hard choices, to bear the heavy costs, so that others might live in peace. You have that strength. You will be a great king." A malleable one, once the initial fury fades, Voldemort added silently. One easily guided by a trusted friend and advisor.
The fate of Lyanna was a constant, nagging question for the Eddard persona. With Rhaegar dead, where was she? Who held her? Was she even still alive? This uncertainty was a potent source of Stark anguish, and Voldedort allowed it to fuel his public determination. He made it known that finding Lyanna was his most pressing personal concern, a priority that resonated with all who knew of the Starks' devotion to family. It also provided a convenient, honorable reason for any… unorthodox methods he might employ in the future to gather information.
The march towards King's Landing began a few days after the Trident, once the armies had rested, resupplied as best they could, and absorbed rudimentary reinforcements from newly declared Riverlords. It was a slower, more cautious advance than their previous marches. The rebel host was vast, its baggage train immense. The lands they passed through were increasingly hostile or cowed into sullen silence.
Voldedort's greensight remained his most valuable asset. He saw Tywin Lannister's army, a perfectly disciplined force of red-cloaked spearmen and knights, finally on the move from the West, marching towards King's Landing. But their pace was deliberate, their intentions still veiled. Were they coming to relieve Aerys? Or to join the victors? Voldedort suspected the latter, but he made preparations for either eventuality, ensuring his Northern forces maintained a high state of readiness, their flanks well-scouted.
He also saw more disturbing visions of the capital itself: Aerys, his long, unkempt nails scratching at his own flesh, his eyes darting about with paranoid terror, giving frantic orders to his Alchemists' Guild. He saw caches of wildfire, thousands of jars, hidden beneath septs, storehouses, even the Red Keep itself. The vision of the city consumed by green flame became more persistent, more horrifyingly detailed.
"We must assume Aerys intends to destroy the city," Voldedort declared in the next war council, his voice grim. "We cannot afford a lengthy siege. We need a way in, and quickly. Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers… he is still in the city, is he not? A man of his… particular talents might see the wisdom in aiding a swift transition of power, to save the city he ostensibly serves."
Jon Arryn looked troubled. "Varys is a man of shadows, Eddard. Trusting him is like grasping smoke."
"Yet sometimes, even shadows serve the light, if only to escape a greater darkness," Voldedort countered smoothly. "If he can provide us with an unguarded gate, a moment of confusion within the walls… it could save countless lives." He was already formulating how such an approach might be made, perhaps through intermediaries, promising the Spider a place in the new regime in exchange for his cooperation. Varys, he knew, was a survivor above all else.
As they drew closer to King's Landing, the tension in the rebel army mounted. They were now in the Crownlands, the heart of Targaryen power. The distant smudge of the city's massive walls became visible on the horizon, and then, the imposing silhouette of the Red Keep itself, Aegon's High Hill dominating the skyline.
It was then that news of profound strategic importance reached them. A rider, his horse lathered, bearing the lion banner of House Lannister, galloped into their encampment, seeking an audience with Lord Arryn and Lord Baratheon.
Tywin Lannister and his army had arrived at the gates of King's Landing. And they were proclaiming their loyalty to King Robert.
The rebel leaders gathered hastily. Robert was exultant. "Tywin Lannister! By the gods, even that old lion sees which way the wind blows! He's come to bend the knee!"
Jon Arryn was more cautious. "Tywin Lannister does nothing that does not serve his own interests, Robert. We must be wary."
Hoster Tully, ever the pragmatist, merely grunted. "Lannister gold and Lannister swords are welcome, however late they arrive. But what are his terms?"
Voldedort listened, his expression unreadable. Tywin Lannister's arrival was a pivotal moment. It could mean a swift, relatively bloodless end to the siege, if Aerys, seeing his cause utterly lost, finally broke. Or it could mean a new, powerful, and potentially treacherous player at the table, one who would demand a high price for his allegiance. His greensight had been unclear on Lannister's ultimate intentions, showing only the golden lion amidst scenes of both triumph and treachery.
The Lannister envoy, a proud, tight-lipped knight named Ser Addam Marbrand, delivered Tywin's message: Lord Lannister recognized Robert as the rightful king. His forces were at the gates of King's Landing, ready to assist in "liberating" the city from the Mad King's tyranny. He requested that the main gates be opened to him, so that his fresh troops could secure the city and apprehend Aerys.
Robert was all for it. "Open the gates! Let Lannister's men do the dirty work! The sooner Aerys is in chains, the better!"
Jon Arryn hesitated. "It is… a generous offer. But to allow an entire army into the city before our own forces are present… it gives Tywin Lannister immense leverage."
Voldedort spoke, his voice cutting through the debate with icy precision. "Aerys Targaryen is a cornered animal. He has barricaded himself in the Red Keep. He has threatened to burn the city. If Lord Lannister's forces can enter swiftly, secure the key points, and perhaps… encourage those within the Alchemists' Guild to reconsider their orders… it might prevent a catastrophe." He chose his words carefully. He was not advocating blind trust in Lannister, but presenting a scenario where Lannister's intervention, however self-serving, could achieve their immediate goal: the capture of Aerys and the preservation of the city from wildfire.
He also saw an opportunity. If Lannister's men were the first into the city, they would bear the brunt of any desperate, last-ditch resistance from Aerys's remaining loyalists, or any accidental wildfire detonations. And if they… overstepped in their zeal to "liberate" the city, the blame would fall on Tywin, not on Robert or his allies.
The debate was fierce, but Robert's eagerness, coupled with Voldedort's carefully reasoned arguments about the wildfire threat, eventually swayed the council. A message was sent back to Tywin Lannister: King Robert accepted his allegiance. The gates of King's Landing would be opened to his forces. The main rebel army would follow shortly thereafter to secure the Red Keep and accept Aerys's surrender.
As the Lannister envoy departed, Voldedort felt a cold satisfaction. The game was entering its final, most chaotic phase. Tywin Lannister was a dangerous piece on the board, but his intervention now served Voldedort's purpose of a swift, decisive end to Aerys's reign. The collapse of the Targaryen regime was imminent.
He looked towards King's Landing, towards the distant shadow of the Red Keep. Within its walls, a mad king plotted his fiery end. Soon, that madness would be extinguished. And in the ashes of the Targaryen dynasty, Lord Voldemort would lay the foundations of his own, far more terrible, dominion. The scent of wildfire, of power, of an entire world ripe for the taking, was intoxicating. The serpent was coiled before the dragon's dying lair, ready for the final, fatal strike.