Chapter 12: The Trident Runs Red, The Serpent Strikes from the Flank
The dawn of the Battle of the Trident arrived not with a glorious sunrise, but with a heavy, oppressive grey sky that mirrored the grim determination etched on the faces of tens of thousands of men. Along the western bank of the great river, the rebel host was a sprawling, metallic beast, stirring fitfully to life. The air was cold, damp, and thick with the smell of fear, horses, and the metallic tang of soon-to-be-spilled blood. Across the churning, muddy waters of the Trident, the Targaryen host was a distant, ominous presence, their banners – the three-headed dragon prominent among them – a defiant challenge.
Voldedort, already armoured in Rickard Stark's dark plate, stood on a slight rise overlooking the Northern contingent. Ice was strapped to his saddle, its Valyrian steel seeming to drink the meagre light, cold and hungry. He had slept little, his mind a whirlwind of strategic calculations, greensight visions, and the meticulous reinforcement of the Eddard Stark persona. Today, more than ever, he needed to be the stoic, honorable Lord of Winterfell, the steadfast friend, the capable commander. Beneath that façade, Lord Voldemort was a coiled serpent, ready to strike, to manipulate the chaos of battle for his own inscrutable ends.
His Northern lords assembled before him for their final orders, their faces grim. Ser Rodrik Cassel, his expression one of quiet resolve; the Greatjon Umber, his usual boisterousness replaced by a feral, focused intensity; Rickard Karstark, his eyes burning with a cold, vengeful fire. Even the Manderly knights, usually more jovial, were subdued, their silver-and-blue banners snapping crisply in the morning breeze.
"Today," Voldedort began, his voice, Eddard's voice, carrying over the assembled captains with that now-familiar, unsettling resonance, "we face the dragon in his den. Rhaegar Targaryen believes himself a figure of destiny. We are here to show him that destiny can be rewritten by Northern steel and Northern will."
He quickly reiterated the plan: Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully, with the Vale and Riverland forces, would make a strong demonstration at the Ruby Ford, fixing Rhaegar's attention, drawing his strength. Meanwhile, Robert Baratheon's Stormlanders and the entire Northern host would undertake a difficult flanking march upstream, cross at a series of lesser fords, and then wheel down upon the Targaryen flank.
"The march will be hard, the crossing perilous," Voldedort continued, his gaze sweeping over his commanders. "But surprise will be our keenest weapon. We move with the silence of the wolf, we strike with its fury. Lord Robert will lead the vanguard of our flanking force. We, the Northmen, will follow, forming the solid core of the assault. Howland Reed and his crannogmen, along with our Glover scouts, will screen our movement, deal with any Targaryen pickets."
He saw understanding and grim acceptance in their eyes. They trusted his leadership, a trust bought with the blood of the Green Fork.
"Remember why we are here," Voldedort concluded, his voice dropping to a more personal, Eddard-like tone. "For our murdered kin. For our stolen honor. For the North. Fight with courage. Fight with discipline. Fight for the man beside you. The Old Gods watch. Let them see that Northern wolves do not break."
A low, guttural growl of assent rippled through the assembled Northmen. They were ready.
As the first horns of the Arryn and Tully forces sounded further downriver, signaling the beginning of their feint at the Ruby Ford, Voldedort gave the signal for his own host to move. The Northern army, a dark, disciplined serpent, began its arduous trek north along the western bank of the Trident, screened from the main Targaryen host by a line of low hills and dense thickets. Robert Baratheon, his massive warhammer now prominently displayed, rode at the head of his Stormlanders, his impatience a palpable force, barely restrained by the need for stealth.
The flanking march was a testament to Northern discipline and crannogmen skill. The terrain was broken, often boggy, the paths narrow and ill-defined. Howland Reed and his men moved like shadows, neutralizing Targaryen outriders with silent, deadly efficiency, guiding the main column through hidden defiles and across marshy patches that would have mired a less expertly guided army. Voldedort rode near the head of the Northern contingent, his senses preternaturally alert, his greensight a constant, flickering stream of warnings and opportunities.
He saw a Targaryen cavalry patrol, alerted by some sixth sense, about to stumble upon their marching column. A whispered word to a Glover captain, a swift, silent deployment of archers into the treeline, and the patrol rode into a deadly ambush, eliminated before they could raise an alarm. He saw a section of the riverbank ahead that was particularly treacherous, the ground soft and liable to collapse. He redirected the column, saving precious time and avoiding potential disaster. These interventions, guided by his unnatural foresight, seemed like inspired military genius to those around him.
Eddard's military knowledge was invaluable, providing the framework for troop formations, marching order, and logistical considerations. But it was Voldemort's cold, analytical mind and his unique magical advantages that truly optimized their progress. He felt a grim satisfaction in this intricate dance of mundane warfare and hidden power.
The internal dynamic between the two personas was a constant hum beneath the surface. Eddard's anxiety for his men, his loyalty to Robert, his sheer dread of the impending slaughter – these were potent emotional currents. Voldemort did not suppress them entirely; he used them. Eddard's concern for his soldiers translated into Voldedort's meticulous attention to their well-being on the march, ensuring they conserved their strength for the battle to come. Eddard's friendship with Robert allowed Voldedort to subtly manage the Storm King's impulsiveness, to channel his berserker rage towards the most strategically advantageous moment.
"Patience, Robert," he had counseled, when Robert, sighting a distant Targaryen picket, had been eager to charge. "Our strength lies in the coordinated blow. Every moment we remain unseen is another nail in Rhaegar's coffin." Robert, grumbling but respecting "Ned's" wisdom, had relented.
After several grueling hours, they reached the designated crossing points – a series of shallow, rocky fords, less well-known and, as Voldedort's greensight confirmed, only lightly defended by Rhaegar's forces, who were by now heavily engaged by the demonstration at the Ruby Ford.
The crossing was still a dangerous affair. The Trident's current was strong, the rocks slippery. Targaryen skirmishers on the far bank, though few in number, unleashed flights of arrows. Voldedort, observing from the river's edge, subtly manipulated the water currents around the hooves of key Northern horses, preventing slips, steadying their passage. He focused his will on the enemy archers, not with overt curses, but with waves of distracting unease, causing their aim to falter, their volleys to go wide.
The Greatjon Umber and his men were among the first across, roaring their defiance as they charged into the shallows, their heavy axes making short work of the surprised Targaryen skirmishers. Soon, a bridgehead was established, and the Stormlanders and Northmen began to pour across the Trident, a relentless tide of men and steel.
Once the bulk of their force was on the eastern bank, the true maneuver began. Robert, his eyes blazing with anticipation, took the lead with his Stormlanders, forming the spearhead of the wheeling attack. Voldedort positioned the Northern host on Robert's left flank, a solid wall of infantry and dismounted knights, ready to crash into the exposed flank of Rhaegar's army.
The sound of battle from the Ruby Ford grew louder now, a continuous, thunderous roar of combat. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully were pressing their attack, selling the feint with the blood of their men, drawing Rhaegar's reserves, pinning his main body. It was a desperate, costly holding action, and Voldedort knew they could not maintain it indefinitely. The success of the entire rebellion now hinged on the speed and ferocity of this flanking blow.
"Sound the advance!" Voldedort commanded, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. The Northern horns blared, a deep, wolfish howl that was soon echoed by the strident calls of the Baratheon trumpets. The combined force, tens of thousands strong, surged forward, a wave of steel and fury aimed at the unsuspecting flank of the Targaryen host.
The initial impact was devastating. Rhaegar's army, heavily engaged to their front by the forces at the Ruby Ford, was caught completely by surprise. The Stormlanders, with Robert Baratheon at their very tip, a berserker wielding his massive warhammer with devastating effect, smashed into the Targaryen right wing, composed mainly of Crownlands levies and some less reliable Riverland loyalists. The line buckled, then broke, under the sheer ferocity of the assault.
Simultaneously, the Northern host hit them like an avalanche. Voldedort, riding just behind his front lines, directed his forces with chilling precision. "Karstark! Your spears, hold the center of our advance! Greatjon, your Umbers, on the right, break through to Robert's flank, support his push! Manderly knights, with Ser Rodrik, on our left – you will face the Dornish when they react. Do not let them turn our flank!"
The battle descended into a chaotic, brutal melee. The air was filled with the screams of dying men and horses, the clang of steel, the roar of war cries – "Storm King!" "Winterfell!" "Umber!" – clashing with the defiant shouts of "Targaryen!" and the ululating war cries of the Dornishmen.
Voldedort watched the unfolding carnage with an icy calm that was utterly inhuman. Eddard Stark would have been in the thick of it, Ice in hand, fighting alongside his men. Lord Voldemort, however, understood that his true power lay not in personal combat, but in strategic command, in the manipulation of forces on a grand scale. He remained at a slight elevation, surrounded by his Stark household guard and messengers, his eyes, missing nothing, constantly assessing the shifting tides of battle.
His greensight was a maelstrom of images, a confusing but invaluable torrent of immediate future possibilities. He saw a unit of Dornish spearmen, under the personal command of Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, attempting a desperate counter-charge to stabilize the collapsing Targaryen flank. He saw a company of Stark archers running low on arrows at a critical moment. He saw a weak point in Robert's surging advance where Targaryen knights were attempting to rally.
With swift, decisive orders, he reacted. He dispatched a runner to Ser Wylis Manderly, whose knights were already engaging the Dornish. "Tell Manderly to expect Lewyn Martell himself. He must hold that line, no matter the cost! Reinforce him with the Glover axemen!" He directed a reserve company of Stark bowmen to resupply their comrades. He sent a message to the Greatjon: "Consolidate with Robert. Do not let him become isolated. The dragon's heart is before you!"
The fighting was savage. The Northern infantry, grim and implacable, pushed steadily forward, their shield wall a testament to their discipline. The Greatjon, fighting like a man possessed, his axe red with blood, was a whirlwind of destruction. Rickard Karstark, his face a mask of cold fury, held his spearmen steady against repeated counter-attacks. Ser Rodrik, commanding the Manderly knights and Glover infantry on the left, found himself in a desperate struggle against the skilled and fiercely proud Dornishmen, led by the legendary Prince Lewyn. The sands of Dorne seemed to have bred a particular ferocity in these warriors.
Voldedort noted with cold appreciation the fighting prowess of the Kingsguard. Lewyn Martell, though an older man, fought with the skill and courage of a hero from the songs, his spear and shield a deadly dance. Ser Barristan Selmy, another of Rhaegar's white cloaks, was reportedly commanding the Targaryen center at the Ruby Ford, holding firm against Jon Arryn's assaults. These were formidable opponents.
He allowed himself another subtle, almost imperceptible intervention of magic. A flight of Dornish arrows, aimed at a vulnerable gap between Manderly's knights and Rodrik's infantry, seemed to veer slightly off course, skittering harmlessly into the mud. A Targaryen captain, rallying his broken men for a counter-attack, suddenly stumbled, his horse inexplicably shying, breaking the momentum of their charge. These were tiny, untraceable manipulations, but in the chaos of battle, such small shifts could have significant consequences.
And then, through the swirling dust and smoke of the battlefield, Voldedort saw him. Rhaegar Targaryen.
The Crown Prince was unmistakable, his armor of black plate intricately tooled with the three-headed dragon of his house in rubies, his silver hair flowing from beneath his dragon-crested helm. He rode a magnificent black stallion, and in his hand was a longsword that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. He was in the thick of the fighting, rallying his beleaguered troops, his presence a beacon of hope for the loyalist cause. He fought with a desperate grace, a terrible beauty, that even Voldedort had to acknowledge.
So, the dragon prince himself enters the fray, Voldedort thought, a predatory gleam in his eye. The linchpin of their army. And Robert's ultimate target.
As if summoned by the thought, Robert Baratheon, his armor stained with blood and grime, his warhammer dripping, caught sight of Rhaegar across the churning chaos of the battlefield. A great, bellowing roar of pure, unadulterated hatred erupted from Robert's throat, a sound that seemed to momentarily silence the surrounding din.
"RHAEGAR!"
The Storm King, heedless of his own safety, heedless of tactics or formation, spurred his destrier forward, directly towards the Targaryen prince. His Stormlanders, inspired by their king's fury, surged after him, carving a bloody path through the intervening ranks.
Voldedort watched this development with intense focus. The duel. The moment prophesied, the moment that would, according to many, decide the fate of the rebellion. Eddard's heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of fear for his friend and a desperate hope for Rhaegar's downfall. Voldemort, however, saw it as a critical juncture, a focal point of chaotic energy that he might be able to exploit.
"Greatjon! Karstark!" Voldedort's voice cut through the air. "Robert engages Rhaegar! Push forward! Do not let the Targaryen loyalists interfere with their duel! Protect Robert's flanks! All Northmen, advance! Break them now!"
The Northern host responded with a renewed, desperate fury. They surged forward, pressing the already reeling Targaryen lines, creating a pocket of relative clarity around the two dueling princes, though the fighting still raged furiously on all sides.
Rhaegar, seeing Robert's mad charge, met him head-on. The two princes, one fueled by vengeance and grief, the other by a desperate defense of his dynasty and perhaps his own strange prophecies, crashed together in a cataclysm of steel and fury. The sound of Robert's warhammer meeting Rhaegar's shield echoed across the battlefield like a thunderclap.
The battle around them reached a fever pitch. The Targaryen line, already battered by the flanking assault, began to disintegrate under the relentless pressure from the Northmen and the Stormlanders, and the renewed offensive from Arryn's and Tully's forces at the Ruby Ford, who sensed the shift in the battle's tide.
Prince Lewyn Martell, seeing his prince engaged in a mortal duel and his army collapsing, fought with the last, desperate courage of a dying lion, but he was eventually overwhelmed by the sheer weight of Northern and Vale numbers, falling under the swords of Manderly knights and Glover axemen. His death sent a tremor of despair through the remaining Dornish ranks.
Voldedort, his gaze fixed on the monumental duel between Robert and Rhaegar, felt the currents of destiny swirling around that focal point. His greensight offered him flashes: Robert's hammer rising and falling, Rhaegar's graceful evasions, the glint of rubies scattering like drops of blood as the Targaryen prince's armor was battered. He saw the exhaustion on both their faces, the mortal stakes.
He knew that the outcome of this duel would be pivotal. If Robert fell, the rebellion might shatter. If Rhaegar fell, the Targaryen cause would be irretrievably broken.
He held his Northern forces in a tightening noose around the crumbling Targaryen center, ensuring that no reinforcements could reach Rhaegar, while also preventing any organized loyalist retreat. He was not merely watching the duel; he was shaping the conditions around it, ensuring that Robert had his chance, unmolested.
The Trident was running red now, choked with the bodies of men and horses. The air was a hellish symphony of screams, dying groans, and the relentless clang of weaponry. But all eyes, all hopes, all fears, seemed to be focused on the two figures locked in their epic struggle at the heart of the storm.
Voldedort allowed a ghost of a smile to touch Eddard's lips. The dragon was snared. The serpent had struck from the flank, its venomous bite proving decisive. Now, it was time for the stag to deliver the killing blow. And he, Lord Voldemort, the hidden architect of this bloody masterpiece, would be there to claim his share of the spoils, spoils far greater than any Iron Throne. The magic of this world was about to be profoundly shaken, and in that upheaval, he would find his opportunities.