Chapter 5: The Black Towers Hum, The Crannogman Comes
The arrival at Moat Cailin was less a triumphant entry and more a weary occupation of a haunted ruin. The black basalt towers, skeletal against the bruised twilight sky, loomed over the causeway like forgotten, malevolent gods. The air was thick with the smell of stagnant water, decaying vegetation, and something else – an ancient, earthy scent that spoke of millennia of silence and solitude. A profound sense of age permeated the place, a weight of history that settled upon the shoulders of even the most boisterous Northern soldier.
Voldedort, astride his warhorse, surveyed the scene with an intensity that went beyond mere military assessment. While his commanders – Ser Rodrik, the Greatjon, Lord Karstark – discussed the immediate practicalities of making camp and securing the defensible sections of the ruins, Voldedort felt the thrum. It was stronger here than anywhere else he had encountered in this world, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated in the very stones, in the marshy ground, in the whispering reeds that choked the half-seen pools of water beyond the causeway. This was a place of power, raw and untamed.
"Three towers still stand, mostly," Ser Rodrik observed, his pragmatic gaze assessing the crumbling stonework. "The Gatehouse Tower is the most intact. We can make that our command. The Children's Tower… less so. And the Drunkard's Tower looks ready to shed stone if a strong wind blows. The walls between them are rubble. It's a strong position, but it'll take a legion of stonemasons a year to make it what it once was."
"We do not have a year, Ser Rodrik," Voldedort stated, his voice cutting through the evening chill. Eddard's practicality was at the fore, but beneath it, Voldemort's mind was already racing with possibilities. "We have the men. We have the will. We will make it defensible in weeks, not months." He gestured towards the scattered blocks of basalt. "Much of the stone is here. It needs only to be raised again. The causeway itself is our primary defense. We control that, we control the Neck."
The Greatjon Umber spat into the mud. "Aye, let the southrons try and wade through these bogs to get at us! They'll be sucking leeches and fighting lizard-lions before they even see our banners."
Voldedort dismounted, the ground squelching slightly under his boots. "Organize the camp. Set strong pickets on the causeway, north and south. Foraging parties will have slim pickings here, so ensure our existing supplies are strictly rationed. Master Poole will have his work cut out for him when he arrives with the main supply train." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the men, who were looking at the ruin with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "This fortress was the shield of the North for thousands of years. It will be so again. Every man will contribute to its refortification when not on watch or drill. We raise these walls with our own hands, a testament to Northern resolve."
His words, delivered with that now-familiar blend of Stark gravity and an underlying, almost preternatural confidence, had their intended effect. A sense of purpose began to dispel the gloom. Orders were barked, and the Northern host began the laborious process of transforming the haunted ruin into a military encampment.
For the next few days, Moat Cailin was a hive of activity. Under Voldedort's relentless direction, soldiers became laborers. Great blocks of fallen basalt were levered and hauled back into place, gaps in the remaining walls were plugged with rubble and reinforced with timber from the scant woodlands further north, transported down with considerable effort. Ditches were dug, sharpened stakes implanted. Voldedort himself was a constant presence, observing, directing, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He pushed the men hard, but he pushed himself harder, often seen examining structural weaknesses or personally sighting alignments for new defensive works, his stamina seemingly inexhaustible.
He even found himself using subtle, almost imperceptible bursts of wandless magic when he was certain no one was observing closely. A particularly stubborn block of stone might shift more easily than its weight suggested; a hastily erected timber support might settle with unnatural firmness. These were minor applications, carefully controlled, more akin to nudges than overt displays of power, but they expedited the work and reinforced the growing legend of Lord Stark's almost supernatural capability. He attributed any unusual efficiency to good Northern engineering and sheer willpower.
But his true focus, whenever he could steal away from the ceaseless demands of command and fortification, was on the ancient magic of the place. The Children's Tower, the most dilapidated of the three, drew him with an almost magnetic pull. It was named, according to Eddard's lore, because it was said to be the oldest part of the Moat, perhaps even predating the First Men's involvement, a structure built by or with the Children of the Forest.
The interior was a gloomy, echoing shell, open to the sky in places, with ancient, gnarled roots of unrecognizable trees bursting through the cracked flagstones. Faint, almost invisible carvings covered some of the inner walls – swirling patterns, stylized animals, and what looked like wide, all-seeing eyes. They were not runes of any human language Voldedort knew, yet they seemed to resonate with the greensight, making his temples throb and his vision shimmer.
One evening, as dusk bled purple and grey across the marshlands, he stood alone within the crumbling sanctum of the Children's Tower. He closed his eyes – Eddard's eyes – and extended his senses, not just his physical ones, but the deeper magical awareness that was a fusion of his own ancient power and the Stark greensight.
The hum was almost deafening here. He felt the immense age of the stones, the countless seasons they had witnessed, the echoes of forgotten songs and rituals. He could almost taste the primal magic that had been worked here, a magic tied to blood, to the earth, to the very cycles of life and death. He reached out a hand, Eddard's hand, and pressed it against a section of wall covered in the strange, flowing script.
A jolt, not of electricity, but of pure, raw information, flooded his mind. Images, chaotic and overwhelming: vast, primeval forests under a canopy of unknown stars; small, slender figures with skin like bark and leaves for hair, their eyes glowing with a soft, green light; towering giants with clubs of stone; the arrival of the First Men, tall and bearded, wielding bronze weapons, initially in conflict, then in wary alliance. He saw the raising of the Moat, not by human hands alone, but with the aid of the Children, their earth-shaping magic binding the black stones together. He saw millennia of watchfulness, of battles fought and won at the causeway, of kings and heroes long turned to dust.
The vision was so intense that he staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. This was no mere greensight flash; this was a direct communion with the deep memory of the place, a torrent of a million years of history. It was exhilarating and terrifying. The power here was immense, but also wild, untamed, and perhaps, not entirely benign.
He noticed something else. Some of the carvings, when he focused, seemed to depict constellations, but not as he knew them from his own world, nor as Eddard knew them. They were subtly different, hinting at astronomical knowledge, or perhaps, a different sky altogether. A world with its own deep history, its own cosmology. The implications were vast.
His explorations were not limited to the Children's Tower. He walked the length of the causeway under the moon, feeling the ancient wards that still clung to it, weakened by time but not entirely gone. He examined the black mud of the swamps, sensing the strange, almost sentient life that teemed within it – things Eddard's people called lizard-lions, shadowcats, and other, less definable creatures. The Neck was a place where the veil between the mundane and the magical was exceptionally thin.
As predicted by the messenger, Howland Reed arrived a few days into their occupation. He did not come with a grand retinue, but with a small band of crannogmen, their movements silent and fluid, appearing almost as if they had materialized from the mists of the swamp. Reed himself was a small, unassuming man, with kind, observant eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He wore simple leathers, and his demeanor was quiet, almost shy, a stark contrast to the boisterous Northern lords.
Voldedort received him in the partially restored Gatehouse Tower, which now served as his command center. He projected Eddard's genuine warmth and respect for the Lord of Greywater Watch.
"Howland," Voldedort said, rising to greet him, clasping his forearm in the Northern fashion. "Your arrival is a welcome sight. The marshes are your domain; your counsel here will be invaluable."
"Lord Stark," Reed replied, his voice soft but clear. "I came as soon as I heard. A terrible crime has been committed. The North must answer." His eyes, deep and thoughtful, studied Voldedort's face with an unnerving intensity, as if searching for something beyond the surface grief. Voldedort met his gaze steadily, allowing nothing but Eddard's sorrow and resolve to show.
"We will answer it with fire and blood, if need be," Voldedort affirmed. "Moat Cailin is our first step. We must hold it."
"The Moat has always held," Howland Reed said simply. "The Old Gods watch over it. And the Children… their magic still lingers in these stones, for those who know how to listen."
This was the opening Voldedort had been waiting for. "The Children of the Forest," he said, his tone contemplative, as if Eddard were musing on ancient lore. "So much of their knowledge is lost. You, who live in the heart of the Neck, perhaps know more than most."
Reed smiled faintly. "The crannogmen remember things that the tall folk forget. We live closer to the earth, to the old ways. The Children are gone from these lands, but their whispers remain in the rustling reeds and the deep places of the bog."
"Their magic… is it still accessible?" Voldedort pressed, careful to maintain an academic curiosity. "The greensight, the power to influence nature… these were their gifts, were they not?"
Howland Reed's gaze became even more penetrating. "Some gifts are double-edged, Lord Stark. Power often comes with a price. The greensight shows much, but not always what one wishes to see, nor is its meaning always clear. And the earth… she is a powerful mother, but she does not give up her secrets easily, nor does she suffer those who would abuse them."
Voldedort felt a flicker of annoyance at the veiled warning, but he kept his expression serene. "I seek only to understand the strength of our ancestors, Howland, the legacy they left us. In these dark times, any knowledge that can aid the North is precious."
Over the following days, Voldedort spent considerable time with Howland Reed. They walked the ruins together, Reed pointing out nearly invisible markers, explaining the subtle signs of the crannogmen's ancient defenses, their ways of navigating the treacherous swamps. Voldedort listened intently, absorbing every detail. Reed spoke of herbs with potent properties, of paths through the bogs known only to his people, of the strange creatures that lurked in the deep waters.
Voldedort subtly probed Reed about Lyanna. Eddard's memories of the Tournament at Harrenhal, of Lyanna being crowned Queen of Love and Beauty by Rhaegar, of her subsequent disappearance, were vivid and painful. He knew Reed had been at Harrenhal, had been unhorsed and bullied by some squires, and that Lyanna (as the Knight of the Laughing Tree, a detail Eddard suspected but never confirmed) had defended him.
"You were close to my sister, were you not, Howland?" Voldedort asked one afternoon, as they looked south from the crumbling battlements of the Gatehouse Tower.
Reed's expression softened with a genuine sadness. "Lady Lyanna was… kind to me. Fierce, and brave. What happened to her… it was a great injustice."
"Rhaegar Targaryen," Voldedort said, his voice hard. "He will answer for it."
Howland Reed was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant. "The truth of that matter, Lord Stark, may be more complex than it appears. Not all dragons are what they seem, nor all wolves."
Voldedort's mind seized on this. More complex? Was Reed hinting that Lyanna had gone willingly? Or that there was more to Rhaegar's motivations? This was a crucial piece of information. Eddard's grief and rage had largely blinded him to such nuances. "What do you mean, Howland?"
Reed shook his head slowly. "Perhaps it is not my place to say. Some truths must be discovered, not told. But look with open eyes, Lord Stark. Grief can be a veil."
This cryptic answer was frustrating, yet intriguing. Reed clearly knew more than he was letting on. Voldemort filed this away. Howland Reed was a valuable ally, but also a man of secrets. He would need to be handled with care.
The greensight continued to provide Voldedort with flashes, often unsettling. He saw Robert Baratheon, not in a storm now, but on land, his warhammer raised, his face contorted in a battle cry, surrounded by men loyal to the Targaryens – a skirmish in the Stormlands, perhaps. He saw Jon Arryn, his face grave, conferring with the Lords of the Vale in the Eyrie's high hall, their banners being unfurled. These visions helped him build a clearer picture of the unfolding rebellion.
He also experienced a particularly vivid vision related directly to Moat Cailin. He saw a great battle, centuries past, with waves of southern invaders crashing against the black walls, only to be repulsed by the First Men, their faces painted with mud and blood, their bronze weapons glinting. But then the vision shifted, and he saw himself, or rather, Eddard's form, standing atop the Gatehouse Tower, not against southern knights, but against a tide of pale, dead things, their eyes burning with blue fire, a biting, unnatural cold sweeping through the Moat. The vision was so chilling, so visceral, that he found himself gripping the parapet for support, Eddard's heart pounding in his chest.
The Others… they will come this far south? The strategic implications were staggering. Moat Cailin wasn't just a defense against southern kings; it might be a vital bulwark against a far more terrible enemy. This realization lent a new urgency to its refortification.
He began his first tentative experiments with harnessing the Moat's ambient magic. In the deepest recesses of the Children's Tower, where the ancient carvings were thickest, he would spend hours in what appeared to be deep meditation. He was, in fact, attempting to draw upon the raw power of the place, to filter it through his own will, to see if he could meld it with his own magical core.
He tried incantations, soft whispers in the tongue of the Old Magic of his world, combined with the flowing gestures of his wandless casting. The air around him would grow heavy, the faint carvings on the walls sometimes seeming to glow with a dim, internal light. He could feel the power, like a vast, slumbering beast, acknowledging his presence, but resisting any attempt at direct control. It was not like the magic of Hogwarts, structured and responsive to specific spells. This was wilder, more primal, deeply intertwined with the life force of the land itself.
Once, focusing all his will, he attempted to draw energy directly from a particularly large weirwood root that snaked through the floor. The root throbbed, and a wave of cold, green energy surged up his arm, not painful, but shockingly potent, carrying with it a cascade of fleeting images: the world seen through the eyes of a hawk circling overhead, the slow, patient thoughts of an ancient oak, the terrified scurrying of a marsh rat. It was a brief, overwhelming immersion into the weirwood net, far more intense than anything he'd experienced in Winterfell. He pulled back, shaken but exhilarated. This was a power he could learn to use, perhaps even to dominate, but it would require patience, understanding, and a will stronger than the ancient spirits of this place.
His efforts to find anything resembling the components for a Philosopher's Stone or equivalents to the Deathly Hallows at Moat Cailin were, so far, less direct. The place was certainly a crucible of ancient power, and the unique flora of the Neck, as described by Howland Reed, offered intriguing alchemical possibilities. The black basalt of the towers themselves, seemingly imbued with forgotten magic, might hold properties he could exploit. As for the Hallows, the sheer defensive power of Moat Cailin, its ability to render armies almost invincible if properly held, was a kind of ultimate martial strength, an echo of the Elder Wand's principle. The deep connection to ancestral spirits and the Children hinted at pathways to understanding life and death, the domain of the Resurrection Stone. And the crannogmen's ability to move unseen through the swamps was a form of profound invisibility. These were still conceptual links, but Moat Cailin felt like a place where such concepts might be made tangible.
Amidst all this, the mundane work of war continued. Scouts brought word of Targaryen loyalists stirring in the Riverlands, though no major forces were yet moving north. Ravens arrived from White Harbor, confirming that Lord Manderly was gathering a formidable host and a fleet of ships, awaiting Lord Stark's command for their deployment. News from Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon was still slow to come, the distances vast, the roads dangerous.
Voldedort, using Eddard's reputation for fairness but driven by his own ruthless efficiency, settled disputes among the Northern lords over precedence and resources. He dealt with a minor outbreak of swamp fever among the troops by consulting with Howland Reed, whose crannogmen possessed remedies unknown to Maester Walyskan. This earned him further respect from the common soldiers and grudging admiration from the more skeptical lords. He was proving to be a capable, if increasingly intimidating, leader. Eddard's honor was still the face he presented to the world, but the eyes that looked out from that face held the cold, calculating gaze of a serpent, sizing up its prey, and the ancient, patient wisdom of a being who thought in terms of centuries, not seasons.
Towards the end of their second week at Moat Cailin, as the refortifications were beginning to lend the ancient fortress a renewed air of grim defensibility, a rider arrived from the south, not a Northern scout, but a messenger bearing the falcon banner of House Arryn. He had ridden hard, his horse near exhaustion.
He brought a sealed message for Lord Stark.
Voldedort took it, his expression unreadable. He broke the seal in the privacy of the Gatehouse Tower, Howland Reed and Ser Rodrik his only witnesses. The message was from Jon Arryn. It was brief and to the point.
"Eddard," it read. "Robert has raised his banners in the Stormlands and won a first victory at Summerhall against a Targaryen force. I have called the banners of the Vale. The time for words is over. The time for action is now. March. Meet us in the Riverlands. The Trident calls."
Voldedort looked up, a predatory light in his eyes. The pieces were moving. The rebellion was truly joined.
"The Lords of the Vale and the Stormlands are committed," he announced, his voice resonating with a cold finality. "Robert has drawn first blood. We move south to join them." He looked at Howland Reed. "Your crannogmen will be invaluable in guiding us through the Neck and scouting the Riverlands."
Reed nodded slowly. "The marshes will bleed for the wolf, Lord Stark. As they always have."
"Ser Rodrik, Greatjon, Lord Karstark," Voldedort commanded, his mind already calculating troop movements, supply lines, potential battlefields. "Prepare the men. We break camp in three days. We march for the Trident."
Moat Cailin, partially restored, its ancient stones humming with reawakened energies and the ghosts of millennia, would be their secure anchor in the North. But the serpent was now looking south, towards the heart of the conflict, towards the greater powers that awaited. The game was escalating, and Lord Voldemort, wearing the honorable face of Eddard Stark, was ready to play his hand.