Chapter 29: The King's Road, A Serpent's Omniscient March
The departure from Winterfell was a grand, if somewhat somber, affair. The entire household, along with many smallfolk from Winter Town, gathered in the main courtyard to bid farewell to their Lord Eddard Stark, his new Lady Catelyn, their heir Robb, the infant Princess Sansa (as she was already being called by hopeful courtiers), and the vast, glittering entourage of King Robert Baratheon. Direwolf banners drooped alongside the crowned stag, a visual representation of the uneasy alliance and the heavy duties pulling the Lord of the North south.
Voldedort, mounted on a sturdy grey destrier, Eddard Stark's face a mask of solemn responsibility and reluctant duty, played his part to perfection. He clasped hands with his loyal bannermen who had come to see him off, offering words of reassurance and delegating authority with a calm, decisive air. He embraced young Robb, a gesture of paternal affection that Eddard would have genuinely felt, and which Voldemort now enacted with flawless, convincing warmth, his enhanced Mind Arts allowing him to project precisely the emotional resonance required. He even offered a few carefully chosen, seemingly heartfelt words to Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik Cassel regarding the governance of Winterfell and the well-being of Jon Snow, who remained in the castle's nursery, a secret king under the Serpent's distant, watchful gaze.
Catelyn, beside him in a covered litter befitting her station (and her advancing pregnancy), was a portrait of conflicted emotions. Her Legilimency, a tool now so refined it was like breathing, registered her relief at leaving the harsh Northern winter behind, her apprehension about the vipers' nest of King's Landing, her maternal anxieties for Robb and Sansa, and the ever-present, simmering resentment regarding Jon Snow, a resentment Voldedort now understood with perfect, crystalline clarity, down to its deepest, most irrational roots. He offered her a look of Eddard's understanding and quiet support, a subtle mental caress that eased her immediate anxieties without her even realizing she was being manipulated. Her cooperation, or at least her manageable discontent, was essential for the journey ahead.
As the massive procession finally lurched into motion, snaking its way south along the Kingsroad, Voldedort felt a surge of cold, exhilarating power. He was no longer merely an inhabitant of Eddard Stark's skin, a clever imposter playing a role. He was Lord Voldemort, reborn, his original magic thrumming beneath his fingertips, his Mind Arts honed to an almost omniscient edge, the secrets of the Deathly Hallows and the Philosopher's Stone his to command. The world, this vibrant, chaotic, magically potent world of Westeros, lay before him like an open book, its pages filled with the petty secrets, ambitions, and fears of mortals, all ripe for his perusal and manipulation.
The journey south was a slow, ponderous affair, dictated by the immense size of the royal retinue and King Robert's penchant for leisurely hunts and nightly feasts at every suitable (and often unsuitable) stop. For many, it was a tedious, uncomfortable trek. For Voldedort, it was an unparalleled opportunity for intelligence gathering, a mobile laboratory for the study of human folly and ambition.
With his Legilimency now so potent that a mere glance, a casual conversation, was enough to peel back the layers of a person's mind, no secret in the royal entourage remained hidden from him for long. He moved among them as Eddard Stark, the quiet, honorable Northman, his very presence often disarming, encouraging confidences, while his true self, the Dark Lord, effortlessly plundered their thoughts, their memories, their deepest, darkest desires.
King Robert Baratheon, his boisterous facade a thin veneer over a chasm of insecurity and regret, was an open book to Voldedort. He saw Robert's genuine, if often suffocating, affection for "Ned," his crippling fear of inadequacy as a king, his desperate yearning for the simpler days of rebellion and war. He saw Robert's lusts, his gluttony, his casual cruelty born of boredom and entitlement. He saw Robert's suspicions about his own children's parentage, a nagging doubt he drowned in wine and violence, but which festered nonetheless. Voldedort, listening to Robert's drunken ramblings about courtly intrigues or his complaints about Queen Cersei, would offer Eddard's grave, sympathetic counsel, while subtly planting seeds of thought, guiding the King's perceptions, reinforcing his reliance on his "only true friend."
Queen Cersei Lannister was a more complex, though no less transparent, subject. Her mind was a gilded cage of pride, ambition, and a venomous, all-consuming love for her twin brother, Jaime. Voldedort, with a chilling detachment, explored the depths of her incestuous passion, her contempt for Robert, her fierce, almost pathological devotion to her children (or rather, her children with Jaime), and her desperate fear of her father, Tywin. He saw her plotting, her manipulations, her attempts to secure power for herself and her son Joffrey. Outwardly, Voldedort treated her with Eddard's stiff, formal courtesy, a demeanor Cersei clearly found boorish and irritating. Inwardly, he cataloged her weaknesses, her fears, her pressure points, ready to exploit them when the time was right.
Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, proved to be a fascinating study. His mind, beneath the layers of arrogance and cynicism, held a surprising depth of conflict. Voldedort saw the truth of Aerys's death – the Mad King's orders to burn the city, Jaime's desperate, horrifying choice to break his oath to save millions. He saw Jaime's disgust with the hypocrisy of the court, his weary contempt for the very concept of honor he had so spectacularly violated, and his tragic, unwavering devotion to Cersei, a love that was both his driving force and his greatest vulnerability. Voldedort, as Eddard, treated Jaime with a cold, unforgiving disdain, reflecting the Northman's outrage at the Kingslaying. But Lord Voldemort recognized a kindred spirit of sorts, a being capable of immense, world-altering acts, unconstrained by conventional morality. Jaime Lannister, he decided, could be a powerful, if unpredictable, piece on the board.
Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers, the eunuch with the powdered face and the giggling, obsequious demeanor, was perhaps the most intricate mind Voldedort encountered. The Spider's thoughts were a labyrinth of secrets, a vast network of spies and informants stretching across Westeros and even into the Free Cities. Voldedort, with a skill that would have astounded even Varys himself, navigated this mental maze, uncovering the Spider's true, long-term agenda: the restoration of House Targaryen. Varys, it seemed, was secretly grooming young Viserys Targaryen (and perhaps, by extension, Daenerys) for an eventual return to power, believing the Targaryens, for all their flaws, were the only true hope for a stable, unified realm. Voldedort found this amusing. The Spider's intricate plotting, his patient, decades-long game, was impressive. It was also, now that Voldedort knew of it, entirely manageable. Varys's network could be co-opted, his plans subtly redirected, his "little birds" made to sing a different tune. Outwardly, Voldedort treated Varys with Eddard's polite distrust. Inwardly, he saw the Spider as a potentially invaluable, if unwitting, asset.
Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, the Master of Coin, was another creature of shadow and ambition. His mind was a cesspool of cunning schemes, financial manipulations, and a burning, obsessive love for Catelyn Stark – a love unrequited, twisted into a desire for power and revenge against those he perceived as having wronged him (Brandon Stark, and by extension, all Starks and Tullys). Voldedort delved into Littlefinger's intricate financial dealings, his network of brothels and informants, his talent for sowing chaos and profiting from it. He saw Littlefinger's plan to embroil the great houses in conflict, to climb the ladder of chaos to a position of ultimate power. Littlefinger, Voldedort recognized, was a dangerous, destabilizing force, but also one whose ambitions could be easily manipulated, whose schemes could be turned to Voldedort's own advantage. He treated Baelish with Eddard's cool disdain, a subtle warning that the Northman was not easily fooled.
Even the seemingly straightforward Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, held hidden depths. His mind was a repository of honor, duty, and a profound, unspoken grief for the fall of the Targaryens, for the prince he had loved and failed to protect, Rhaegar. He served Robert out of a sense of duty to the realm, but his heart was with the past. Voldedort respected Selmy's integrity, Eddard's persona genuinely did. Voldemort saw it as a predictable, exploitable trait.
With this omniscient understanding of the court's players, Voldedort moved among them like a god in mortal guise. His outward interactions were flawless Eddard Stark – honorable, straightforward, sometimes gruff, often silent and observant. But every word, every gesture, was now informed by a perfect knowledge of his audience's innermost thoughts and motivations. He could offer Robert precisely the counsel the King yearned to hear, subtly guiding his decisions while appearing to be merely a loyal friend. He could counter Cersei's manipulations with an almost prescient understanding of her schemes. He could Parry Littlefinger's barbed pleasantries with a knowing silence that left the Master of Coin unnerved. He could engage Varys in seemingly innocuous conversations that subtly probed the depths of the Spider's knowledge, without revealing his own.
His reclaimed Harry Potter world magic, though never overtly displayed, was a constant, subtle undercurrent to his actions. His enhanced senses allowed him to perceive details others missed. His ability to subtly influence luck, to cause minor, untraceable "accidents" or fortunate coincidences, smoothed his path and created difficulties for his hidden adversaries. The Elixir of Life, which he now consumed regularly in minute, untraceable quantities, imbued him with a tireless vitality, a perpetual youthfulness beneath Eddard's careworn facade, allowing him to endure the rigors of the journey and the endless demands of the court with an energy that amazed those around him.
And his unlimited wealth, courtesy of the Philosopher's Stone, was a potent, invisible weapon. When the royal progress encountered logistical difficulties – a shortage of fodder for the horses, a bridge in disrepair, a local lord unable to provide the expected provisions – Voldedort, as Eddard Stark, would often step in with a seemingly modest but effective solution, drawing upon Winterfell's (now inexhaustible) resources. These acts of "Northern generosity" further enhanced his reputation, earned him gratitude, and subtly indebted key individuals to him. He was weaving a web of obligation, of perceived benevolence, that would serve him well in King's Landing.
Catelyn, journeying south with him, found her husband subtly changed, though she could not quite pinpoint how. He seemed more… confident, more assured, his pronouncements carrying an even greater weight of authority. He was more attentive to her needs, his words often seeming to uncannily address her unspoken anxieties, his gestures of comfort more precisely timed. Their conversations, though still shadowed by the presence of Jon Snow (safe in Winterfell, a fact Voldedort subtly reminded her was for the best, appealing to her maternal concerns for Robb and Sansa's position at court), became less strained, a fragile truce forming between them. Catelyn attributed this to Eddard's growing acceptance of his new role as Hand, his focus on the future. She had no inkling of the god-like mental powers her husband now wielded, the effortless way he was managing her emotions, shaping her perceptions.
Voldedort's plans for Jon Snow continued to evolve in the background. He had, before leaving Winterfell, used his Legilimency on Maester Luwin, not to control him, but to subtly assess his character, his loyalty to House Stark, and his aptitude for discretion. He had then left carefully worded instructions regarding Jon's care and education, instructions Luwin would feel an inexplicable compulsion to follow to the letter. He also, using his magic, had placed subtle, protective wards around Jon's nursery, wards that would alert him to any magical intrusion or threat, even from afar. The boy was his most valuable, most secret asset, and he would be protected, his unique magical heritage nurtured, until the time was right for Voldedort to take a more direct hand in his development.
The long journey south was punctuated by stops at various castles and towns. At each, Voldedort, as Eddard, would meet with the local lords, his Mind Arts effortlessly peeling back their layers of feigned loyalty, ambition, and fear. He built a comprehensive, internal map of the realm's true power structures, its hidden fault lines, its festering grievances. He identified potential allies, future enemies, and those who could be easily broken or swayed. He was not merely travelling to King's Landing; he was conducting a silent, invisible conquest of the minds of Westeros.
As they finally left the Riverlands and entered the Crownlands, the Red Keep a distant, ominous smudge on the southern horizon, Voldedort felt a surge of anticipation. He was armed with secrets that could shatter alliances, topple thrones, reshape the destiny of this realm. He knew of Cersei's incest, of Joffrey's bastardy, of Varys's Targaryen plotting, of Littlefinger's web of deceit, of Robert's profound weakness. He possessed the magic of two worlds, immortality, and unlimited wealth. He was Eddard Stark, the honorable Hand, walking into a den of vipers. But he was also Lord Voldemort, the serpent master, and this den was about to become his playground.
The gates of King's Landing loomed before them, the city a sprawling, stinking, vibrant testament to human ambition and folly. Robert Baratheon, eager to reclaim his throne and escape the rigors of the road, spurred his horse forward, his laughter booming. Queen Cersei surveyed her capital with a possessive, arrogant gleam in her eye.
Voldedort rode beside his king, Eddard's face a mask of solemn duty. But within, Lord Voldemort smiled. He was home. Not in Winterfell, but here, in this crucible of power, this cauldron of secrets. The game he had been playing from afar was about to become terrifyingly direct, devastatingly personal. He had all the pieces, he knew all the moves. And the world, he knew with a chilling, absolute certainty, was about to dance to his tune. The serpent had arrived at the heart of the web, and no secret, no soul, was safe from his omniscient gaze.