The advance force thundered north through the Riverlands like a steel-tipped spear aimed at the heart of the realm. Five thousand of Robert's finest men, mounted on the best horses the rebellion could provide, pushing their mounts to the limit in a desperate race against time and Prince Rhaegar's gathering army. At their head rode Ser Jon Connington, his griffin banners snapping in the wind as he led them toward a rendezvous that would determine the war's outcome.
Aemon rode with the command group, his position as one of Robert's trusted advisors now formalized by his inclusion in every strategic discussion. The enhanced cognition was working overtime, processing intelligence reports, calculating distances and timing, and cross-referencing everything against his knowledge of how events were supposed to unfold.
Three days of hard riding to reach the projected meeting point with Ned Stark's forces, he calculated as Thunder maintained the punishing pace without apparent strain. Assuming Rhaegar hasn't moved faster than expected, assuming no major obstacles, and assuming our intelligence about Stark's position is accurate. There are too many variables for comfort.
The countryside they passed through showed increasing signs of the war's impact. Abandoned villages, burned mills, fields left unharvested as farmers fled the advancing armies. The slow destruction of everything that made civilization possible. It was a sobering reminder that their strategic games had consequences far beyond the lives of lords and knights.
"Scouts returning from the north," called Ser Richard Horpe, pointing toward two riders approaching at full gallop. Their horses were lathered with sweat, and their faces grim with whatever news they carried.
Ser Jon raised his fist to signal a brief halt, the entire column coming to rest with the disciplined precision that marked elite cavalry. Within moments, the scouts had reached the command group and were delivering their report with military efficiency.
"Stark forces sighted, my lord," the lead scout announced. "Perhaps fifteen thousand men, moving south along the Kingsroad. They'll reach the agreed meeting point by tomorrow evening if they maintain their current pace."
Ned Stark, bringing the might of the North to settle accounts with the crown. But fifteen thousand is fewer than expected. Either some northern houses are holding back, or Ned left significant forces to guard Winterfell and the Wall.
"Any sign of enemy activity?" Ser Jon's question was sharp with tactical concern.
"None in our immediate area, my lord. But there are reports of large forces moving east of Harrenhal—could be Rhaegar's vanguard, could be loyalist reinforcements. Hard to say for certain without closer reconnaissance."
Aemon felt a chill of prescient understanding as the pieces clicked into place in his enhanced awareness. Rhaegar's moving. He's gambling everything on intercepting our combined forces before we can fully coordinate. The Battle of the Trident isn't months away—it's weeks, maybe days.
"My lord," he said quietly, just loud enough for Ser Jon to hear. "We need to consider the possibility that this isn't a standard rendezvous. If Rhaegar's forces are moving as fast as these reports suggest, we might be riding into the opening moves of a major engagement."
Ser Jon's weathered face grew thoughtful as he considered the implications. "You think he's trying to defeat us in detail? Hit Stark's forces before we can link up?"
"It's what I would do in his position," Aemon replied carefully. "The rebellion's strength is coordination. Three armies working together are far more dangerous than three armies fighting separately. If he can crush one of us before the others arrive..."
"The whole alliance collapses," Ser Jon finished grimly. "Damn. That changes everything." He turned to address the assembled commanders. "New orders! We push harder. I want to reach Lord Stark before nightfall, not tomorrow evening. If there's going to be a battle, I want our forces positioned properly for it."
The pace that had seemed punishing before now became genuinely brutal as five thousand men drove their mounts toward a distant objective with the desperate urgency of soldiers who knew they were racing death itself. Horses began to falter, men fell behind despite their best efforts, and the neat military formation gradually stretched into a long column of exhausted warriors united only by their determination to reach their destination.
But reach it they did, just as the sun touched the western horizon in a blaze of red and gold that seemed to promise blood and glory in equal measure. The agreed meeting point was a broad meadow beside a tributary of the Trident, chosen for its clear sight lines and defensible position. And there, already establishing a defensive camp with the methodical efficiency that marked northern warfare, were the forces of House Stark.
Aemon's first sight of Ned Stark was a revelation. The man was younger than he'd expected. Barely twenty years old, though already carrying himself with the quiet authority that marked natural leadership. Tall and lean like most northerners, with dark hair and the gray eyes that were the Stark family's hallmark, he projected an aura of unshakeable integrity that made other men want to follow him into battle.
This is the man who will serve as Robert's Hand, who will die trying to protect the realm from its own corruption. Honor incarnate, which will be both his greatest strength and his ultimate weakness.
The meeting between the two forces was carefully choreographed according to medieval military protocol. Banners displayed, senior commanders presented, formal greetings exchanged according to traditions that ensured no one's dignity was compromised. It was political theater, but theater with deadly serious implications.
"Jon Connington," Ned Stark's voice was quiet but carried clearly across the assembled officers. "Robert sends his best, I see. How many men?"
"Five thousand cavalry and mounted infantry, my lord," Ser Jon replied formally. "Lord Robert follows with the main body. Another fifty thousand men, including the riverlords. Two days behind us at most."
Ned's nod was approving. "Good. We'll need every sword we can get. My scouts report major enemy movement to the east. Prince Rhaegar finally decided to come out and fight."
Here it comes. The moment that will determine whether Robert becomes king or dies a rebel's death.
As the senior commanders settled into serious strategic discussion, Aemon found himself positioned where he could observe and occasionally contribute to the planning process. His enhanced cognition was working at full capacity, correlating intelligence reports with historical knowledge to build the most accurate picture possible of the developing situation.
"Current intelligence suggests Rhaegar has forty thousand men," Maester Qyburn reported with clinical precision. The elderly scholar served House Stark in much the same capacity as Maester Cressen served Robert. Advisor, intelligence analyst, and keeper of strategic communications. "Mixed force, but heavily weighted toward heavy cavalry and elite infantry. Quality troops, well-supplied, with good leadership."
Forty thousand royalists versus twenty thousand rebels, with another fifty thousand rebel reinforcements two days away. The numbers aren't favorable, but they're not impossible either. Assuming we can avoid decisive engagement until Robert arrives.
"What about terrain?" Ned asked, studying the maps spread across the campaign table. "If we're going to be outnumbered, we need every advantage we can get."
Ser Jon indicated their current position with practiced precision. "This tributary feeds into the Trident about ten miles downstream. Good defensive ground, river to anchor our flanks, clear sight lines, multiple withdrawal routes if things go badly."
Aemon studied the maps with growing certainty about what was coming. The Trident. Where Robert kills Rhaegar with his warhammer, where the Targaryen dynasty effectively ends, and where the rebellion becomes inevitable victory. But the historical timeline is compressed. This should be happening months from now, not days.
"My lord," he said carefully, addressing both Ned and Ser Jon. "Might I suggest that our primary objective should be tactical delay rather than decisive victory? If we can hold Rhaegar's forces in place for two days, Lord Robert's arrival transforms the strategic balance completely."
Ned's gray eyes fixed on him with sharp intelligence. "You're Robert's advisor, aren't you? Rivers, was it? Jon mentioned you in his dispatches. The bastard with a head for strategy."
Reputation precedes me. That's useful, but also potentially dangerous if it creates expectations I can't meet.
"Aemon Rivers, my lord. And yes, I try to contribute where I can."
"Sound thinking," Ned replied approvingly. "Forty thousand against twenty thousand isn't impossible odds, but they're not favorable either. Better to let Robert bring the rest of our forces up and fight from a position of strength."
The planning session that followed was one of the most intense strategic discussions Aemon had yet witnessed. Two armies were trying to coordinate their movements while accounting for an enemy force that outnumbered them two-to-one, terrain that offered both opportunities and dangers, and political implications that extended far beyond the immediate battlefield.
This is what real generalship looks like, he observed as he watched Ned and Ser Jon work through the tactical challenges with methodical precision. Not the heroic individual combat that dominates the songs, but careful planning, risk assessment, and the unglamorous work of logistics and coordination.
The final plan was elegant in its simplicity. The combined rebel forces would establish defensive positions along the tributary, using the water as a natural barrier while maintaining flexibility to withdraw toward the main Trident if overwhelmed. Cavalry would provide mobile screening while infantry held prepared positions, and messengers would maintain constant communication with Robert's approaching army.
A fighting withdrawal if necessary, designed to buy time rather than win glory. It's exactly the kind of practical strategy that wins wars, even if it doesn't make for exciting songs.
As the war council concluded and officers dispersed to organize their commands, Aemon found himself approached by Ned Stark personally. The northern lord's presence was even more impressive up close. There was something about him that spoke of absolute reliability, the kind of man who would die before breaking his word.
"Walk with me, Rivers," Ned said quietly. "I want to hear your assessment of our situation. Not the official version, but what you really think."
They walked toward the edge of the camp, where sentries maintained watch over the darkening countryside. The night air carried the sounds of two armies settling in for what might be their last peaceful evening for some time. Weapons being sharpened, armor checked, final letters written to families who might never see their authors again.
This is a test, Aemon realized. Ned Stark wants to take my measure personally, see if I'm worth the trust Robert has placed in me.
"Honestly, my lord?" he said finally. "I think we're in for the fight of our lives. Rhaegar's not moving this fast unless he's confident he can win, and he's too good a commander to commit forty thousand men without solid intelligence about our capabilities and positions."
Ned's nod was grim with understanding. "My thoughts exactly. This feels like the decisive moment. Not just another skirmish, but the battle that determines whether Robert becomes king or we all die as rebels."
Exactly right. The Battle of the Trident, compressed in timeline but unchanged in importance. This is where dynasties rise and fall.
"But we have advantages too," Aemon continued. "Robert's army is the finest force the realm has seen in generations, the northern and riverlands troops are fighting for their homes and families, and we're defending rather than attacking. If we can avoid being crushed in the opening moves, we have a real chance."
"And if we can't?"
Aemon's smile was as grim as winter. "Then we die well, and hope someone remembers us kindly in the songs."
Ned's laugh was short but genuine. "I can see why Robert values your counsel. Most men would offer false comfort at a moment like this. I appreciate honesty, even when it's uncomfortable."
They walked in companionable silence for several minutes, both men processing the magnitude of what lay ahead. Finally, Ned spoke again.
"Tell me about Robert. I haven't seen him since we were fostered at the Eyrie together. Has kingship changed him?"
Careful. This is Ned Stark. He'll spot any deception immediately, but he also deserves the truth about what his friend has become.
"He's still Robert," Aemon replied thoughtfully. "Still the same man who inspires absolute loyalty, still the warrior who can break an enemy line with his presence alone. But he's learned to think strategically, to see beyond the immediate battle to the larger war. The crown will suit him."
Mostly true. Robert has the charisma and tactical sense to be a great wartime king. The question is whether he'll have the patience and wisdom to be a successful peacetime ruler.
Ned's expression was relieved. "Good. I was worried that ambition might have corrupted him. The Iron Throne has destroyed better men than Robert Baratheon."
If only you knew what he'll become. The drunken, womanizing king who nearly bankrupts the realm and dies hunting wild boar. But that's still years in the future, and perhaps it can be changed.
"I don't think you need to worry about that, my lord," Aemon said carefully. "Robert's motivations are still the same. Justice for his fallen friends, protection for the innocent, and the desire to serve something greater than himself."
As they returned to the center of camp, Aemon felt the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. Tomorrow would likely bring battle, and with it the first real test of whether his knowledge and abilities could change the course of history.
The Battle of the Trident, where Robert kills Rhaegar and wins the throne. But this time, I'll be there. This time, I can influence events directly rather than just observing from the sidelines.
That night, as he settled into his blankets beneath a canopy of stars that had watched over a thousand battlefields, Aemon's enhanced cognition continued to work. Plans within plans, contingencies within contingencies, all designed to ensure that when the sun rose on the morrow, the Númenórean would emerge from the carnage stronger than ever.
The game of thrones was about to reach its climax, and Aemon Rivers intended to play his part perfectly.
The northern wolf and the storm lord had joined forces. Tomorrow would determine whether their alliance was strong enough to topple a dynasty that had ruled for three centuries.
The age of dragons was ending. The age of the stag was about to begin.
And in the shadows cast by their banners, the age of the Númenórean was quietly taking shape.