The Riverlands stretched before them like a patchwork quilt sewn from green fields, silver streams, and the smoke of burning villages. From his position beside Robert's banner, Aemon could see the devastation that had already begun to mark the civil war's passage. Abandoned farmsteads, refugees clogging the roads, and the distant glow of fires that spoke of armies living off the land with little regard for the smallfolk who suffered in their wake.
This is what war really looks like, he thought grimly as Thunder picked his way carefully around a family of small folks huddled beside the road with their meager possessions loaded onto a handcart. Not the clean battles between armies, but the slow destruction of everything that makes civilization possible.
The rebel army had crossed into the Riverlands three days ago, their passage marked by the kind of tense negotiations that would determine whether local lords declared for Robert or remained loyal to the Iron Throne. Every castle they approached, each village they entered, represented another test of Robert's growing reputation and the rebellion's momentum.
"Rider approaching from the north," called one of the scouts, his voice carrying easily over the steady rumble of marching feet. "Single man, riding hard under a peace banner."
Robert raised his fist, the signal that brought the entire army to a disciplined halt with the precision that marked professional soldiers. Within moments, the command group had formed around their lord while outriders moved to secure the flanks against potential ambush.
The messenger was a young knight whose muddy surcoat bore the leaping trout of House Tully. His horse was lathered with sweat, and his face showed the strain of riding hard, but he sat his saddle with the easy confidence of nobility born for warfare.
"Lord Robert!" he called as he approached under his banner of truce. "I bring word from my lord father, Hoster Tully of Riverrun!"
Here it comes, Aemon thought with satisfaction. The moment when the Riverlands officially join the rebellion. Hoster Tully's been waiting to see which way the wind was blowing, but Robert's victories have tipped the scales.
Robert urged his destrier forward to meet the messenger, his massive frame imposing even in the saddle. "Speak your piece, ser. What word from Riverrun?"
The young knight, whom Aemon recognized as Edmure Tully despite his youth, straightened in his saddle with visible pride. "My lord father declares for House Baratheon and the cause of justice! The riverlords are called to gather at Riverrun with all speed. Lord Hoster awaits your arrival to coordinate our combined forces against the crown!"
The cheer that went up from Robert's army was deafening. Ten thousand voices raised in triumph, the sound echoing across the fertile fields like a promise of victory. Even Aemon found himself swept up in the moment, the sheer force of collective will threatening to overwhelm his careful emotional control.
Twenty thousand additional men, his enhanced cognition calculated automatically. That brings our total strength to roughly sixty thousand, not counting whatever forces Ned Stark brings from the North and Jon Arryn from the Vale. Suddenly, we're not the underdogs anymore.
But even as he shared in the army's celebration, part of his mind was already racing ahead to the implications. The Riverlands joining the rebellion was expected, inevitable even, but it also meant that the war was entering a new phase. No longer a simple revolt by a handful of ambitious lords, this was now a genuine civil war that threatened to tear the Seven Kingdoms apart.
And with greater strength comes greater responsibility, he reflected as he watched Robert embrace young Edmure like a brother. Every decision Robert makes from this point forward will affect millions of people. The question is: will he be wise enough to handle that responsibility?
The march to Riverrun took two days, their path winding along ancient roads that had carried armies and merchants since the days of the Andal invasion. The countryside showed increasing signs of mobilization. Levies gathering in village squares, knights riding to answer their lords' calls, and the steady stream of ravens carrying messages between castles and keeps throughout the region.
Aemon found himself increasingly involved in the strategic discussions that shaped their approach to the growing war. His successful predictions about enemy movements had earned him a place at the campaign table, where he could observe and occasionally influence the decisions that would reshape Westeros.
"The key question," Ser Jon Connington was saying as they studied maps in Robert's command tent, "is where Aerys will make his stand. King's Landing is defensible, but he can't afford to let us link up with all our allies unopposed."
Prince Rhaegar, Aemon thought but didn't say. He's the real threat, not the Mad King. Rhaegar will gather the largest army the crown can field and try to crush us before we can fully coordinate. The Battle of the Trident is still months away, but the pieces are already moving into position.
"What about the Reach?" asked Ser Richard Horpe. "The Tyrells have stayed neutral so far, but sixty thousand swords would tip the balance decisively."
Robert's expression was thoughtful as he considered the political implications. "Mace Tyrell's cautious by nature. He'll wait to see how the early battles go before committing his full strength. But if we can show momentum, demonstrate that we're not just another failed rebellion..."
"Then he might declare for us rather than risk being on the losing side," Maester Cressen concluded. "Though we should also consider the possibility that he remains neutral throughout, content to let the rest of the realm bleed while the Reach grows stronger by comparison."
Actually, he'll eventually declare for the crown, but only after it's clear that Aerys is finished. The Tyrells are nothing if not pragmatic. They'll support whoever offers the best terms for their postwar position.
"My lord," Aemon said quietly, choosing his words carefully. "Might I suggest that our immediate concern should be consolidation rather than expansion? We have three major armies converging on the Trident: ours, Lord Stark's, and Lord Arryn's. If we can coordinate their arrival and establish unified command, we'll have created the largest rebel force in the realm's history."
Robert's nod was approving. "Sound thinking, Rivers. No point in worrying about potential allies when we haven't fully utilized our confirmed ones." He turned to Maester Cressen. "Send ravens to both Stark and Arryn. I want detailed coordination on timing and logistics. When we meet, I want it to be as a unified force, not three separate armies stumbling into each other."
Good. Focus on what can be controlled rather than speculating about variables beyond immediate influence. It's exactly the kind of practical thinking that will win this war.
Riverrun appeared on the horizon like something from a song. Ancient towers rising from the convergence of two great rivers, their banners snapping proudly in the wind while smoke from countless cooking fires spoke of an army already gathered within its walls. The sight brought fresh cheers from Robert's men, who recognized sanctuary and alliance after weeks of marching through potentially hostile territory.
Lord Hoster Tully met them at the gates personally, a gesture of respect that wasn't lost on anyone present. Despite being well into his fifties, he still cut an impressive figure. Tall, dignified, with the kind of presence that marked natural leadership. Behind him stood an array of riverlords whose banners represented some of the most fertile and prosperous lands in Westeros.
"Robert Baratheon!" Hoster's voice carried easily across the assembled crowds. "Welcome to Riverrun! The Riverlands stand ready to see justice done!"
The formal greeting was followed by the kind of elaborate ceremony that medieval politics demanded. Oaths of loyalty, declarations of support, and the complex negotiations that would determine how combined forces would be organized and commanded. Aemon watched it all with fascination, seeing firsthand how feudal alliances were forged through personal relationships and mutual advantage.
Politics and warfare are inseparable in this world, he observed as he listened to the discussions between various lords about troop contributions and supply arrangements. Every military decision has political implications, and every political alliance affects military capabilities.
The war council that evening was the largest Aemon had yet attended, with nearly thirty lords and senior commanders gathered around a table that groaned under the weight of maps, supply reports, and intelligence summaries. The sheer scale of the planning required was daunting. Coordinating the movements of nearly sixty thousand men while maintaining security, supply lines, and political unity.
"Current intelligence suggests Prince Rhaegar is gathering forces around Harrenhal," Lord Jason Mallister reported, his weathered face grim with the implications. "Perhaps thirty thousand men, with more arriving daily. If he moves quickly, he could intercept Lord Stark before our forces can link up."
Harrenhal. The cursed castle where so many ambitions have died. Rhaegar's choice of gathering point is either a brilliant strategy or fatal hubris, but probably both.
Robert's response was immediate and decisive. "Then we move faster. How soon can we march?"
"Three days to properly organize the combined supply train," Maester Cressen replied after consulting his notes. "Less if we accept reduced logistics, but that risks leaving us vulnerable to an extended campaign."
The eternal military dilemma: speed versus sustainability. Move too fast and risk running out of supplies in enemy territory. Move too slow and risk being defeated in detail by a more mobile enemy.
"My lord," Aemon said carefully, his enhanced cognition having run countless scenarios during the discussion. "Might I suggest a compromise approach? We could divide our forces. Send a fast-moving advance element north to link up with Lord Stark, while the main body follows with the supply train at the best sustainable pace."
The suggestion brought immediate attention from every lord present. It was a risky strategy, one that violated the basic military principle of maintaining concentrated force, but it offered solutions to multiple problems simultaneously.
Lord Hoster was the first to respond. "Dangerous. If the advance force encounters Rhaegar's army without support..."
"They die," Ser Jon Connington finished bluntly. "And we lose our best men for no gain."
But Robert was studying the maps with the focused intensity that marked his tactical thinking at its sharpest. "Unless," he said slowly, "the advance force isn't meant to fight a major engagement. What if their job is reconnaissance and coordination rather than combat?"
He's seeing the possibilities. This is why Robert will be a successful king. He can recognize good ideas and adapt them to circumstances.
"Exactly, my lord," Aemon replied, allowing controlled enthusiasm to color his voice. "A strong cavalry force with selected infantry support. Fast enough to reach Lord Stark before Rhaegar can intercept, experienced enough to provide accurate intelligence about enemy movements, and disciplined enough to avoid decisive engagement if they encounter a superior force."
The debate that followed was intense but productive. Various lords offered objections, alternatives, and modifications to the basic concept, while scribes recorded decisions and Maester Cressen calculated logistics. By the time the council ended near midnight, they had hammered out a plan that balanced speed, security, and strategic objectives with the kind of precision that marked professional military planning.
Five thousand men under Ser Jon Connington's command, including Robert's personal guard, Aemon, summarized mentally as he made his way to his assigned quarters. March north at maximum speed to link up with Stark's forces, while the main body follows two days behind with full supply support. It's risky, but it gives us the best chance of achieving strategic coordination before Rhaegar can disrupt our plans.
His chambers in Riverrun were another significant upgrade from his previous accommodations—a proper room with stone walls, glass windows, and furnishings that spoke of genuine comfort rather than mere functionality. It was a reminder of how far he'd risen in just a few weeks, but also of how much further he had yet to go.
From castaway to trusted advisor in a month, he reflected as he settled onto a real bed for the first time since leaving Storm's End. But an advisor to a rebel lord is still just the first step. The real game begins after the war, when Robert has to learn how to be a king instead of just a warrior.
That night, as he lay listening to the sounds of an army preparing for renewed campaign, Aemon's enhanced cognition continued to work. Plans within plans, contingencies within contingencies, all leading toward a future where the bastard Aemon Rivers would stand among the great powers of Westeros.
The Riverlands had joined the rebellion, bringing with them the strength to challenge the Iron Throne directly. Soon they would march north to link up with their northern and Vale allies, creating the largest army the realm had seen since Aegon's Conquest.
But first would come the battles that determined whether that army lived to see King's Landing. The rivers of the realm were about to run red with blood, and Aemon intended to ensure he emerged from the carnage stronger than ever.
The game of thrones was entering its decisive phase, and the Númenórean was ready to play for the highest stakes of all.