The morning after Robert's feast brought with it the sharp reality of preparation for war. Aemon woke before dawn, his enhanced cognition having processed the previous evening's intelligence while he slept, organizing conversations, noting alliances, and cataloguing the subtle power dynamics that would shape the coming campaign.
His new quarters in the guard tower were a significant upgrade from the common barracks, a private alcove with a proper bed, space for his equipment, and most importantly, proximity to the strategic heart of Storm's End. Through the narrow window, he could see the ancient Round Hall where Robert would be meeting with his war council, planning the moves that would topple a dynasty.
Access is everything, he reminded himself as he donned his mail and checked his weapons. Now I need to prove indispensable without revealing just how much I actually know.
The guard's training yard was smaller than the main practice area, but equipped with superior weapons and maintained to higher standards. When Aemon arrived, he found most of his new brothers-in-arms already at work, running through complex formations and weapon drills with the precision that marked elite soldiers.
Ser Richard Horpe noticed his arrival immediately. "Rivers! Good, you're awake. Time to see if you're worth the confidence Lord Robert showed you last night."
The next several hours were a brutal education in the difference between competent and exceptional. Robert's personal guard wasn't just skilled, they were artists of violence, men who had survived countless battles through a combination of individual prowess and perfect coordination with their comrades.
Aemon found himself tested in ways that pushed even his enhanced abilities. Single combat against multiple opponents, formation fighting where one mistake could doom the entire unit, and mounted combat that required managing a warhorse while wielding lance and sword simultaneously. Each exercise was designed not just to evaluate skill, but to build the kind of instinctive trust that meant the difference between victory and death when the steel began flying in earnest.
They're not just testing my abilities, he realized as he deflected a thrust from Ser Parmen Crane while simultaneously blocking a strike from another guardsman. They're integrating me into their combat system, making me part of something greater than the sum of its parts.
It was exactly the kind of tactical thinking that had made Robert's forces so successful. Individual heroics might win single battles, but wars were won by armies that functioned as unified instruments of destruction.
"Better," Ser Richard commented after Aemon successfully completed a complex maneuver involving a feinted retreat and coordinated counterattack. "You learn fast, Rivers. Most men take weeks to master what you've picked up in hours."
Because I have the cognitive processing power of a supercomputer and the muscle memory of an ancient warrior bloodline, Aemon thought wryly. But you don't need to know that.
"Good teachers," he replied instead, offering the kind of modest response that reinforced his carefully constructed image. "And strong motivation to avoid embarrassing myself in front of Lord Robert."
The morning's training concluded with mounted combat exercises that showcased the guard's versatility. Each man was expected to be equally deadly on foot or horseback, capable of switching between cavalry charges and dismounted fighting as tactical requirements demanded.
Aemon's destrier was a magnificent bay stallion named Thunder, a veteran warhorse with the intelligence to anticipate his rider's intentions and the experience to remain calm in the chaos of battle. The Númenórean blood sang as he settled into the high saddle, ancient memories of cavalry charges on distant shores mixing with enhanced reflexes to create a harmony between man and beast that impressed even the cynical veterans around him.
"You ride like you were born to it," Ser Parmen observed as they walked their mounts back to the stables. "Most hedge knights never get the chance to train with quality horseflesh."
"I've been fortunate in my travels," Aemon replied carefully. "Picked up experience where I could find it."
The afternoon brought a different kind of education when Ser Richard led him to the castle's war room for his first exposure to strategic planning. The chamber was dominated by a massive table carved from a single piece of oak, its surface covered with detailed maps of the Seven Kingdoms marked with colored pins representing various armies and political allegiances.
Robert stood at the head of the table, his massive frame bent over the maps as he studied troop movements with the focused intensity of a natural tactician. Around him, his senior commanders discussed logistics, supply lines, and the complex web of alliances that would determine the rebellion's success or failure.
"Ah, Rivers," Robert looked up as they entered. "Good timing. I want the guard to understand the larger picture, can't protect a man properly if you don't know what threats he's facing."
Perfect. This is exactly where I need to be.
Maester Cressen, Storm's End's elderly scholar, was explaining the current military situation with the dry precision that marked his profession. "Lord Jon Arryn has successfully rallied the Vale, my lord. By latest count, he can field perhaps fifteen thousand men. Lord Stark is moving south from Winterfell with another twenty thousand. Combined with your own forces, that gives the rebellion roughly forty thousand swords."
"And the Crown?" Robert's question was sharp with strategic interest.
"More difficult to assess precisely," Cressen admitted. "The royal army numbers perhaps twenty-five thousand, but many are of questionable loyalty. More concerning are the regional forces, Lord Tywin has forty thousand men in the Westerlands, the Reach can field sixty thousand under House Tyrell, and Dorne maintains perhaps thirty thousand."
One hundred and fifty thousand potential enemies versus forty thousand rebels, Aemon calculated instantly. But numbers don't tell the whole story. Loyalty, leadership, timing, terrain, all factors that can shift the balance.
"But most of those forces are uncommitted," added Ser Jon Connington, Robert's childhood friend and one of his most trusted commanders. "Tywin's sitting in Casterly Rock, watching and waiting. The Tyrells are still debating which side offers better advantages. Even Dorne might stay neutral rather than support Aerys after what happened to Elia."
Princess Elia Martell, married to Prince Rhaegar. Her treatment by the royal family has been... problematic, creating potential fractures in Targaryen support.
Robert's laugh was grim with anticipation. "Let them hesitate. Every day they wait is another day for us to grow stronger and them to grow weaker. Fear is a weapon, gentlemen, and right now every lord in Westeros is afraid of picking the wrong side."
The discussion continued for another hour, covering everything from siege tactics to the political implications of various potential alliances. Aemon listened carefully, filing away every detail while maintaining the alert but passive demeanor expected of a guardsman. His enhanced cognition was working overtime, correlating the information being discussed with his knowledge of how events would actually unfold.
They're missing several critical factors, he realized. The wildfire caches under King's Landing, Jaime's eventual betrayal of Aerys, the role the Faith Militant might play if the war drags on. But I can't reveal that knowledge without exposing myself.
Instead, he focused on identifying opportunities where he might make subtle suggestions or provide seemingly innocuous intelligence that could influence outcomes in favorable directions.
As the war council concluded, Robert approached him personally. "What did you think of all that, Rivers? First time seeing the bigger picture?"
Careful. Show intelligence without presumption.
"Sobering, my lord," Aemon replied honestly. "I knew the rebellion faced long odds, but hearing the numbers makes it real. We'll need every advantage we can get."
Robert's grin was fierce with confidence. "Aye, but we've got the most important advantage of all, we're fighting for justice, not just power. Men fight harder when they believe their cause is right."
True, to a point. But belief only carries you so far when facing three-to-one odds.
That evening brought another test of a different sort. Ser Richard informed him that he would be joining Robert's inner circle for their nightly discussions, informal gatherings where the lord's closest advisors could speak freely about strategy, politics, and the personal dynamics that shaped the rebellion's leadership.
The meeting was held in Robert's private chambers, a comfortably appointed room dominated by a massive fireplace and furnished with well-made but practical furniture. Present were Ser Jon Connington, Maester Cressen, Ser Richard Horpe, and several other senior commanders whose opinions Robert valued.
"Gentlemen," Robert began without preamble, "we march north in ten days. Time to address some uncomfortable truths."
The next hour was a masterclass in political and military realism. Away from the formal war council, Robert and his advisors discussed the rebellion's real challenges with brutal honesty.
"Ned's a good man, but he's never commanded anything larger than a few hundred men," Ser Jon said bluntly. "His father did most of the strategic thinking for House Stark. Can we count on him to handle an army of twenty thousand?"
"We'll have to," Robert replied. "Ned's got something more important than experience; he's got the loyalty of every northerner who's ever served under him. They'll follow him into hell if he asks them to."
True, but it also makes him predictable. Honor can be a weakness when facing opponents willing to use any means necessary.
"What about supplies?" asked Ser Parmen. "Forty thousand men eat a lot of food, and we'll be operating in enemy territory once we leave the Stormlands."
Maester Cressen consulted his notes. "I've been corresponding with sympathetic maesters throughout the realm. There are lords in the Riverlands who might be willing to provide quiet support, Lord Tully has no love for Aerys, and the smallfolk remember the last time royal armies passed through their lands."
Hoster Tully will join the rebellion, eventually. His daughter's marriage to Jon Arryn has already secured that alliance, though it hasn't been announced yet.
The conversation continued late into the night, covering everything from battle tactics to post-victory governance. Aemon contributed little to the actual discussion, but his presence was noted and accepted, a sign that he was being integrated into Robert's inner circle with remarkable speed.
Trust, but verify, he reminded himself. Robert's accepting me quickly, but that could change if I make a wrong move.
The following days brought intensive preparation. Weapons were sharpened, armor fitted, supplies organized, and final letters sent to allies throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Aemon threw himself into every aspect of the preparation, establishing himself as someone who could be counted on for any task, no matter how mundane or challenging.
It was during one such task, organizing the distribution of arrows to the army's archers, that he encountered someone who would prove instrumental to his long-term plans.
"You're the new guard everyone's talking about," said a voice from behind him. Aemon turned to find a young woman, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, with intelligent green eyes and the kind of practical clothing that marked her as someone who worked rather than merely ornamental nobility.
Interesting. Most highborn ladies wouldn't be found in an armory, especially not speaking casually to guards.
"Aemon Rivers, my lady," he replied with a respectful bow. "Though I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
Her laugh was warm and genuine. "Mya Stone, though most people just call me Mya. I'm Lord Robert's... well, let's just say I'm family."
Robert's bastard daughter. Born from his affair with a common girl before the rebellion. This is unexpected—and potentially very useful.
"A pleasure to meet you, my lady," Aemon said carefully. "Are you here on official business, or just curious about the preparations?"
"Bit of both," Mya admitted with a grin that reminded him strongly of Robert's own expression. "Father likes to know that his people are being properly equipped, and I volunteered to check on the archers' supplies."
She's involved in logistics. That suggests Robert trusts her judgment and values her contributions. Definitely someone worth cultivating as an ally.
They worked together for the next hour, Mya proving to have both practical knowledge and a sharp eye for detail. Her questions about arrow quality, bowstring maintenance, and optimal distribution ratios showed a mind trained in military logistics despite her youth.
"You know your business," Aemon commented as they finished the inventory. "Most people your age wouldn't think to check for moisture damage in the fletching."
Mya's smile turned slightly sad. "When you're a bastard, you learn early that knowledge is the only thing nobody can take away from you. Father made sure I was educated properly, even if I can't inherit anything."
An opportunity. She's intelligent, has Robert's trust, and understands the challenges facing bastards in this society. Perfect potential ally.
"Wise words," Aemon replied. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation sometime? It's rare to meet someone who understands both the practical and political sides of military organization."
"I'd like that," Mya said, her green eyes bright with interest. "Most of Father's men treat me like a child or try to curry favor through flattery. It's refreshing to meet someone who talks to me like a person."
As she walked away, Aemon felt a surge of satisfaction that had nothing to do with his enhanced abilities. He'd just made a connection that could prove invaluable in the years to come, someone with access to Robert's private thoughts, legitimate expertise in logistics, and the shared experience of bastard birth that created natural common ground.
Relationship building. The most important skill in any political system.
That night, as he settled into his cot for what would be one of his last nights at Storm's End, Aemon reflected on how much had changed in just two weeks. He'd arrived as a nameless castaway and was now a trusted member of Robert Baratheon's inner circle, positioned to influence events that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms.
Phase two complete, he thought with quiet satisfaction. Now comes the real test—surviving the war and positioning myself for what comes after.
Outside his window, storm winds howled across the narrow sea, carrying with them the promise of change and the scent of blood yet to be spilled. The rebellion was about to begin in earnest, and Aemon Rivers was ready to ride into history.
The Age of the Númenórean was dawning, one carefully calculated step at a time.