The horns of Storm's End announced Robert Baratheon's return with deep, booming notes that seemed to shake the very stones of the ancient castle. From his position on the battlements, Aemon could see the column approaching through the morning mist, hundreds of mounted knights and men-at-arms, their banners snapping in the salt wind that eternally swept across the narrow peninsula.
At the head of the column rode a figure that needed no introduction. Even at a distance, Robert Baratheon commanded attention like a force of nature. Tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with the easy confidence of a man born to lead, he sat his destrier as if he'd been forged in the same smithy as the beast itself. The crowned stag of House Baratheon flew proudly above him, and even from the walls, Aemon could hear the deep rumble of his laughter carrying across the wind.
The Demon of the Trident, Aemon thought, his enhanced cognition automatically cataloguing everything he observed. In his prime now, probably around seventeen or eighteen years old, physically powerful, charismatic, and absolutely convinced of his own righteousness and his strength. Dangerous in all the ways that matter for warfare, useless in all the ways that matter for peace.
"Impressive sight, isn't it?"
Aemon turned to find Bronn standing beside him, the sellsword's sharp eyes fixed on the approaching army. In the five days since Robert had left Storm's End to gather additional forces, Aemon had grown to appreciate the man's cynical wisdom and pragmatic approach to survival.
"Aye," Aemon agreed. "How many do you count?"
"Eight hundred, maybe a thousand." Bronn's scarred face split into his characteristic grin. "Not bad for a young lord who's only been calling banners for a few months. Word is he's got the loyalty of every house from Cape Wrath to the Dornish Marches."
Because he's offering them what they want, glory, plunder, and the chance to see Aerys II removed from power, Aemon mused. Simple motivations are often the strongest.
"And now he comes home to Storm's End to prepare for war," Tomard Snow added, joining them at the battlements. The northern bastard's face was grim with anticipation. "Think he'll march soon?"
"Soon as he's resupplied and rested his men," Bronn said with the confidence of experience. "Wars aren't won by sitting in castles, no matter how pretty they are."
The great gates of Storm's End swung open with a grinding of iron and stone, and Robert's column began filing into the massive courtyard. Aemon and his companions hurried down from the walls to join the formation of soldiers assembled to greet their lord's return.
Ser Duncan had arranged the men-at-arms in neat ranks, their mail and weapons gleaming with the kind of polish that spoke of pride in service. Aemon found his assigned position in the third rank, close enough to observe but far enough back to avoid unwanted attention.
Perfect positioning, his enhanced awareness noted. Close enough to hear and see everything, and anonymous enough to avoid scrutiny.
Robert Baratheon dismounted with the fluid grace of a natural athlete, tossing his reins to a waiting groom without a second glance. Up close, he was even more impressive than his reputation suggested. Tall as a giant by the standards of his age, with the kind of broad shoulders and thick arms that came from years of swinging heavy weapons, he moved with the confident swagger of a man who had never met an opponent he couldn't defeat.
His face was handsome in a rough, masculine way, strong jaw, bright blue eyes that missed nothing, and a smile that could charm gold from a Braavosi money-changer or terrify enemies on a battlefield. He wore his black hair long and wild, framing features that spoke of noble birth and absolute self-assurance.
"Duncan!" Robert's voice boomed across the courtyard, rich with warmth and unmistakable command authority. "You magnificent bastard, how are my men?"
"Ready to follow you to hell and back, my lord," Ser Duncan replied with a deep bow. "We've had some new arrivals while you were away, good men, all of them."
Robert's gaze swept across the assembled soldiers with the practiced eye of a commander evaluating his resources. When those bright blue eyes passed over Aemon, there was a moment of assessment that felt like standing before a judge who could see straight through to a man's soul.
Intelligent, Aemon realized with surprise. The books and shows portrayed him as a simple warrior, but there's real cunning behind those eyes. Dangerous to underestimate.
"New blood, eh?" Robert's grin was fierce with anticipation. "Good. We'll need every sword we can get before this is finished." He turned to address the entire formation, his voice carrying easily to the back ranks. "Men of Storm's End! You've heard the ravens, you know why we gather. The Mad King has murdered Lord Rickard Stark and his heir, Brandon, in the throne room of the Red Keep. He's demanded that Lord Jon Arryn surrender Ned Stark and me for execution."
A rumble of anger ran through the assembled soldiers. Even men who had never seen King's Landing understood the implications; their lord was marked for death by royal decree.
"Well, I say fuck that!" Robert's profanity brought roars of approval from his men. "I say Aerys Targaryen has ruled long enough! I say it's time for a new king, one who won't burn fathers and sons for asking for justice!"
The cheers were deafening, a sound of pure loyalty and bloodthirsty anticipation that echoed off the ancient stones. Aemon found himself swept up in the moment despite his knowledge of what was to come. There was something infectious about Robert's charisma, a magnetic quality that made men want to follow him into battle regardless of the odds.
This is how dynasties fall, he thought with something approaching awe. Not through careful plotting or political maneuvering, but through the raw force of personality channeled into righteous anger.
Robert let the cheering continue for a long moment before raising his hand for silence. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of absolute conviction.
"We march north within the fortnight. Lord Arryn is gathering the lords of the Vale, while Ned Stark rallies the North. Together, we'll show the Dragon King what happens when he threatens the wrong men." His smile was sharp as a blade. "But first, we feast! Duncan, break out the good wine, my men have earned it!"
As the formation dissolved into excited conversation and preparation for the evening's celebration, Aemon found himself impressed despite his cynicism. Robert might be doomed to become a poor peacetime king, but as a wartime leader, he was exactly what his followers needed: confident, decisive, and absolutely committed to victory.
The question is: how do I get close enough to matter without exposing what I really am?
The answer came sooner than expected. As the crowd began dispersing, Ser Duncan approached with Robert himself in tow, the lord's massive frame making even the experienced master-at-arms look small by comparison.
"My lord," Duncan said formally, "this is Aemon Rivers, the lad I mentioned in my report. Arrived during the storm, looking for service."
Robert's assessment was immediate and thorough, those intelligent blue eyes cataloguing everything from Aemon's stance to the way he wore his weapons. It was the evaluation of a career warrior who had learned to judge men quickly and accurately.
"Rivers, eh?" Robert's voice held casual interest. "Long way from the Riverlands, aren't you, lad?"
"Yes, my lord." Aemon offered a respectful bow, neither too deep nor too shallow. "I heard you were gathering good men for a just cause. Seemed like the right place for a bastard looking to make something of himself."
Robert's laugh was rich and genuine. "Honest ambition, I like that. Duncan says you acquitted yourself well against Ser Corbin. Any man who can put that old goat on his arse has steel in him."
Careful now. Show respect without servility, ambition without presumption.
"I was fortunate, my lord. Ser Corbin was testing my measure, not trying to kill me. In a real fight, experience usually trumps luck."
"Modest, too." Robert's grin widened. "Tell me, Rivers, what do you know of war?"
It was a loaded question, one that could lead in dangerous directions if answered wrongly. Aemon's enhanced cognition ran through dozens of possible responses before settling on the safest course.
"I know it's uglier than the songs make it sound, my lord. I know good men die for bad reasons, and bad men sometimes live when they shouldn't. I know that victory goes to the side that wants it more and is willing to pay the price for it."
Robert's expression grew serious, the easy charm replaced by something harder and more calculating. "And are you willing to pay that price, Rivers?"
The moment of truth. Everything depends on this answer.
"I am, my lord." Aemon met Robert's gaze steadily. "I've got nothing to go back to, and everything to gain by proving myself worthy of your trust. Point me at your enemies, and I'll do whatever needs doing."
For a long moment, Robert studied him in silence. Then, slowly, that fierce grin returned.
"Duncan, I want this one in my personal guard. Any bastard with the stones to cross half the continent looking for a war is too useful to waste in the ranks." He clapped Aemon on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a normal man. "Welcome to my service, Rivers. Try not to disappoint me."
As Robert strode away, already bellowing orders to other subordinates, Aemon felt a surge of triumph that had nothing to do with his enhanced abilities. In less than a week, he had gone from nameless castaway to a member of Robert Baratheon's personal guard, a position that would put him at the very heart of the coming war.
Phase one complete, he thought with satisfaction. Now the real work begins.
That evening's feast was a raucous affair that showcased both Robert's generosity and his ability to inspire fierce loyalty. The great hall was packed with knights and men-at-arms, all drinking deeply and toasting their lord's health with the kind of enthusiasm that spoke of genuine affection rather than mere duty.
Aemon found himself seated at a table with other members of Robert's guard, a mixed group of knights, sergeants, and proven fighters who had earned their lord's personal trust. The conversation ranged from tactics to women to speculation about the coming campaign, all of it valuable intelligence for someone planning to survive the chaos ahead.
"So, Rivers," said Ser Richard Horpe, a lean knight with the hard eyes of a veteran campaigner. "Duncan says you've got some skill with that blade of yours. Any particular style, or just whatever works?"
"Whatever works," Aemon replied easily. "I've picked up techniques from different sources over the years. A bit of this, bit of that. More important to adapt to the situation than stick to one rigid form."
Truth wrapped in misdirection. The enhanced cognition lets me synthesize and improve techniques from multiple sources, but they don't need to know that.
"Smart thinking," agreed Ser Parmen Crane, a grizzled veteran whose scarred hands spoke of decades wielding weapons. "Too many knights get so wrapped up in proper form that they forget the point is to kill the other man before he kills you."
The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from the high table. Robert had risen to his feet, swaying slightly from the wine but still commanding absolute attention from everyone in the hall.
"A toast!" he declared, his voice carrying easily over the din. "To Lord Jon Arryn, who taught me that honor means more than gold! To Ned Stark, truest friend a man ever had! And to all the brave bastards who'll follow me north to settle accounts with the Mad King!"
The hall erupted in cheers and the crash of cups against wood. Aemon raised his own wine and drank deeply, tasting the sweet vintage while his mind catalogued every detail of the scene. The faces around him, the dynamics between different groups, the subtle signs of who held real influence versus mere rank.
Information is power, he reminded himself. And power is the only thing that matters in the game of thrones.
As the evening wore on, the wine flowed freely and inhibitions dropped accordingly. Aemon nursed his cup carefully, maintaining the appearance of celebration while keeping his wits sharp. Around him, tongues loosened by alcohol revealed useful details about supply lines, planned movements, and the political relationships between various lords.
It was past midnight when Robert finally called an end to the festivities, though many of the soldiers continued drinking in smaller groups throughout the castle. Aemon made his excuses and slipped away to the tower room he now shared with five other members of the guard, his mind buzzing with plans and possibilities.
Two weeks, he thought as he settled onto his cot, listening to the distant sounds of continued celebration. Two weeks to prepare, to gather more intelligence, to position myself for what comes next.
Outside his narrow window, storm clouds gathered on the horizon, lit from within by flashes of lightning. But for the first time since awakening in this strange world, Aemon felt ready for whatever tempest might come.
The game of thrones was beginning, and he intended to play it better than anyone who had come before.