A month had passed in a whirlwind of preparation. I found myself seated at the high table during a war council in Riverrun's Great Hall, a place I had earned through blood and deed, not birth. The air was thick with smoke, ambition, and anxiety.
Lord Jon Arryn stood, commanding silence. "My lords, we have news. The loyalists gather a host of fifty thousand men. Prince Rhaegar himself will lead them."
A murmur of dismay ran through the hall. Fifty thousand. The number was staggering.
Lord Hoster Tully voiced the collective fear. "Fifty thousand? We must have more men. We cannot face such odds."
"The Dornish have sent ten thousand, the Reach fifteen," Arryn continued, his voice grim. "The southern Riverlords add another ten, and the Crownlands fifteen. Furthermore, Lord Tywin Lannister has marshaled his forces at the Golden Tooth. His intentions remain… unknown."
The news of Tywin's poised army was a cold dagger in the room's heart. We were outnumbered, with a potential second enemy at our backs.
It was then that Robert Baratheon slammed his fist on the table, rising to his feet. "Numbers? You speak to me of numbers?" he roared, his voice filling the hall. "They have fresh-faced boys and summer knights! We have men who have bled together! Let them come! We will break them on our steel!"
His fury was a catalyst, turning fear into defiant anger. Cheers erupted. But the strategic problem remained.
It was then Lord Arryn's eyes found me. "Ser Julius. You have a keen eye for the ground. What are your thoughts?"
All eyes turned to me. I felt the weight of their gazes—the respect of the Valemen, the calculation of the Riverlords, the open hostility of a few Stormlords, particularly Lord Gulian Swann, who glared from across the room.
I stood, choosing my words with care. "Lord Robert is right. Their numbers are a paper shield if we choose the field wisely. We need a place that neutralizes their advantage, a bottleneck where their numbers become a weakness. A place like… the Trident."
I turned to Lord Hoster. "The fords of the Trident. They cannot flank us there. They must come at us head-on. Our veterans against their levies. Our cause against their tyranny."
Lord Hoster nodded slowly, then more firmly. "He is right. The fords are our best hope. We can choose the ground and make them pay for every inch."
The logic was sound, and agreement spread through the hall. But Lord Swann shot to his feet, his face a mask of contempt. "Preposterous! I will not have the strategy of this war dictated by a landless wanderer! By what right does he speak here? We know nothing of his true loyalties!"
The hall fell silent. Robert's face darkened like a thunderhead, but Lord Arryn spoke first, his voice cold and sharp as Valyrian steel.
"By what right, Lord Swann?" Arryn's gaze swept the room. "By the right of the mountain clans he broke for House Waynwood. By the right of the Gulltown gate he shattered for me. By the right of the loyalty he has shown Lord Robert when he had no cause to. And by the right of the blood he spilled to save Lord Tully in the Stony Sept." He fixed his eyes on Swann. "His contributions are worth more than the levies of some who now question him. I trust Ser Julius Harlane with the future of the Seven Kingdoms. Can you say the same of your own doubts?"
The rebuke was devastating. Lord Swann, humiliated and seething, stormed from the hall. Robert's subsequent glare dared anyone else to speak against me. None did.
Later, as I retired to my chambers, my mind raced with maps and troop movements. The path was set. We would meet the dragon at the Trident.
A soft, urgent knock came at my chamber door late in the night. When I opened it, I was taken aback to find Lady Lysa Arryn standing in the corridor, her face pale and streaked with tears.
"Lady Lysa? What are you doing here at this hour?" I asked, keeping my voice low. She did not answer, instead brushing past me into the room before I could stop her.
She stood in the center of the room, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I felt a pang of sympathy, but also a deep wariness. This was a dangerous path.
"My lady, what troubles you?" I asked, maintaining a respectful distance.
She spoke in a rushed, desperate whisper of her loneliness, of a marriage that was a political cage, of a much older husband consumed by the burdens of war and governance. She spoke of a deep unhappiness that I, as a knight sworn to her husband's cause, had no right to remedy in the way she implicitly sought.
I listened, my mind racing. This was the fragility I had feared. To reject her outright might push her toward a deeper despair or future manipulation by less scrupulous men. But to offer the comfort she truly wanted would be the deepest betrayal of Lord Arryn, a man who had shown me nothing but trust and honor.
"Lady Lysa," I said, my voice firm yet gentle. "You are the Lady of the Eyrie. Your strength is needed now, more than ever. Lord Arryn fights for a future where such alliances are not necessary. To dishonor him, to dishonor your own name, would render all our sacrifices meaningless."
She looked at me, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of hurt and confusion. "But you told me... you said one day I could—"
"I spoke of a future where you would find your own power within your station," I interrupted gently but firmly. "Not through dishonor, but through wisdom and resilience. Your duty now is to be the lady this alliance needs. Be strong for your lord husband. Be the foundation he returns to."
I saw the fight drain from her. The desperate hope in her eyes faded, replaced by a weary resignation. I had not given her what she wanted, but I had given her a path that would not lead to ruin.
"Please, my lady," I said, opening the door. "Return to your chambers. The dawn brings war, and we all must face it with honor."
She left without another word, the silence heavier than her sobs had been.
Two days later, the host was assembled. The air crackled with the tension of impending battle. Robert was at the head of the column, a figure of pure, brutal energy. I made to join him, but Lord Arryn placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Ser Julius," he said, his voice low. "I ask you one last time. Lead the Valemen. Your mind for strategy is what we need."
I shook my head. "My lord, the highest strategy today is to keep Robert Baratheon alive. He is the heart of this rebellion. He will throw himself at the Kingsguard, and he needs a shield. My place is at his side."
Lord Arryn studied me, his pale eyes seeing more than I wished. "Duncan the Tall would be proud of such loyalty," he said finally. "Very well. Protect him, Ser Julius. Ned and Robert... they are the only sons I have left."
"I will, my lord. You have my word."
As I turned to my horse, a voice called out. Lysa stood at the castle gates, her composure regained. She approached, and with a glance at her husband, who gave a slow, solemn nod, she offered me a favor—a simple, embroidered handkerchief.
"Please be victorious, Ser Julius," she said, her voice steady though her eyes glistened. "Return safely."
I took the cloth, a symbol of a duty fulfilled, not a promise broken. "Thank you, my lady. I will carry it with honor."
I tied it to my saddle, then mounted Stormwind. As I rode to take my place beside Robert, my mind was not on Lysa's tears, but on the trident ahead. On the three white cloaks I knew we would face. The question was not if I would kill Ser Barristan, but if I could stop Robert from getting himself killed in the attempt. My duty was clear: protect the king, win the war, and survive.