"They have forty thousand men and our scouts can't tell us where exactly they buggering are?"
The march had not been kind to the loyalist forces. Rains, some so savage that Aelor almost believed he was somehow back in the Stormlands, had bogged his army down, the wear of thousands of feet and hooves turning the roads into a muddy mess that nearly swallowed wagons of provisions whole. It seemed like half of his men had come down with either a chill or the shits—sometimes both—and everything was damp. Always so bloody damp. Even here, camped in the ruins of Harren the Black's castle where Aelor's ancestors had burned the Iron King and his sons, moisture permeated the air. No matter where he was, outside with the poor levies or here in one of the towers, Aelor couldn't escape the buggering dampness or the residual chill it brought with it. I'm a Targaryen; we're built for heat and fire, not cold and damnable water.
It hadn't done his mood all that many favors either.
"Baratheon and his forces keep fighting small skirmishes, my Prince," answered the always calm Barristan Selmy, white plate as clean as new fallen snow despite the copious amounts of mud and shit. Just how his mentor managed to keep everything so polished and presentable Aelor would never know; it took the combined efforts of both the Dragon of Duskendale and Alaric to keep his own looking even remotely respectable. "A few dozen cavalry here, a quick raid there; he seems content to stay where roughly where he is and harass us."
"It's not a bad idea," Renfred Rykker admitted grudgingly. "He can stay relatively in place, leaving all the pains and nuisances of moving an army this size in this weather to take its toll on our own forces."
"We could always do the same," came the quiet voice of Ser Kevan Lannister. "Harrenhal is a ruin, but it's a cavernous one. We can turn it into a stout fortification." The brother to Tywin was overshadowed by his still-imprisoned elder brother, but he had proven exceptionally capable at keeping the surviving Westlanders in line. The bad blood between the Lannister men and Aelor's own veterans, men who had been enemies slaughtering the other mere weeks ago, had threatened to boil over early in the march, but the firm reprimands issued by both Ser Kevan and Aelor had stemmed the potential tide of violence. He'd even sent multiple letters to the remaining lords and men in the Westerlands, warning them not to raise the levies Lord Tywin had forsaken in the name of speed. While several lords had wished the King to raise those men to bolster their own forces, Rhaegar and Aelor had both decided to push onwards. They'd left Baratheon and his friends mostly unmolested for much too long, and the time it would take for the West to finish raising men was time they didn't have.
"No," spoke the even softer voice of the King, sat at one end of the table the war council was seated around, the thrum of rain on the ruined castle overhead and all around filling the dusk air. "We need to end this war soon, before more support for Robert can be found in the Ironborn or some other entity. We must march onwards."
"Baratheon clearly has a preferred field of battle selected," said Randyll Tarly. "He's leading us into it, skirmishing and raiding to keep his exact numbers hidden while simultaneously letting our men suffer in this rain. He wants us to follow him to his field of choice."
"It is obvious once you look," agreed Jon Connington. "Once leaving Riverrun they have marched relatively north, into friendly lands, not south or west or to King's Landing to hassle our own holdings. They want us to follow."
"I don't like the idea of playing to our enemy's advantage," Aelor replied with a nod at Tarly and Connington's words, "but we have limited choice. He has time that we don't. The longer he defies the Targaryen dynasty the stronger he looks, while we at the same time seem weaker."
"He still has to fight us," pointed out Oberyn, having been remarkably quiet up to that point. Ellaria was once again seated on his lap, keeping the still bitter Prince of Dorne calm. Aelor had grown more and more thankful for her since the beginning of the march; Oberyn hadn't spoke of killing Rhaegar more than four or five times since they'd left King's Landing, a much lower number than Aelor had expected. "However weak you may look by not quelling his rebellion, the point remains that you have a nearly equal number of men in the field. Baratheon can prance around and call himself Emperor of the World if he wishes, but no one will call him king while a Targaryen still lives."
"Prince Oberyn has a valid point," agreed Ser Kevan. Oberyn wrinkled his nose in disgust at the Lannister's support, unable to forget what the man's elder brother had intended for his sister and niece and nephew, but remained silent. "Your Grace has the provisions of the Reach at your disposal. While I'm sure we all want this war to end swiftly, Baratheon cannot stay afield as long as we can. He will have to march and meet us eventually."
Aelor shook his head. "No. While your council is solid, my lords, we must press down on Baratheon and Stark. They betrayed their King, and however justified that may seem to be in their minds, we must destroy this rebellion lest more arise."
Rhaegar finally spoke again. "Aelor is right. We must be aggressive." The King looked from one set of eyes to another as he posed his next question. "Since Baratheon is leading us to his preferred field of battle, that leaves only one question; where is that?"
The lords sat back, mulling the options in their minds. "It can't be a castle; they have too many forces to fit in any keep save for here in Harrenhal." Aelor drummed his fingers on the table from the chair where he faced the King.
"It will need be a large area." Agreed Rykker. "Nearly eighty thousand men are going to go to war there."
Prince Oberyn was stroking Ellaria's side, the upstroke of his hand lifting her decidedly Dornish garment enough to reveal an expanse of her coppery side. In truth it wasn't much, just a still modest glimpse, but it caused odd stirrings in Aelor's stomach and groin. Bloody hell, has it been that long? The Seven must be proud, but my body certainly isn't. "The Trident." The other lords turned to look at the Dornishman, the king raising an eyebrow. "A river is a natural defense. Baratheon will want us to be forced to cross it, where his own men can slaughter us as we wade out of the water."
"That makes sense, Your Grace," Barristan agreed. "The Trident only has a handful of crossings at any point along its three forks. They more than likely wish to dig in on one of them, making us cross under fire from archers and fight up the opposite bank."
Aelor shook his head. "Baratheon never struck me as this patient."
"He's not," said Connington, a man who—as a former vassal of the Stormlord—would know his personality relatively well, even if he had spent the vast majority of his time with Rhaegar. "He's hot tempered and a man of action, not waiting."
"Arryn and Stark are tempering him," King Rhaegar approved with a nod. "Baratheon would have assaulted King's Landing with all of our army inside if it weren't for those two to keep him levelheaded."
"Harroway is unlikely, the Crossing even less so." Tarly, always focused on the task at hand, was studying the map of Westeros spread across the table. "We are too close to Harraoway, and the Crossing is too far away."
Aelor had stood, walking behind his fellow members of the war council even as he kept his eyes glued on the pieces of parchments. "While we aren't sure exactly where, Baratheon is close, though I agree that he isn't likely at Harroway. His choice has a good chance of being in this area somewhere near."
"Here," pointed out Rykker, reaching his long arm across the wide table to circle his finger around a spot just north of where the Trident split into its three forks. "There is a crossing on one of these forks, a wide ford that is used more by smallfolk, though I can't recall which of these cursed rivers it is located on."
"The Green Fork," the King said quietly. "It is on the Green Fork." Aelor looked at his brother, the Rhaegar's face haven taken on a look of finality as he looked at the map. "It's unnamed, but well known."
The King's voice seemed resigned, as if something had just settled in his heart. As if Rhaegar had just found the answer to a question only he knew. "That ford is where we will find Robert Baratheon."