Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 286 Rhaegar Targaryen

With a dull thud of hinges, the gates of King's Landing slowly swung open, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, clad in black armor, the three-headed dragon emblem on his breastplate gleaming a dark red in the morning light, led the largest army the royal family had ever assembled, a torrent of steel, surging out of the capital and marching north.

This massive army comprised loyal troops from the royal domains, the King's Landing garrison, and royalist forces from across the land, totaling forty thousand men, including four thousand elite cavalry. A forest of spears and banners obscuring the sun, it represented the Targaryen dynasty's last and most powerful counterattack.

Prince Rhaegar sat astride his warhorse, his face serene yet tinged with a barely perceptible melancholy. His beam of light pierced through the mountains, pointing towards Harrenhal—the colossal fortress that had recently fallen to the new rulers and was now a gathering place for all the rebels. This time, he was no longer the Silver Prince, lost in music and poetry, but a commander who had to defend his family's survival with sword and fire.

The sound of the army's footsteps and hooves shook the Kingsroad, raising clouds of dust that blotted out the sun. An ultimate showdown that would determine the future of Westeros was drawing irresistibly closer to Harrenhal with the army's advance.

Under the immense shadow of Harrenhal, the allied forces had completed their battle preparations, and colorful flags fluttered above the city walls and camps, a tense yet resolute fighting spirit permeating the air. Armies from all corners of Westeros had now converged into a steadfast bulwark.

The Northern army was on high alert. Of the ten thousand soldiers under Lord Eddard Stark, three thousand were Northern cavalry, both men and horses clad in heavy armor, their bearing as cold and austere as ice. The other seven thousand were infantry, mainly composed of spearmen and axemen, their formation as solid as a mountain.

Dorne's six thousand warriors were led by Prince Oberyn, including two thousand light cavalry, who were swift as the wind and skilled at harassment and assault; at the heart of the army were four thousand spearmen, whose spear tips gleamed deadly in the sunlight.

The ten thousand-strong army of the Vale assembled under the banner of Lord Jon Arryn, comprising two thousand knights and eight thousand infantry. They were well-equipped, well-organized, and demonstrated the profound heritage of House Arryn.

The six thousand men of the Riverlands, including one thousand cavalry and five thousand infantry, were loyal to Duke Horst Tully and fought with high morale to defend their homeland.

After their defeat, the Stormlands Legion, led by Robert Baratheon, regrouped with eight hundred cavalry and three thousand infantry, eager to wash away their shame with victory.

The Ironborn of the Iron Islands, led by Euron Greyjoy, comprise five hundred cavalry and two thousand five hundred warriors. In previous battles, their fearless and almost insane fighting style has earned them the title of "Berserkers."

The allied forces, numbering nearly 40,000, relied on the formidable walls of Harrenhal to prepare for the challenge of the last remaining main force of the Targaryen dynasty.

The allied commanders of Harrenhal stood atop the towering walls, gazing southward. Scout reports, like snowflakes, gradually coalesced into a clear picture—Prince Réga's army had not, as was expected, come to besiege this formidable fortress.

Euron Greyjoy leaned against the crenellations, a cold, knowing smile playing on his lips, and said to the people around him, "See? I told you Rhaegar wasn't a fool. A direct assault on Harrenhal? That would be filling a bottomless pit with soldiers' bones. He'll choose a battlefield more suitable for him, more suitable for the final battle."

His judgment was quickly confirmed. Rhaegar's 40,000-strong army finally halted south of Harrenhal, on the banks of the Green Fork of the Trident River, and set up camp downstream of Lord Harroway's town. The terrain there was relatively open, with abundant water and grass, which could not only ensure the army's supply but also provide enough space for the cavalry to deploy. More importantly, it guarded the vital passage for the allied forces to march south to King's Landing.

Rhaegar's intentions were crystal clear: he was not there to attack the city, but rather to set up a dignified battle formation, like a true knight, issuing a challenge to a duel, waiting for the allied forces to come out of the city and settle the score on the vast riverside plain.

The decisive battleground has shifted from the fortified city walls to the banks of a rushing river. The air is thick with the scent of the final chapter.

The air was heavy in Harrenhal's council chamber. Lord Jon Arryn, his brow furrowed, was the first to discern Rhaegar's intentions: "They won't attack the city. Judging by this, they're trying to lure us out to fight them to the death on the riverbank plain."

Prince Oberyn of Dorne toyed with his lance, a sly glint in his eyes: "The situation is in our favor, why should we play into his hands? What if we simply hold our ground?"

Duke Horst Tully nodded in agreement, his calculations more pragmatic: "With the support of the Iron Bank's golden dragons, our provisions are enough to sustain our army here for a year. King's Landing, on the other hand, probably won't even last a month. We only need to wait and see, and Rhaegar's army will collapse without a fight."

Eddard Stark, who had remained silent until now, slowly shook his head, his grey eyes revealing the straightforwardness of a Northerner: "Holding our ground is safe, but it takes too long. Every day we wait, the people of the Seven Kingdoms suffer another day, and the wounds of the kingdoms deepen. And my sister—"

Ed was impatient and couldn't wait any longer at the thought of Lyanna's unknown fate.

"Edward is right!" Robert Baratheon's booming voice rang out as he sprang to his feet, his fighting spirit blazing. "Are we afraid of that bastard Rhaegar in a head-on battle? My warhammer is itching for a fight!"

At that moment, Euron Greyjoy let out a deep laugh, drawing everyone's attention. "Not out of fear, Robert," he said casually, his gaze sweeping over the leaders, "but to avoid unnecessary sacrifices. Time is our sharpest weapon, not theirs. We should be more patient than they are."

He walked to the map, pointing his finger at Rhaegar's camp: "Let them wait, let them grow restless, let them exhaust their morale and supplies in the wind and rain. If they can't resist attacking the city, they'll be courting death; if they don't come—" Euron's lips curled into a cold smile, "we'll wait until they're exhausted and internal strife arises. Then, we'll strike with overwhelming force, and our chances of victory will more than double!"

The hall fell into deep thought. Should they actively seek war, or remain still and wait for the enemy to move? This choice concerned the lives of tens of thousands of people and determined the future of the kingdom.

Inside Harrenhal's council chamber, candlelight flickered, illuminating the six figures who would decide the kingdom's fate. The result of the strategic vote was clear and resigned: apart from Robert and Eddard, the other four advocated remaining inactive and patiently wearing down the enemy.

Robert's face flushed with anger and impatience as he paced restlessly like a caged lion. His warhammer, Robert's Judgment, seemed to hum in his hands, yearning for the skulls of his enemies. But he was, after all, a commander, and knew that war was not a game of mere brute force. He abruptly stopped, his heavy breathing echoing in the silent hall, and finally, through clenched teeth, he forced out a compromise, a final ultimatum: "One month! One month at most!" he growled, his gaze sweeping over Jon Snow, Oberyn Martell, Horst, and Euron. "Whether that silver-haired bastard Rhaegar comes to attack or not, one month from now, my warhammer will shatter his chest! We must fight them to the death!"

The four prudent men exchanged a knowing glance, then slowly nodded, accepting the deadline. They knew Robert all too well—getting this restless stag to agree to wait a month had almost exhausted all his patience.

These thirty days and nights will be the limit of Robert's tolerance, and also the most precious strategic time they can gain by utilizing Harrenhal and their supply advantage.