Only half a month had passed, but the invisible yet lethal financial noose of the Iron Bank began to reveal its terrifying power. While Rhaegar could still maintain the dignity of his army on the front lines at Harrenhal, King's Landing in the rear had descended into total chaos and stood on the brink of collapse.
The Iron Bank moved swiftly and thoroughly. They not only froze the Crown's credit but used their influence across the Narrow Sea to sever most vital supply lines to the capital. Almost simultaneously, the roses of Highgarden quietly dropped their facade of loyalty, ceasing the gratuitous grain shipments to the city.
These two heavy blows shattered the foundation keeping King's Landing running. Nobles with keen noses began a mass exodus first, taking their valuables and families onto ships under the cover of night, like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Inside the city, food prices skyrocketed, markets stood empty, and looting and riots by the starving smallfolk erupted one after another. Black smoke often rose from Flea Bottom, and the Gold Cloaks were run ragged. Despair spread through the air like a plague.
Deep within the Red Keep, Aerys II, in his increasingly isolated madness, could only issue hysterical orders over and over, urging messengers to speed north to the front:
"Tell Rhaegar! Attack immediately! Immediately! I command him to end this quickly and crush those traitors!"
However, when these orders reached the camp by the Trident, they only deepened the melancholy on Rhaegar's face. Before him was a formidable enemy waiting in full strength; behind him was a kingdom burning to the ground.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat on his horse before the camp, gazing at the distant horizon where the silhouette of Harrenhal loomed large and hideous like a giant's skeleton. A layer of unbreakable gloom shrouded his handsome face, and a lucid, painful light flickered in his violet eyes.
He knew better than anyone that laying siege was a road to ruin.
The height and thickness of Harrenhal's walls were unrivaled in Westeros.
The last time the coalition breached the city, it wasn't through brute force. It relied heavily on Euron Greyjoy's uncanny luck and insight, finding a forgotten waterway or tunnel from the God's Eye to infiltrate with a surprise force.
"The same miracle won't happen twice. The Little Kraken won't leave such an obvious defect open," Rhaegar warned himself coldly. With the coalition's current vigilance, that secret path would undoubtedly be sealed tight or heavily guarded.
With troop numbers roughly equal, ordering soldiers to charge those walls with ladders was tantamount to sending them to their deaths. Building siege towers would take forever, and the defenders' arrows, rocks, and boiling oil would turn his men into rivers of blood. It would be a massacre doomed to fail.
Every rational cell in his body warned him not to do it. But the death warrants coming from King's Landing, from his mad father, burned his back like branding irons. He was trapped between strategic rationality and political madness, with no way forward or back.
A royal messenger, holding high a banner of peace, delivered a letter sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen into Harrenhal. When this letter was read aloud before the coalition commanders, the great hall first fell into a dead silence, then was torn apart by Robert Baratheon's volcanic rage.
The letter read:
"To Robert Baratheon and the leaders of the rebellion:
I, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, hereby clarify a misunderstanding that lies between us. Between myself and Lady Lyanna Stark, there was no abduction or force as rumored, but a sincere admiration and mutual love from the heart. Her choice stemmed from her own will.
Given the many misfortunes this has caused, I wish to offer a path to reconciliation:
If you are willing to lay down your arms, disband your armies, and swear allegiance to my father, King Aerys II, all past acts of treason shall be forgiven.
To show my sincerity, I also inform you that I have dissolved my marriage with Princess Elia Martell. Once the situation settles, I will formally take Lyanna Stark as my wife.
If you refuse this proposal of peace and insist on war, I have no more to say. My army is deployed by the Trident, awaiting your arrival for the decisive battle.
Finally, regardless of the outcome of this battle, I swear by the name of Targaryen that when all is ended, I will inform House Stark of Lyanna Stark's exact whereabouts.
Rhaegar Targaryen"
This letter was like a boulder thrown into an already turbulent undercurrent. Instead of calming the conflict, its self-righteous tone of "clarification" and "benevolence" thoroughly ignited Robert's fury and made Eddard Stark's face darken like stone at the casual way his sister was discussed.
The decisive battle was now unavoidable.
When the contents of Rhaegar's letter—especially the declaration of "mutual love" with Lyanna and his intention to marry her after divorcing Elia—spread among the coalition commanders, the air in the hall seemed to ignite instantly.
Eddard Stark stood up abruptly, his usual calm and silence completely shattered. On a face that resembled the harsh winter of the North, every line was taut with extreme anger. His grey eyes held a chill and pain almost solid enough to touch. His voice wasn't loud, but it trembled slightly from suppressed emotion, every word chiseled from a frozen abyss:
"Targaryen... They murdered my brother, burned my father! Now, Rhaegar kidnaps my sister and dares to use such frivolous words to stain her honor, continuing to insult the pride House Stark has guarded for generations!"
Robert Baratheon's reaction was like a volcanic eruption. He roared, his massive fist slamming onto the oak table before him. The thick wood cracked with the blow. "Lyanna is my betrothed!" He bellowed, shaking dust from the rafters. His face turned purple with rage. "That silver-haired bastard! Sincere admiration?! Mutual love?! How dare he... how dare he humiliate her like this, humiliate me?!"
Their anger, one cold and one hot, reached a peak that could no longer be endured or soothed by any reason. Rhaegar's letter, which he thought would clarify facts, became the final straw that broke the camel's back, severing any possibility of peace. Now, only the waters of the Trident could wash away this bone-deep hatred and humiliation.
Lord Jon Arryn sighed deeply. The sigh was heavy with the inevitability of bloodshed but also carried the resolve to end it all. His aged but firm gaze swept the winding river on the map, finally landing heavily on a shallow ford. "Then... let the final battle with Rhaegar be at this ford on the Trident. It is fate's arrangement."
A bloodthirsty light flashed in Euron Greyjoy's eyes. He chimed in, "Ultimately, a battle must be fought to decide the realm. Crushing the main royal host head-on upon the open river flats will show the Seven Kingdoms the reality better than any scheme, making them understand who the true masters of this land are. It will be the most direct declaration of power."
"Good!" Robert Baratheon erupted with a thunderous roar. His massive frame trembled slightly with surging battle lust, eyes burning with the fire of vengeance and liberation. "Tomorrow! The whole army marches to the Trident! I will decide victory and defeat with him, and life and death too!"
In this moment, strategic hesitation and political calculation were cast aside. Only one road remained—to write a new history for Westeros with steel and blood amidst the sound of the flowing Trident.