A Song of Ash and Empire

The sky over Tarth was heavy with gathering storm clouds, the air thick with the scent of the sea and the damp earth of the island. The wind howled over the high cliffs, carrying with it the distant crash of waves against jagged rocks. The land was beautiful, but its beauty was currently marred by blood and war.

The Myrish invaders had come swift and brutal, carving a path through the eastern shores with fire and blood. Now, they held half of Tarth in their grasp.

They were exiles, slavers, sellswords—men who had fought for coin and glory in the Disputed Lands before setting their sights westward due to the unrest in their homeland.

And unlike the common pirates that plagued Westerosi waters, these invaders had discipline. Their galleys were swift, their steel well-kept, and their ambitions far-reaching.

But now they had drawn the gaze of the dragon.

Prince Aemon Targaryen had arrived ahead of his forces, cutting across the sky on the back of Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm. He had landed days ago, seeking Lord Cameron Tarth, the island's ruler, who had retreated to the central mountains, gathering what forces he could while awaiting reinforcements.

The war had yet to begin in earnest, but it would soon.

The camp had been raised in the shelter of the mountains, a place for those still resisting the Myrish invaders. Torches flickered in the dimming light, their glow casting long shadows against the towering cliffs.

The Prince of Dragonstone stood at the center, his black-and-red cloak shifting in the wind, his silver hair gleaming in the firelight. His posture was straight, assured, the stance of a man who had fought before and would fight again.

Beside him, Lord Cameron Tarth—a broad-shouldered man, hardened by battle, his face lined with worry but his voice steady.

The two spoke in low, measured tones, their discussion one of battle lines, reinforcements, and the impending fight ahead.

And standing a short distance away from the prince, watchful, quiet, and vigilant, was Ser Ryon Celtigar.

Ryon had been alert, as a knight should be, but it was only now that true unease settled into his bones.

The Prince and Lord Tarth spoke of strategy, of numbers, of how long they could hold out until the Velaryon fleet arrived. To most, it was a conversation of war. But to Ryon, it was something else.

It seemed too familiar.

The setting. The placement of men. The way Aemon stood beside Lord Cameron, discussing the battle to come.

It was all too close to something he had heard before.

He remembered Rhaegar's words.

"It is most likely to happen at a meeting. My uncle will be beside a lord, probably Tarth, speaking of war."

"Look for archers, scouts, soldiers, anybody that should not be there."

"You must be ready, Ser Ryon. You must act the moment you sense something amiss. If you hesitate, even for a breath, it could be too late."

Ryon had heard those words weeks ago when his prince had sent him on this mission.

And the picture of the camp before him was making him uneasy.

The tension in his body shifted from readiness to something sharper.

His grip on the pommel of his sword tightened. His gaze swept the edges of the camp, searching.

For what? He did not yet know.

But something was wrong.

He knew it.

His eyes flickered, no longer absentmindedly, but with purpose. At first, he saw nothing.

And then—

There.

Two men.

Shadows where there should be none.

They were at the far edge of the camp, near the craggy rocks where the firelight barely reached. They were moving too carefully, too deliberately.

One of them was adjusting something—no, aiming.

And suddenly, it was all clear.

The trajectory. The angle. The target.

One of them held a crossbow.

Ryon's blood ran cold.

It seemed to be aimed at Lord Tarth, but the line was off.

Too high. Too slightly shifted.

Not Lord Cameron.

Aemon.

Seven hells. He shouted in his mind.

Ryon did not think.

He moved.

His feet tore against the dirt, pushing forward with everything he had.

He lunged.

The snap of a crossbow string echoed faintly.

Ryon slammed into Aemon.

The prince barely had time to react before Ryon tackled him.

The world twisted, bodies hitting the earth, the impact sending a shock through Ryon's limbs.

Confusion gripped the camp, everyone's expression a shade of perplexed.

Then Chaos.

Cries of alarm.

Hands reaching for swords. Men scrambled, weapons drawn.

But Ryon's mind had no room for any of it.

He pushed himself up with all haste trying to ignore the haze that covered his mind — and his breath caught.

Ryon's heart stopped as he saw red staining the earth.

And around him, the camp continued to devolve into chaos.