A Song of Ash and Empire

The wind carried the scent of salt and passing rain, a constant companion on the island of Tarth. The evening sky stretched on the land, deepening into twilight as the last traces of daylight bled into the horizon. The sea crashing against the cliffs below.

Prince Aemon Targaryen stood upon the high cliffs, his black-and-red cloak billowing behind him. His eyes, sharp and contemplative, were fixed on the distant waters where war could soon find its way to these shores. The wind tugged at his silver hair, but he remained unmoving.

He had arrived in Tarth ahead of his men, as expected. Dragonback afforded him that luxury. 

What he had not expected, however, was the knight who stood before him now.

Ser Ryon Celtigar, sworn to House Targaryen, had arrived not with the fleet, not with the gathered forces assembling for war—but alone.

Aemon regarded the man with a mixture of curiosity and measured patience. The Celtigar knight was known to him by name, though they had never spoken beyond brief exchanges in passing. He was young but seasoned, of noble blood, sworn to duty. A knight of the Crownlands. A knight of his nephew.

Aemon had received his brother's letter some time past, informing him of Ryon's reassignment to his service. He had accepted it without protest—an extra sword during times of war was never unwelcome.

And yet, something about this arrival felt... peculiar.

"You were expected to ride with the others," Aemon said at last, his voice calm but edged with quiet scrutiny. "Or with Lord Velaryon's fleet."

The words were not unkind, but there was a trace of curiosity behind them.

Ryon met his gaze. He had already anticipated this question.

"I thought it would be more prudent to ride ahead, my prince," Ryon answered smoothly. "By the time Lord Corlys and his fleet arrive, you would have already been here for some time. I figured you could use an extra sword sooner rather than later."

Aemon studied him for a long moment, silent. The reasoning was sound. Practical, even. Yet something about it still felt... off.

Not wrong, not suspicious—just unexpected.

And Aemon had learned, over years of war and rule, that unexpected things often carried deeper meanings.

Still, he saw no reason to challenge it outright.

Yet...

"You made this decision on your own?" Aemon asked, a subtle weight behind his words.

Ryon did not hesitate. "I did, my prince."

Aemon nodded after a moment. "A thoughtful decision."

Ser Ryon bowed his head. "I serve House Targaryen, my prince. I will serve where I am most needed."

Aemon let out a soft breath, his gaze flickering back to the horizon. The waves stretched endlessly, as they always did. He did not glance back at the knight when he spoke next.

"You are sworn to my nephew."

"I am," Ryon confirmed.

"And yet he sent you here."

Ryon did not hesitate. "He did."

Aemon hummed low in his throat. "I see."

For a moment, nothing more was said.

The wind stirred between them, and Ryon stood motionless under Aemon's gaze.

Then, Aemon turned, clasping his hands behind his back. "I will not question a man given to me freely, but I must ask—why did Rhaegar send you?"

Ryon's expression did not shift. He had known this question would come.

And as he had been instructed, he had his answer.

"I cannot claim to know the prince's mind," he said evenly. "But I do know he worries for you, my prince."

Aemon exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like amusement. "Hmph. My nephew is young to carry such concerns."

"He is wise beyond his years, my prince," Ryon answered smoothly.

Aemon's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he nodded. "That, I do not doubt."

Another silence. The waves below crashed against the cliffs once more.

Aemon shifted slightly, his gaze moving back to the sea. "You are a loyal man, Ser Ryon."

"I live to serve, my prince," he answered with a slight bow.

Aemon gave a thoughtful hum before turning fully to him once more. "And what did my nephew say to you before you left?"

Ryon did not let his expression change. "Only that I should serve you as I serve him."

Aemon only nodded in response.

Ryon exhaled softly.

His explanation had been accepted.

His words were not a lie, not exactly. But it was not the full truth either.

Rhaegar had prepared him for this moment—for the questions that would come.

There had been much that the young prince had told him. And it would be a lie to say that he did not find many of the prince's words skeptical.

Yet, he had also served Rhaegar Targaryen long enough to know that when the young prince spoke of things with such surety and conviction, he was rarely if ever wrong.

The prince had told him many things. Warnings. Details. Instructions on what to look for.

But the core of it was simple.

"You will go to Tarth. You will ride ahead, alone. My Uncle must not be without protection—not for a single moment."

"You will watch him. You will stay close to him. You will keep him safe."

"You will look for anything strange—any man who should not be there, any movement that seems out of place. You will remain vigilant."

"And if the time comes—"

"You must act without a moment's hesitation."

He had seen the weight behind the prince's eyes, the way he spoke not in some prophetic riddles but in absolute truths. And Ryon could not bring himself to question the prince's words, or how he knew of what he spoke.

Aemon turned to him. "Come then, we will have much to do."

Ryon bowed his head. "My blade is yours, my prince."

Aemon gave a small, approving nod. "Good."

And just like that, it was decided.

Ser Ryon Celtigar had taken his place among Aemon's men. The only one with him for now.

Ryon fell into step behind him, his mind still lingering on Rhaegar's words.

He had been given a duty.

And whatever came next, he would see it done.