Tarth lay northeast of Storm’s End, the seat of the stormlands, with Shipbreaker Bay and the Straits of Tarth separating the two.
It was a beautiful island, known throughout Westeros as the Sapphire Isle.
All the sapphires in Westeros came from Tarth…
Well, no.
That was merely a jest a certain unfortunate Kingsguard, deprived of his right hand by sellswords some two hundred years later, would one day make.
The island produced no precious gems.
The name Sapphire Isle came from the brilliant blue waters surrounding its shores.
Its beauty, however, was beyond dispute.
Mountains, lakes, and waterfalls adorned the island.
Pastures and farmland spread across the countryside, while rich fishing grounds sustained its coastal villages.
A small mine on the eastern side of Tarth also provided a steady stream of wealth to the island’s lord.
House Tarth itself had once known an age of glory.
In ancient times, its rulers had even styled themselves kings.
Yet Durran Durrandon, called Durran the Fair, brought Tarth into the Kingdom of the Storm by wedding the daughter of Edwyn, the last King of Tarth.
From that day onward, the island remained a vassal of the Storm Kings.
That did not mean later Lords of Tarth never dreamed of restoring their house’s former glory.
Three times, House Tarth rebelled against House Durrandon.
Three times, the warhammers of the Storm Kings shattered their ambitions.
After the Last Storm, Orys Baratheon—the bastard half-brother of Aegon Targaryen the Conqueror—wed Argella Durrandon, the only daughter of the slain Storm King Argilac the Arrogant, and became Lord Paramount of the stormlands.
Thus, House Tarth passed from the rule of House Durrandon to that of House Baratheon.
Cameron Tarth was a young lord.
His father, Galladon, had been his grandfather’s only son, but had unfortunately died at the age of thirty—murdered before his time.
When Cameron came of age, his liege lord, Boremund Baratheon, formally acknowledged him as Lord of Tarth, and Cameron at last assumed full control of his lands.
His grandfather had spared no effort in securing the boy’s future.
Through carefully arranged marriages for his two granddaughters, the old lord had won the support of both House Velaryon and House Baratheon.
Indeed, Boremund Baratheon, the current Lord Paramount of the stormlands, had wed Cameron’s younger sister, Alyssa Tarth.
Boremund’s own sister, Jocelyn, had in turn married Prince Aemon Targaryen of Dragonstone.
Those bonds of blood and marriage were precisely why Cameron had dared appeal immediately to both his liege lord and the Iron Throne after his own attempt to drive the Myrish rebels from Tarth ended in failure.
Several dozen retainers now accompanied their lord in a camp nestled among the central reaches of the Galladon Mountains, the range that ran north to south through the island.
According to messages sent by the maester, two dragon princes, the Velaryon fleet, and the Baratheon host were already preparing to depart Storm’s End.
They would reach Tarth within days.
Cameron pressed both hands against the top of his head.
In the distance, faint fires glimmered among the villages of eastern Tarth.
At the foot of the mountains, scattered Myrish camps could be seen across the land.
Cameron clenched his teeth.
Those are my people!
It is my land they are ravaging!
“SKREEEE!”
A dragon’s roar tore across the mountains.
Cameron and his guards raised their heads as one.
A red dragon burst from the clouds.
The fury upon Cameron’s face became astonishment.
Then astonishment gave way to unrestrained joy.
Prince Aemon had come.
“Find a few goats for my dragon.
We flew all the way from King’s Landing.
He must be ravenous.”
Caraxes crouched low upon the ground and gently nudged Aemon with his head.
His tail slapped lazily against the earth, evidently pleased by his rider’s words.
Prince Aemon climbed down the rope ladder hanging from the Blood Wyrm’s neck.
He patted Caraxes on the head, accepted a wineskin from a retainer, and drank deeply.
Weariness showed plainly upon his face as men crowded around him and bowed.
“Lord Cameron, I have just come from Evenfall Hall.
I need to know the present state of the fighting, how you suffered your defeat, how many Myrmen landed upon the island, and where they are currently entrenched…”
The story was not a glorious one.
Upon learning that a rebel host had landed on Tarth, Cameron’s blood had run hot.
Ignoring the counsel of his maester and household retainers, he immediately summoned his knights and the nearest of his vassals and marched to war.
As for the result…
Lord Cameron Tarth, the Evenstar, had suffered a crushing defeat.
His army had drawn up for battle and stood waiting for their lord’s command.
Then the rain began.
A sudden downpour turned the earth beneath them to mud.
Cameron hesitated.
Yet when he saw the battle lust burning in the eyes of his knights, he finally gave the order to advance.
What followed was an utter disaster.
Behind Ser Selwyn, a squire held aloft the quartered banner of House Tarth, its rose-and-gold sun and white crescent moon upon azure snapping in the storm. You are reading on NovelPing, the official source.
Knights drew their swords or lowered their lances.
“For Tarth!
For the Evenstar!
Kill the Myrish bastards!”
The cavalry charged.
Halfway across the field, their horses sank into the mire.
The animals struggled helplessly, hooves swallowed by thick mud.
The Myrmen possessed great numbers of crossbows.
They loosed bolt after bolt into the trapped horses.
One mount fell.
Then another.
Knights tumbled from their saddles by the score.
The men of Tarth tried to fight back.
They abandoned their horses, raised sword and shield, and attempted to close with the Myrish infantry on foot.
But the rain and mud strangled their advance.
Every step became a struggle.
Every yard cost precious time.
Bolts rained down upon them without cease.
At last, Cameron’s army broke.
The Myrmen strolled among the fallen knights almost leisurely.
Whenever they found a man still alive, they drew daggers and thrust the blades through the gaps in his gorget.
One knight after another died choking in the mud.
And the conscripted farmers?
They had fled the moment the first volley fell.
Had Cameron’s squires and household guards not fought desperately to cover his retreat, the Lord of Tarth himself might have ended the day as a Myrish prisoner—or a corpse beneath some sellsword’s knife.
Now, all of eastern Tarth had fallen into enemy hands.
“There are fewer than two thousand Myrmen,” Cameron said.
“They currently occupy the eastern part of the island.
I have called up another levy of farmers and hired several dozen freeriders.
We still control the passes to the north and south.”
His voice trembled.
“I have beaten back several of their attacks since the defeat.
For now, they lack the strength to advance farther west…”
Prince Aemon ate strips of salted beef offered by a retainer while listening to Cameron recount the battle, the young lord nearly in tears by the time he finished.
“Lord Cameron, your lack of vigilance allowed nearly half your lands to fall into enemy hands.”
Cameron’s expression sank deeper into despair.
“That was your failure.”
The Evenstar lowered his head.
“But I did not come here to chastise you.
Nor do I have any desire to waste time assigning blame.”
Aemon washed down the last of the salted beef with wine and finished the bread in his hand.
Then he rose.
His gaze swept across every man within the tent.
Cameron cautiously lifted his head.
The prince looked exhausted from his long flight.
Yet those pale purple eyes were now fixed upon the map spread across the table.
Aemon’s boot heels tapped against the ground in a slow, measured rhythm.
“Condemning the past will not raise the dead.
It will not make scorched earth green again.
Nor will it turn Myrish crossbow bolts back upon those who loosed them.”
He raised his eyes.
“There is only one answer for hatred such as this.”
“Blood and fire.”
Aemon’s gaze settled once more upon Cameron.
The prince’s weary purple eyes met the young lord’s clear blue ones.
“My brother, Lord Corlys, and Lord Boremund’s army have likely departed Storm’s End by now.
They will soon reach Evenfall Hall and march to reinforce us.”
Aemon placed one hand upon the map.
“Lord Cameron, I trust you will not object to serving as a scout beside me for a time.”
A cold smile touched the prince’s lips.
“I want to see these Myrish bastards with my own eyes.”
Cameron drew a deep breath.
He forced down his shame and unease, then bowed deeply before Aemon.
“As you command, my prince.”
They did not linger.
Aemon, Cameron, and several of the finest guards soon departed the camp and began climbing the rugged paths of the Galladon Mountains. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
The company moved in silence.
Only the crunch of boots upon loose stone and the howling mountain wind accompanied them.
Their destination was a high ridge overlooking the eastern coast and the plains below.
The Myrmen had not failed to notice the dragon’s arrival.
Two scouts clad in coarse grey-green cloth had already crossed the mountains from the east and crept near the western peaks.
Mud and ash had been smeared across their faces, and they concealed themselves among the thick bushes.
One of them spotted the approaching party.
He tapped his companion on the shoulder and pointed toward the nobleman whose surcoat bore the arms of House Tarth.
The other man spat upon the ground.
A cruel, excited grin spread across his face.
With practiced ease, he drew a bolt and loaded it.
Then he raised his crossbow.
Cameron’s eyes caught a sudden flash of cold metal within the bushes.
His pupils widened.
The Myrman pulled the trigger.
At that very instant, a gust of wind swept across the mountainside.
The bolt shifted.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“No!”
Cameron screamed in despair.
He lunged toward the tall, handsome prince, desperately reaching out to drag Aemon to the ground.
Prince Aemon looked up at the shout.
Within his pale purple eyes, the reflection of a crossbow bolt could be seen.
Flying straight toward him.
Fast.
Far too fast.
Daeron…
So it was me after all…
Aemon thought bitterly.
Author’s Notes!
And with that, Aemon’s POV has come to an end…
probably?
From here onward, we’ll mostly watch the protagonist grow through the POVs of other characters.
I don’t know whether some readers will be bothered by the protagonist being a bastard, but this was a decision I made only after thinking about it for a very long time.
The protagonist is not a transmigrator, nor is he some chosen son of destiny with a system attached to him.
Having him tame dragons through some completely unrelated method—or start farming and climbing a technological progression tree—would feel far too out of place in this world.
The protagonist needs the blood required to ride a dragon.
He also needs an identity that gives him a claim to the Iron Throne, and that claim cannot be too far down the line of succession.
Aemon’s bastard son was simply the most suitable choice, especially when Aemon has only one daughter.
As for the identity of the protagonist’s mother…
I feel I’ve already made it obvious enough.
I am only a step away from spelling characters out directly.
Daeron is absolutely not the son of some ordinary whore, so there is no need to get hung up on that point.
Nor will there be any clichéd subplot later where a horde of impoverished relatives suddenly comes knocking at his door.
If I made the protagonist Jaehaerys’s fourth son, or the eldest son of Viserys and Aemma, then Viserys would never inherit the Iron Throne—or the Dance of the Dragons simply wouldn’t happen at all.
The story would lose far too many of its major conflicts.
If I made him Baelon’s third son, then for him to reasonably ascend the Iron Throne, I would have to kill off Viserys’s entire line as well as Daemon.
That would be a little too deranged, even for me…
And if I made the protagonist Rhaenyra’s child, or someone from her generation, he would simply be too young when the war broke out.
There would be no time for him to make preparations and lay the groundwork in advance.
I do feel the prologue volume has moved somewhat quickly.
The Dance of the Dragons begins in 129 AC.
By then, the protagonist will be around thirty-seven years old.
It will only at that point that he fully begins his eastward conquest of Essos while preparing to turn west and seize the Iron Throne.
I won’t spend too much time describing the protagonist’s childhood.
I don’t particularly enjoy reading endless chapters about little kids myself, so I’ll try to move through that period quickly and reach his adulthood as soon as possible.
I will do my best to keep every character from becoming OOC.
Overall, the story will follow the lore established by Martin and his co-authors, as well as the worldbooks.
However, for certain characters whose television portrayals were particularly outstanding—Viserys, for example—I will draw upon their personalities and stories from the television adaptation.
Before the protagonist reaches adulthood—or, more precisely, before he possesses full independence, maturity, and the ability to act on his own—the broad course of history will remain largely unchanged.
As for the future female leads and supporting heroines, I can reveal one thing: the protagonist will not have some enormous harem.
The setting itself hardly permits such a thing.
I will do everything I can to ensure this story is neither abandoned nor ruined by a terrible ending.