Artathorn stood at the top of a mountain with a bloodied sword in his hand. The blade was none other than Narsil; the blade of his fathers. Suddenly, clouds billowed out from the east, and fire was brewing to the east.
"Sir? SIR!!"
"What, what is it?" Artathorn now woke up from his dream. Nothing had scared him more than what had just happened in his dream. According to the scrolls of Isildur, the line of Gondorian kings carried one thing in common with each other: they each had experienced prophetic dreams in times of peril. Artathorn prayed that this was not an example of this.
"Sir, are you alright? You were whispering something about fires the east. You don't seem to sleep too well these days, sir."
"Whoever said a King's job was easy on sleeping. Have the patrols reported back yet?"
"No sir, however, men reported seeing blood coming down the Anduin. It doesn't look good." A soldier clad in shining armor came forward.
"Summon my council of war