The Stronghammer - CH - 105

Snow and ash danced in the bitter wind, obscuring the sky above the Frostfang Mountains. The only source of warmth was the heat of battle — and the roar of a dragon’s dying breath. Robert Stronghammer's warhammer, its jagged edges gleaming with embedded dragonglass, had just shattered the chest of the White Walker who’d hurled a spear into the heart of Syrax, Rhaenyra’s golden-scaled dragon. The beast crashed into the mountainside, wings crumpling like parchment in the cold wind. Rhaenyra had barely survived the fall, her body strewn across the snow, broken but breathing.

The White Walker who had dared to strike at the dragon now lay in a thousand shimmering shards. But Robert had no time to grieve or reflect — the final battle was upon them.

He lifted his hammer high, its dragonglass gleaming like embers in the dull gray light. Around him, the Northern men roared, their battle cries echoing through the mountains. From behind snowy ridges, from half-dug trenches and barricades made of timber and ice, they surged forward. The moment Robert gave the command — "CHARGE!" — the tide of humanity crashed against the oncoming dead.

The wights came fast. Thousands of them. Their eyes glowed blue in the mist, their limbs broken and twisted, yet they moved with terrifying purpose. With them walked four remaining White Walkers — tall, terrible, and nearly indistinguishable from their corpse-army, now blending in amongst the dead instead of standing aloof as they once did. It was a cunning move.

"Aim for the eyes!" screamed Lord Umber, loosing arrow after arrow. But even the best archers among the Stormrage and Stark forces found it nearly impossible to pick out their true targets.

Robert knew this was no ordinary assault. The Night King was here.

He saw him — tall, armored in ice-forged steel, a crown of frozen spikes adorning his head, watching calmly from behind the lines. The Night King had not joined the fray yet. He waited, perhaps sensing his time would come. Robert didn't care. He would end this.

With a savage cry, Robert threw himself into the thick of the undead. His hammer sang with every swing. A wight’s skull caved in. Another lost its legs. He smashed and stomped, his breath steaming in the cold, his limbs burning with exertion. Blood — black and foul — sprayed across the snow as he pressed forward.

One of the White Walkers spotted him and charged, sword of ice raised high. Robert ducked under the blow and drove his hammer upward. The strike caught the creature beneath the jaw, and it exploded into shards.

"Push forward! Don’t let them regroup!" he shouted.

All around him, the battlefield was chaos. Archers kept releasing volley after volley, trying to pierce the veil of wights that shielded the White Walkers. Each time a true Walker fell, dozens of wights collapsed. But still they came. Still the Night King watched.

The Cannibal screamed from above, the monstrous dragon diving through the clouds. Black scales caught what little light there was as it descended, wings flaring wide. Robert felt the mental connection stir. The dragon sensed danger.

A second White Walker raised an icy spear toward the Cannibal — but an arrow from Lord Karstark pierced its shoulder. It staggered. Another arrow from a wildling archer buried itself in its throat. A third struck its chest. And it, too, shattered. The wights it had raised fell, dropping like puppets with their strings cut.

"Hold the line!" shouted Ser Arlan of House Hornwood, his sword gleaming with dragonglass. He fought like a man possessed, holding the flank where Rhaenyra lay wounded.

Robert shoved through, hammer in one hand, dragonglass dagger in the other. He dropped three wights with his hammer, then stabbed another clean through the eye. The enemy tried to overwhelm him with numbers. Robert responded with fury. He fought like he had at Pyke, like he had at Black Hollow, like the warrior he once was — and still was.

Then he saw it. The Night King, finally stepping forward.

"Stay back!" Robert bellowed to his men. "This one is mine!"

The battlefield went still around them. The wights pulled back at their master’s silent command. The Night King drew a sword of midnight ice, crackling with a magic colder than death. Robert met him in the middle, breath ragged, face bloodied.

He raised his hammer.

"You die today."

The Night King did not reply. His face was emotionless, his eyes burning with unnatural frost. He moved first — fast, impossibly fast. His blade swept for Robert’s throat, but the old warrior blocked it with the haft of his hammer. The ice cracked slightly. Robert answered with a swing of his own, but the Night King dodged, his cape of frozen mist trailing behind him.

The two circled. Their armies watched, still and breathless.

Robert attacked again. The hammer smashed into the ground, sending snow and stone flying. The Night King leapt back, then advanced with a flurry of strikes. Robert parried, blocked, then spun and caught the Night King in the shoulder — a glancing blow, but it sent a shiver through the creature.

"Not so unbreakable now, are you?" Robert growled.

The Night King slashed at Robert's thigh — a shallow cut, but blood bloomed in the snow. Pain flared. Robert grunted, narrowed his eyes, and pressed on.

Around them, the wind howled.

From above, the Cannibal screeched again, circling. He was waiting. Watching.

The Night King raised a hand. The dead around the battlefield began to stir again — wights clawing their way up.

"NO!" Robert roared. He lunged before the spell could be completed, dragging his hammer upward with all his strength. It collided with the Night King's torso, right at the chest — dragonglass struck ancient ice.

A terrible scream pierced the sky.

The Night King’s body fractured. His form broke apart, piece by piece, light exploding from within like a dying star. In seconds, he shattered.

And with him, every remaining wight fell.

The battlefield fell into silence. Only the wind remained.

Robert stood in the center of the field, chest heaving, wounded and bloodied, but victorious.

And from behind, the Cannibal let out one final, thunderous roar — a cry of triumph echoing through the Frostfangs.

The Long Night… had ended.



The sky hung heavy over the Frostfang Mountains, streaked with thin threads of crimson as dawn cracked open the long night. The battlefield was a frozen graveyard, blanketed in snow and soaked in blood. All around lay the shattered remnants of swords, broken shields, and the bodies of fallen warriors. Some were men of the Stormrage Empire, others wildlings who had answered the call to fight the true enemy. The rest were the cursed undead, their broken limbs and sunken eyes now still and silent.

Robert Stronghammer moved through the snow with slow, determined steps. His heavy warhammer, still crusted with dragonglass and frozen blood, rested on his shoulder. The black beard on his face was laced with frost, and a fresh cut streaked across his cheek. His breath steamed in the cold morning air as he called out to his men.

"Search the ridge! Check the dragon!"

Voices echoed back, hoarse and weary. Men shouted names, hoping for survivors. Others wept silently over the dead. Victory had come, yes, but not without a cost.

Robert moved with a singular purpose. He needed to find her.

Then he saw them—two soldiers coming down from the upper slope, one with a body cradled gently in his arms.

"Your Grace," one said, his voice hollow. "It’s her."

Robert hurried to them. His boots crunched through the ice, and as he drew closer, the breath in his chest caught. There, wrapped in a torn cloak and streaked with ash, was Rhaenyra.

Her silver hair was tousled, tangled with blood and frost. Her eyes were closed, and a thin stream of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. The wound from her fall—severe than they suspected.

Robert fell to his knees beside her.

"Rhaenyra..." he whispered.

No response. He reached out and brushed her cheek with a calloused hand. It was still warm. Almost as if she were sleeping.

"You were always reckless," he said, voice thick. "Always thinking with your pride before your head."

He swallowed. Tears welled in his eyes.

"I built Stormrage for you," he confessed. "Not for glory. Not for gold. But for you. So that we could marry and have a good life together."

A gust of wind passed through, shaking the trees and tugging at his cloak. Still, he didn’t move. Around him, the soldiers stood silent, watching their Emperor grieve.

"Prepare the pyre," he said at last.


That evening, under a darkening sky, a great funeral pyre was raised on the highest plateau of Frostfang. Logs were hauled and soaked in oil, while stones were carved to bear her weight. The soldiers stood in respectful silence, forming a circle around the pyre. Wildlings and Southerners alike lowered their heads.

Robert stood at the front, his eyes locked on the lifeless body of the woman he once loved. She wore a simple white dress now, her wounds cleaned and her hair brushed. No crown rested on her brow—only a single braid pinned with a dragon clasp.

"She came here for pride," Robert said loudly, addressing the gathered crowd, "but she died for more than that. She died fighting the same enemy we all did."

He turned his gaze to the pyre.

"Let her memory be carried not on whispers of war, but in the fire of peace."

He stepped forward, torch in hand, and lit the base of the pyre. The flames caught fast, roaring high. Cannibal flew overhead, circling once and releasing a mournful cry that echoed through the mountains. The dragonfire lit the sky, and Rhaenyra’s body was engulfed in golden flame.

Robert stood still as the fire crackled. He said no more.


Two days later, they returned to Hardhome.

The once-desolate harbor now bustled with life. Ships bearing the banners of the Stormrage Empire sailed in and out, delivering food, supplies, and the wounded. The gates opened wide as Robert and his remaining soldiers entered. The people cheered. Some cried.

"The Emperor lives!"

"He slew the Night King!"

"Stormrage forever!"

Robert dismounted and offered a weary smile. He clasped the hands of his men, embraced those he had fought beside. He paused only once, staring out toward the ships.

He was tired. Deeply tired. But his duty was not yet done.

Inside the grand hall of Hardhome, a council gathered. Lords, commanders, wildling chieftains, and southern allies filled the chamber. The topic: the fate of the wildlings.

"We fought together," said Lord Umber. "Let them live here, among us."

"They will never be accepted," muttered Lord Manderly. "We call them freefolk, but our people will call them murderers and thieves."

Robert raised a hand. The hall fell silent.

"Then let them choose. Those who wish to remain may stay, but they must swear loyalty to the North and obey its laws. The rest may come south with me. In Stormrage, there will be no walls. No old grudges."

Murmurs spread through the hall.

The wildlings, when told, made their decisions. Many, especially the young and those with families, chose to follow Robert east. They had seen enough death. Enough winter. They wanted new lives.

And so, on the first day of spring, ships were prepared. Hundreds of wildlings boarded. Children clutched hands with southern-born boys. Women carried baskets filled with the few possessions they had. Warriors who once raided villages now offered to build them.

Robert stood at the docks, watching them go.

He looked north, where snow still crowned the mountains.

"This land is for the living," he said softly. "But I am done with war."

He turned toward the sea, toward his empire.

And walked forward.