The Stronghammer - CH - 104

Dragonstone was unusually quiet that night. The roar of waves crashing against black stone cliffs filled the air, and the wind that swept through the ancient fortress carried a cold not of the sea—but of something more foreboding. Rhaenyra stood at the highest balcony of her tower, the moonlight casting her silver hair in pale relief. She clutched a letter in her trembling fingers, reading it for the fifth time.

It was from Maester Qorlen, her chief scribe and an advisor who had remained loyal through every hardship. “Your Grace, it is my humble counsel that you reconsider your course. King Aemond grows in strength by the day. You have fewer allies than fingers on your hand. Bend the knee. Live. Let your sons live.”

She crushed the parchment and let the wind carry the pieces away.

“Cowards,” she muttered. “All of them.”

Behind her, footsteps echoed.

Ser Harwin Strong’s brother, Ser Edric, bowed stiffly. “Princess—my queen—you summoned me?”

“Yes, Edric.” She turned. Her voice was strong, even if her face betrayed exhaustion. “How many dragons remain loyal to me?”

“Four,” he said. “Your own mount, Syrax. Prince Joffrey’s Tyraxes, Prince Jacarys' Vermax and Prince Lucerys' Arrax .”

“And the men?”

Edric hesitated. “Fewer each day. Many have left, quietly. Others—await your word.”

Rhaenyra laughed bitterly. “My word? What word would satisfy them? That I am Queen still? Or that I am finished?”

Edric looked away. “They fear what happens next.”

“So do I,” she whispered. Then, louder, firmer: “Fetch the scribes. I am sending ravens.”

By morning, dozens of black-feathered ravens took flight from Dragonstone’s rookery, carrying nearly identical letters.


To my loyal bannermen and those still uncertain:

The war for the Iron Throne must wait. A greater threat looms. The Cold Ones, the White Walkers of legend, march upon the North. Our brothers and sisters fight them in the snows beyond the Wall.

If Westeros is to survive, we must stand as one. I ride North not in surrender—but in defiance. I fight not for a throne—but for the living.

Let the world see who dares bleed for it.

— Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen


Hours later, her advisors gathered in the Great Hall, a chamber that now seemed far too large for the few who remained.

Maester Qorlen looked stricken. “You cannot mean to go, Your Grace. The North is frozen, lawless, crawling with Wildlings and gods-know-what. There’s no honor in chasing ghost stories.”

“There is no honor in dying alone on this rock,” she snapped. “You told me to survive. I am doing just that.”

Ser Edric spoke next. “We cannot guarantee your safety. The North is Aemond’s now—he sends weapons, armies. His name is sung even in White Harbor. If you go north—”

“Then I go as a Targaryen, not a queen,” Rhaenyra interrupted. “Let them call me traitor or exile. But when the White Walkers come south, I will be the one who fought.”

The hall fell into a stunned silence.

Her youngest son, Prince Joffrey, spoke quietly. “Mother… do you believe they’re real? The White Walkers?”

Rhaenyra hesitated. That question had burned in her for weeks. She had seen the raven letters, the frozen corpses that arrived with them. But she had also seen Aemond’s cunning—how easily he bent the realm with words. She couldn’t tell truth from manipulation anymore.

“…I don’t know,” she admitted. “But if they are real—and I do nothing—then I lose more than my crown.”

She stood. “Ready Syrax. We fly before sunset.”

The winds of the North bit hard, even through the thick black-and-crimson cloak around her shoulders. Rhaenyra squinted through the sleet as her dragon soared above the windswept forests. It had been three days since she left Dragonstone. Every night, they landed near some rocky outcrop or snowy hill. Every morning, they took flight again.

Now, in the far distance, she saw it—Hardhome. Fires burned in its courtyards. Men walked the walls. Smoke rose from forges.

“Syrax,” she whispered, “take us down.”

As she landed in the courtyard, dozens of soldiers pointed spears, until one recognized her.

“Stand down!” the man called. “It's the queen! The queen of Dragonstone!”

And soon enough, Commander Jorak of the Stormrage appeared. He looked older than she remembered, his face lined with frost and exhaustion.

“You’re a long way from your court, Princess Rhaenyra,” he said grimly.

She dismounted. “Not princess. Not queen. Just Rhaenyra. I come to fight.”

He studied her for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “Then we’ll find you a fire… and a spear.”

She looked around—at the wildlings sharpening blades, the blacksmiths forging dragonglass, the Northerners drilling in the snow. It wasn’t a palace. But perhaps it was what she needed to reclaim herself.

She breathed deep, the cold stabbing her lungs.

She would not bend the knee.

She would fight—and she would survive.



The wind howled like a beast as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, bundled in furs and armor, stood upon the icy cliffs of Hardhome. The skies were gray and heavy with snow, and behind her, Syrax stirred restlessly. She had spent days training with the bow, loosing arrow after arrow at straw dummies carved to resemble the pale, icy forms of the White Walkers. Her swordsmanship had grown sharper too, her hands blistered and bruised from countless hours in the training yard with Northern men who cared little for titles, but respected effort.

But it was not enough. The whispers haunted her—of assassins sent from King's Landing, of Aemond's growing power, of her dwindling hope. She knew she needed more than skill to survive. She needed to be with the only man who might still care enough to shield her. Robert Stormrage.

"You're mad if you go there," Commander Jorak told her, his face carved from stone and voice roughened by the cold. "The Frostfangs are no place for someone of your rank. The Emperor himself waits there, aye, but not even he would ask you to go."

Rhaenyra tightened the strap of her sword belt. "Then it's good he's not asking. I'm going because I must."

"You think he'll welcome you? After all these years? After the crown you chose over him?"

She met his eyes. "I don't know. But if there's one place in this world that might still have room for me, it's beside him."

With that, she mounted Syrax, and the dragon took to the skies in a rush of wings and frost. The cold bit deep, even through layers of cloth and leather. Below her, the land of eternal winter stretched out like a graveyard—bleached, still, and endless.

Somewhere beneath that ice, the White Walkers stirred. Somewhere, the bait—Cannibal—glided like a dark shadow over frozen valleys. The ancient dragon had already encountered the Cold Ones, their ice spears sailing through the air, but he had escaped, his wings strong and swift.

And now, she would fly to him. To Robert.

Her thoughts wandered as Syrax soared higher. She remembered the warmth of Robert's hands, the deep laughter, the nights they spent on windswept towers under the stars. He had begged her to come with him. To leave the throne, the schemers, and the politics. But she had stayed. For power. For legacy. And now, that legacy threatened to consume her.

As the Frostfangs rose into view, their jagged peaks wreathed in blizzards, Rhaenyra gripped the saddle tighter.

"Robert... please still care enough to see me," she whispered.

And she was flying to him, not as a queen, not as a claimant, but as a woman who finally understood what she'd lost.



Snow fell like ash from the sky, swept sideways by the cruel wind of the Frostfangs. Robert Stronghammer stood atop a ridge of packed ice, the cold biting through the fur-lined cloak that wrapped his broad frame. His breath curled in the air like smoke from a forge. His eyes were locked on the valley below, where five White Walkers stood at the head of an army of nearly four thousand wights. The trap was nearly complete. They had come, just as he had planned, lured by the bait—the ancient dragon Cannibal, who had soared overhead in brief, tantalizing arcs before disappearing beyond the hills.

The White Walkers crept forward, glacial and silent, trailing death in their wake. Their blue eyes glowed like baleful stars in the gloom. Robert’s scouts had reported no more than five Walkers remained, the last true generals of the undead legions. If they could be slain, the army of the dead would crumble like old stone.

His gloved fingers tightened around the haft of his warhammer. Embedded in the head were jagged shards of dragonglass, obsidian from Dragonstone, honed and set with runic carvings. A single blow was all it would take to shatter one of them. His heart thundered with anticipation, and the warriors behind him—Umbers, Stormrage men, Starks, and even wildlings—waited for his command, hidden among the crags and snowdrifts.

"Hold," he whispered to the Umber next to him. "Not yet. Let them come closer."

But then, the sky cracked.

A dragon’s cry—familiar, urgent, and wrong—split the heavens. Robert's head snapped upward.

"Cannibal?" he muttered, confused. No. It wasn’t the Cannibal.

From the curtain of falling snow, another dragon burst into view. Golden-scaled and proud. Syrax.

Rhaenyra.

Robert’s blood froze colder than the air. He turned to the sky and saw her—Rhaenyra Targaryen, proud and reckless, riding Syrax above the killing field.

"Seven bloody hells," he growled. "What is she doing here?!"

Even as he spoke, he saw it happen—the glint of a spear.

One of the White Walkers raised its ice-forged weapon, too fast and too precise. The spear soared upward like lightning. Rhaenyra’s eyes widened as Syrax banked too late. The spear struck home, burying itself in the dragon’s chest.

Syrax screamed—a high, terrible sound—and spiraled out of control, wings flailing, smoke and blood trailing behind. Robert watched helplessly as the dragon and its rider plummeted into the snow-covered slope across the valley.

"Damn her," he hissed. "She’s ruined everything."

The White Walkers surged forward toward the fallen dragon.

Robert turned to the Umber captain at his side. "We charge. Now. Before they reach the body."

"But the trap—"

"There is no trap anymore! If they touch the dragon, it’s over. Sound the horn!"

The warhorn bellowed through the Frostfangs. Echoes bounced between the peaks. Soldiers burst from their hiding places, shouting war cries. Arrows tipped with dragonglass were loosed, arcing toward the undead ranks.

Robert didn’t wait. He hurled himself down the ridge, his hammer swinging at his side, snow crunching beneath his boots. Despite his age, he ran like a man possessed.

The wights shrieked and turned. Some fell to the arrows immediately—one, two, then dozens as the sky turned black with projectiles. But most pressed on, protecting the Walkers.

Robert leapt into the fray.

The first wight he struck exploded in a shower of bone and frozen flesh. His dragonglass hammer smashed through them like they were made of straw.

"Form on me!" he shouted. "Push to the center! Aim for the Walkers!"

The ground quaked under the charge. Wildlings screamed vengeance, Stormrage knights bellowed oaths, and the Starks marched like grim death. Arrows kept falling, thinning the horde, but still they came.

Robert saw one of the Walkers near Syrax’s fallen form. The beast twitched in its death throes. Rhaenyra was alive, barely, crawling from beneath one of the dragon’s wings.

He gritted his teeth. "Not today."

He barreled toward the Walker, cutting a swath through the undead. The creature turned, its icy blade glimmering. Robert didn't hesitate.

He swung.

The hammer collided with the White Walker’s chest, dragonglass biting deep. The creature shattered like ice against stone. Its scream echoed across the valley. Dozens of wights collapsed instantly.

Behind him, more fighters reached the line. The Umber captain cut down another Walker with a glaive edged in obsidian. Two down. Three to go.

"Push forward!" Robert roared, sweat freezing on his brow.

Rhaenyra coughed, blood at her lips, as she tried to rise. He reached her side and pulled her up.

"You damn fool," he growled, dragging her behind a broken rock outcropping.

She looked at him, dazed. "I... I came to help."

"You nearly ended the world. Stay down. Don’t die until you’ve made this right."

She nodded weakly.

Cannibal screeched in the distance, circling back now that the fighting had begun. One of the remaining Walkers turned to it, fascinated.

Robert turned to the last of his men. "Focus on the Walkers! Bring them down!"

And the battle raged on.

In the heart of the Frostfangs, steel met ice, fire met death, and the fate of the living was decided with each shattered corpse and each fallen warrior. But Robert Stronghammer, hammer in hand, stood unbroken.

And somewhere behind the smoke, the Cannibal roared.