The Stronghammer - CH - 103

The small council chamber of the Red Keep, once a place of measured counsel and calm discourse, now echoed with raised voices and heated words.

“You have dishonored your own kin,” Otto Hightower hissed, his face pale with restrained fury. “The Reach was a gift, and House Hightower has served the realm longer than the Tarlys have wielded blades. And yet you hand the title of Lord Paramount to a family of soldiers!”

Aemond Targaryen sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his sapphire eye gleaming coldly. “A family of soldiers is precisely what I need, Lord Hand,” he said. “Not courtiers. Not cowards. Not those who hide behind books and temples while others bleed for the realm.”

Otto slammed his hand on the table. “The Hightowers—”

“The Hightowers did not ride to war when I called,” Aemond snapped, rising from his seat. “The Tarlys did. The Hightowers offered polite silence. The Tarlys sent swords, banners, and blood. And if I raise only my mother’s kin, who will follow me? Who will trust a king that rewards only those who share his blood?”

Otto’s jaw clenched. “You are young, Your Grace—”

“And you forget,” Aemond cut in, voice hard, “that I am King.”

The chamber fell silent. The other councilors looked between them with tight expressions, no one daring to speak.

Outside the chamber, word had already spread like wildfire: House Tarly had claimed multiple lesser castles from Tyrell loyalists. Golden Grove had fallen. Appleton bent the knee. Houses Caswell and Beesbury were in retreat. The Reach was bleeding, but the tide was shifting swiftly in Aemond’s favor.


Later that evening, Aemond stood alone in the Tower of the Hand, staring out over King’s Landing as the torches flickered and the bells tolled softly in the wind. The city felt heavy with expectation, as though it too held its breath, waiting for what came next.

He didn’t turn when he heard footsteps behind him.

“It is unwise to anger your grandfather,” said Alicent Hightower softly. “Father has held this realm together longer than you’ve worn armor.”

“I do not question his service,” Aemond replied. “But this is no longer his game to play. If I rule like him, this war is already lost.”

Alicent walked to stand beside him, her eyes tired but proud. “You are not your brother. And you are not your father.”

“No,” Aemond said. “I am something else.”

She hesitated. “There is one more matter. Helaena.”

Aemond sighed. “Mother, please.”

“She is of your blood. Our blood. Marriage will strengthen the family, ensure her safety, and keep the line pure.”

“I do not wish to harm Helaena,” he said. “She is kind. Gentle. But this realm is not held together by dragon blood anymore. The Lords grow restless. They want inclusion. Connection. The North and the Stormlands are bound now by marriage. That is power.”

Alicent frowned. “And whom do you intend to marry, then?”

“I have made the decision already,” Aemond said. “I will marry Lady Maris Baratheon. Lord Borris's second daughter.”

Alicent’s lips parted in surprise. “Lady Maris? She is said to have a tongue as sharp as her father’s temper.”

“Good,” Aemond said with a faint smile. “Then we will understand each other.”


Seven days later, in the Hall of a Hundred Flames, a raven-haired girl in a storm-colored dress walked beside her grim-faced father, Lord Borris Baratheon. He gave a respectful nod to the King, though he barely disguised his pride.

Aemond stepped down from the dais to greet them, extending his hand. “Lady Marissa.”

Maris took it without a curtsy. “If I must marry a dragon, I’m glad it’s the one who doesn't burn with words alone.”

Aemond chuckled. “Then I’ll take that as acceptance.”

Lord Borris thumped his staff on the stone. “And with this union, the Stormlands and the Crown are as one. Let Rhaenyra come. We’ll tear her banners from Dragonstone before her eggs hatch.”

Later that night, Alicent sat in her solar, a cup of wine untouched in her hand, watching the fire.

“Everything is changing,” she whispered.

Otto Hightower stood by the window, his arms folded.

“Yes,” he said. “And not necessarily for the better.”



The chambers of Dragonstone were colder than usual. The stone walls, once warm with fire and laughter, now echoed only with the uncertain murmurs of a court in decline. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood by the tall, arched window, her silver-blonde hair unbraided, falling over her shoulders like a curtain of silk. Below, the sea hissed against the rocks as if whispering that her time was slipping away.

“My lady,” Maester Gerardys spoke softly, “the raven from the Vale returned this morning.”

Rhaenyra turned, already knowing the answer by the look on the old man’s face.

“They’ve chosen to remain neutral,” he said. “House Arryn will not support either claimant.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes briefly. “Another empty hand. Another closed gate.”

Across the chamber, Ser Harwin Strong looked troubled. “You still have your claim. You are the named heir by King Viserys himself.”

“But what does a claim mean,” she said bitterly, “when my brother holds the capital, the crown, and now… nearly every major house?” She turned back to the window. “The Baratheons have bent the knee. The Starks have sent no ravens. The Tarlys now rule the Reach with his blessing. And the Lannisters—”

“They have not declared yet,” Harwin said quickly. “There’s still time.”

“But time,” Rhaenyra said with a tired smile, “is his ally now, not mine.”

She sat slowly in the high-backed chair carved with dragons, her fingers tracing the armrest absently.

“And Daemon?” she asked, though the words came with a sting of resentment.

Maester Gerardys exchanged glances with Harwin. It was Harwin who spoke. “He will not come.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “He is my uncle.”

“He is also father to Baela, who is now married to the heir of Stormrage,” Harwin reminded her. “And the Stormrage Empire does not wish to be drawn into the politics of Westeros. Daemon knows if he stands with you, it will put his son-in-law in a difficult position.”

“Cowardice wrapped in diplomacy,” she muttered. “He promised me his sword once. Now he gives me excuses.”

There was silence for a long moment.

Then she asked, “What of the Lannisters?”

Maester Gerardys coughed. “We… we received word that King Aemond has proposed a match. His sister, Princess Helaena, to the eldest son of Lord Jason Lannister.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched on the armrests. “So he ties the Crownlands to the Stormlands, the North to the Baratheons, the Reach to the Tarlys, and now aims to bring the West to his side?”

Harwin lowered his voice. “He is moving quickly, Princess. His counsel is sharp. The Hightowers still maneuver behind him. Ser Criston Cole leads his armies. And now that he wears the crown, more and more lords send envoys to King's Landing. They do not wish to be seen supporting a losing cause.”

Rhaenyra stood again, her face pale with fury. “They see me as weak. A woman. They forget I am the dragon’s daughter.”

Gerardys stepped forward carefully. “There is still hope. Not all is lost. Some houses still remain undecided. And there are rumors that your cousin in Dorne—”

“Dorne will not ride for me,” Rhaenyra snapped. “They have no dragons. They keep to their sands and old blood feuds.”

A new voice spoke then, softer and more cunning.

“My princess,” said Mysaria, the White Worm, stepping from the shadows near the door. “You do not need dragons to win. You need create rumers.”

Rhaenyra turned to her with suspicion. “What sort of rumers?”

Mysaria’s dark eyes gleamed. “You know the whispers. About Aemond’s birth. About who truly fathered Princess Helaena’s children. About Queen Alicent and Ser Criston—”

“Rumors,” Rhaenyra said.

“Rumors that I can turn into weapons,” Mysaria said calmly. “If the lords will not ride for your crown, perhaps they will ride to protect their honor, or out of outrage. But only if they believe they are not supporting a righteous king—but a corrupted pretender.”

Rhaenyra looked at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “Do what you must. But make sure it sticks.”

“As you wish, my queen,” Mysaria said, bowing.

As the shadows deepened and torches flickered along the dragon-carved halls, Rhaenyra stared into the fire.

“He thinks he is winning,” she whispered to herself, “but the higher the dragon flies, the harder it falls.”



The raven arrived at dawn, its wings rimed with frost as it landed on the black stone balcony of Maegor’s Holdfast. King Aemond Targaryen stood there alone, his long silver hair stirring in the morning wind. He untied the message from the bird’s leg with gloved fingers and read it by the pale light of the rising sun.

The Lannisters have agreed.
The words were brief, but the meaning behind them was immense.

Aemond exhaled slowly. “Good.”

Behind him, Ser Criston Cole approached, fully armored. “They’ve accepted the proposal, then?”

“They have.” Aemond turned, his violet eye glinting. “Lord Jason’s son will wed my sister Helaena. A lion and a dragon, joined under one banner.”

Criston gave a curt nod. “The Westerlands will ride with us now. That’s four great houses under your crown. The Tyrells’ silence is worth nothing when the Tarlys ride with our blessing.”

“And what of the rumors?” Aemond asked, his tone darkening.

Criston’s mouth tightened. “Whispers, nothing more. The same song, retuned. Mysaria, the White Worm, is behind them, no doubt.”

Aemond snorted. “She plays a tired hand. The moment I exposed Rhaenyra’s children for what they are, her supporters lost their footing. Her own lies now ring hollow.”

He crumpled the message in his hand.

“She expected me to stay quiet. That was her mistake.”

Criston stepped closer. “She still holds Dragonstone.”

“Let her rot there,” Aemond replied coldly. “Even Dragonstone cannot defy the realm forever. And the irony—” he smirked, “—is that she presides over the largest source of dragonglass in the world. She mines it, she sells it. She funds the war she refuses to join.”

Criston raised a brow. “Shall we cut her off?”

Aemond shook his head. “No. The realm needs dragonglass. Let her pretend she’s still a queen, overseeing shipments she can’t afford to stop. Her hands are bound by the same war she won’t admit exists.”

He turned to the table inside the solar, where a sprawling map of Westeros lay pinned beneath carved stones. A set of crimson figurines marked his loyal houses—Stark, Baratheon, Tarly, Lannister. The storm of red was spreading across the map like wildfire.

“My next priority,” Aemond said, tracing a finger northward, “is the Wall.”

“News from Lord Stark?” Criston asked.

“Cregan holds his ground,” Aemond replied. “He leads from Winterfell because of his recent marriage, as expected. And Robert Stormrage has fortified the Frostfangs. They’re preparing for a siege against creatures that do not sleep.”

Criston’s tone became grim. “We’ve already sent soldiers north.”

“Yes, but now we send more,” Aemond said. “And not just men. I’ve spoken to the blacksmiths—we’re turning the old forges of Harrenhal into weapon mills. Dragonglass arrowheads, spear tips, daggers. Whatever it takes.”

He leaned forward. “This war will be remembered not by who sat the Iron Throne—but by who preserved the realm for another day.”

Criston looked at him, then nodded. “I’ll see to the reinforcements.”

Before Criston could leave, another figure entered—Alicent Hightower, Aemond’s mother.

“You’ve received another letter,” she said, handing him the parchment. “From the East. A fleet from Essos is offering aid. Sellswords and mercenaries. Gold in exchange for land.”

Aemond took the letter and read it. His expression darkened. “I’m not selling Westeros to foreigners. Tell them no.”

Alicent frowned. “They may turn to Rhaenyra.”

“Let them. I’d rather fight her armies than watch the realm be carved into pieces by men with no loyalty.”

His mother stepped forward, her voice lowering. “You are a king now, Aemond. You must think of legacy. Of alliances. Of the bloodline.”

Aemond already knew where this was going.

“I am not marrying my sister,” he said firmly.

“She is a dragon,” Alicent said. “And so are you. Marrying her would keep the bloodline pure—”

“The bloodline is weak if it cannot survive beyond itself,” he cut her off. “The realm needs alliances through marriage. My children will have dragon blood, but they will also have Stormlands steel. That is what the realm will remember.”

Alicent looked disappointed, but said nothing.

Aemond walked to the window again, looking northward, toward the distant, invisible threat.

“The Cold Ones are real,” he said quietly. “And they are coming. If I am remembered as anything, I want it to be as the king who fought them… not as the king who sat idle polishing a crown.”