The Stronghammer - CH - 102

The roar of a dragon echoed through the skies of King's Landing as Prince Aemond Targaryen—called Aemond the Young by some—descended on the city atop his majestic beast, Vermithor. The streets were filled with murmurs and tension. News had spread quickly: King Viserys was dead. His crown left behind no clear, unchallenged heir.

Though Rhaenyra Targaryen had already begun declaring herself Queen from Dragonstone, the capital had held its breath, waiting. Waiting for the man who had been fighting the cold ones beyond the Wall. Waiting for the Prince who had returned from the Land beyond the wall bearing scars of frost and stories of walking corpses. Waiting for Aemond.

Vermithor landed on the dragonpit terrace with a blast of wind and embers. His bronze scales shimmered like gold, and his green-gold eyes surveyed the capital with the calm menace of a predator. Aemond leapt down, wearing a silver breastplate engraved with the sigil of House Targaryen and the new mark of Stormrage carved across his black cloak.

Waiting at the steps was Ser Garth Hightower, flanked by the Queen Mother Alicent and her father, Lord Otto.

“You came,” Alicent whispered, voice tight with emotion.

Aemond bowed to her. “Of course I did. I would not let the vultures pluck at my father’s bones while I still drew breath.”

Otto Hightower offered a measured nod. “You are the King’s son. The realm will remember that. But you must move quickly. Rhaenyra sends ravens daily. Lords are beginning to whisper.”

Aemond’s voice was calm, cold as the snow he left behind. “Let them whisper. I have returned—not from the Reach, not from Oldtown, but from the end of the world. I’ve stared at death made flesh. If any lord doubts my claim, they can come say it to my face.”

Alicent stepped closer, lowering her voice. “We held the city for you. But the truth is, many were ready to give it to her. You must be crowned, and you must be crowned today.”


The Sept of Baelor rang with the tolling of ancient bells. A crowd had gathered—the commonfolk, the nobles, the undecided, and those watching for signs of power. Inside, beneath the towering statues of the Seven, Aemond Targaryen knelt in silence.

The High Septon approached, holding the crown of his father—wrought of valyrian steel, studded with rubies.

“Do you, Aemond of House Targaryen, swear before the Seven that you shall uphold the peace of the realm and defend the realm against all enemies?”

“I do.”

“And do you swear to honor the memory of King Viserys, and rule with wisdom and strength, for the good of the realm?”

“I swear it.”

“Then rise, Aemond Targaryen—first of your name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm.”

The crown was placed upon his brow, and the Sept thundered with cheers from some, hesitant applause from others, and stony silence from the few remaining loyalists of Rhaenyra.

Aemond turned to the crowd, his voice projecting with practiced certainty.

“I did not come to this crown as a boy dreaming of power. I came from the edge of the world, where winter does not sleep and the dead do not rest. I have seen what comes for us if we remain divided.”

He paused, scanning the gathered lords.

“Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks the crown, but she has ruled nothing. Her sons are born of Velaryon blood by name only. The Seven Kingdoms deserve truth, strength, and a king who has stood on the front lines—not in a tower waiting for the world to hand her a throne.”

The murmurs began again—but this time, they leaned in his favor.

After the coronation, back in the Red Keep, Aemond stood before a small council of supporters—Lords from the Vale, the Crownlands, and the Stromlands, who had declared for him following the ceremony. They discussed strategy, dragons, and preparation for the inevitable challenge from Rhaenyra.

One older lord from the Vale frowned. “She still has more dragons than you, Your Grace. Her sons ride, and Syrax obeys her.”

Aemond shrugged off his cloak. “Numbers mean little when loyalty is uncertain. I have Vermithor. And I have something she does not.”

“What’s that, Your Grace?” asked a younger knight.

“Experience,” Aemond said, stepping toward the war table. “She has ruled nothing, led no men, commanded no armies. I governed Lorath. I fed its people, built its fleets, trained its armies. My father sent me away not to hide me—but to forge me.”

“And now you are King,” Alicent said softly from the corner, eyes bright with pride.

Aemond turned, meeting her gaze. “No, Mother. Not yet. Not while Rhaenyra still call herself Queen. Not until every kingdom kneels or burns.”



The throne room of the Red Keep was unusually quiet that morning.

King Aemond Targaryen stood at the top of the Iron Throne’s steps, watching the large oak doors swing open as the herald called out:
“Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, and Lord Borris Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End!”

Two lords entered side by side, their retinues following behind in disciplined order. Beside Cregan Stark walked a young woman, proud and poised—Cassandra Baratheon, now his wife.

The tall Northerner bore the solemn presence of ice and shadow, wrapped in a black fur cloak with the direwolf stitched in silver. Lord Borris, by contrast, marched like a hammer through snow, his stag-emblazoned mantle billowing with every step, and his armor clinking with purpose.

As they reached the foot of the throne, Cregan stepped forward and knelt first.

“My sword is sworn to you, King Aemond,” he said clearly. “I, Cregan Stark of Winterfell, bend the knee.”

Borris followed, kneeling with a thud of steel. “The Stormlands stand with you, Your Grace. I’ve brought two thousand men with me. Should the Princess try anything foolish, she’ll find Storm’s End at your side.”

Aemond descended the steps, regal in deep crimson and black, his sword Wrathfire at his side and his crown set firmly on his brow.

He stepped before Cregan and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Rise, my friend,” Aemond said with a rare warmth. “You bent the knee before me when we were brothers in war. I’ve not forgotten the blood we spilled together.”

Cregan rose, nodding. “Nor have I. But I must speak plainly, Your Grace.”

Aemond’s expression sobered. “Then speak.”

Cregan glanced at Borris, then turned to Aemond, his words heavy.
“I can swear my loyalty. I can bring you the support of Winterfell, in name. But I cannot fight in your war. The North is at war already—not with dragons, but with death itself. The Cold Ones still rise beyond the Wall. And while the South argues over thrones, my people freeze in their halls and bury their kin beneath snow.”

A long silence fell. The court murmured, eyes darting between the young king and the lord of Winterfell.

Borris gave a snort. “We all have problems. This war decides who sits on the throne. The future of the realm—”

“The future of the realm will mean nothing when all your daughters are ice statues,” Cregan said, his voice like breaking stone.

Aemond raised a hand. The murmurs fell silent.

“I understand,” he said at last, voice quiet. “Better than anyone here.”

He stepped closer to Cregan, looking into his eyes.

“I also fought beyond the Wall. I saw what waits for us in the cold. I know the truth. And I won’t demand the North’s strength now—not when you’re holding back the night itself.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “I’ll win this war. You protect our people from what’s worse. That’s how we both serve the realm.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but his gaze softened. “Thank you, Aemond. Not every man would understand. And not every king.”

Behind them, Cassandra Baratheon stepped forward, offering Aemond a deep curtsy. “Your Grace,” she said sweetly, “my house wishes you victory. And I hope my presence will remind you that peace can yet be forged between fire and frost.”

Aemond gave her a slight smile. “You’ve married a wolf and tamed him. I see no limits to your power.”

Borris barked a laugh. “Aye, and she nags like one too.”

The laughter that followed broke the tension in the hall.

Later, in the council chamber, Aemond stood at the war table with Lord Borris.

“You’ll stay in the capital?” Aemond asked.

Borris nodded. “Aye. We’ve fortified the southern roads, and I brought enough food for a siege, if it comes to that. And if that girl Rhaenyra dares take a step near King’s Landing, we’ll give her a storm to remember.”

Aemond looked to the northern horizon beyond the window.

“And if the storm comes from the other side of the world,” he said quietly, “then may the gods have mercy on us all.”



The raven arrived at dawn, its black wings flecked with frost, a small scroll tied with green silk bearing the seal of House Tyrell. Aemond Targaryen broke the wax with narrowed eyes, unrolling the parchment in silence. The words were brief, polite, and frustratingly clear.

“House Tyrell regrets to inform His Grace that it shall remain neutral in the present conflict. We wish peace and stability in the realm and pray for swift resolution.”

Aemond crushed the parchment in his fist.

“They forget who gave them their titles,” he muttered.

The chamber was quiet except for the crackling of the fire and the low voice of Maester Orwel, who had just entered. “Another letter, Your Grace?”

Aemond turned to him, his voice tight. “That makes two. I sent them my seal. I gave them a chance. House Tyrell hides behind flowers and pleasantries, but I see the thorns they conceal. Growing strong, they say. But I will remind them who planted them.”

He walked to the window, where Vermithor rested atop the Dragonpit. “If they are not with me… then they are against me.”


Three days later, the skies above the Reach darkened with a familiar terror: Vermithor’s massive wings eclipsed the sun, her roar echoing through the fields and forests. The banners of House Tarly flew proudly above Horn Hill, and the castle garrison quickly opened the gates as the dragon landed in a swirl of dust and shrieking wind.

Lord Alan Tarly waited in the courtyard, flanked by armored retainers. Unlike many southern lords, Alan Tarly was not a man of silks and smiles. His jaw was square, his eyes sharp, and his voice firm.

He bowed low as Aemond dismounted. “Your Grace,” he said, “Horn Hill welcomes you.”

Aemond descended with practiced grace, his silver hair swept by the wind, his hand resting on the hilt of Wrathfire. “Lord Tarly,” he said coolly. “You are a man of honor and backbone. That’s rare in the Reach.”

“I speak my mind, Your Grace,” Alan said. “Even when it is unwelcome.”

Aemond’s lips twitched. “Good. I have no time for diplomacy.”

They entered the Great Hall of Horn Hill, banners swaying as retainers closed the doors behind them.

“House Tyrell has chosen neutrality,” Aemond began. “They dare abstain from a war that will decide the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. But neutrality in the face of treason is cowardice. It was my family who placed the Tyrells above all others, after the Gardener line was extinguished. A steward family, gifted with a crown it did not earn.”

Tarly did not interrupt. He poured wine into a cup and offered it to Aemond, who waved it away.

“They claim Highgarden, but a castle does not make a Lord Paramount,” Aemond continued. “The crown does. And I am the crown.”

Lord Tarly set the cup down gently. “What would you have of me, Your Grace?”

“I offer you what the Tyrells have squandered,” Aemond said. “I name House Tarly the new Lord Paramount of the Reach. If you swear fealty and support my claim, I will make it official. Highgarden is a symbol. One that can be taken with time. But the loyalty of your house and the strength of your arms will shift the Reach itself.”

Lord Tarly was quiet, his fingers steepled. “This will spark civil war in the Reach.”

“It already has,” Aemond said flatly. “I won’t waste my time storming castles when I can burn them to ash. But I would rather win loyalty than incinerate it.”

Alan Tarly rose and knelt. “Then hear me now, King Aemond of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. House Tarly bends the knee and swears fealty to you. The Reach deserves a ruler of strength, not flowers.”


Within a week, letters bearing Aemond’s seal and Lord Tarly’s new title were dispatched across the Reach.

“Let it be known: The title of Lord Paramount of the Reach now rests with House Tarly of Horn Hill. Any loyal house of the Reach who supports this change shall be recognized and rewarded by the Crown.”

Some scoffed. Some hesitated. But many remembered their pride, their scorn for the Tyrells’ humble origins, and the insult of neutrality during crisis. Slowly, houses like Peake, Mullendore, and Florent began sending messages of support to Horn Hill.

The gardener’s flowers were beginning to wither.