The Stronghammer - CH - 101

The northern wind screamed over the frostbitten hills, carrying with it the bitter memory of death. The Land Beyond the Wall, once a place of raw wilderness, now stood as a graveyard for clans, kin, and children alike. The Cold Ones had claimed valleys, torched hope, and chased proud warriors into the snow with nothing but fear and fury.

But the world was changing.

Word spread like wildfire among the Wildling clans—that the kneelers from beyond the Wall, the so-called Stormrage Empire, had found a way to kill the White Walkers. Not wound. Not delay. Kill.

And suddenly, the same wind that once howled with grief carried whispers of vengeance.

The first to come were the Thenns.

A warband of proud fighters, born in the shadow of the Icefang Valley. They had lost their valley weeks ago, their chieftain burned alive when the fire in his hall was snuffed out like a candle, and the Cold Ones claimed half their tribe. Fathers. Mothers. Children.

Now only vengeance remained.

The gates of Hardhome creaked open as the Thenns approached.

Their leader, a broad-shouldered warrior with hair like iron and eyes like ash, stepped forward. He wore a bear’s skull on his shoulder and spoke in a guttural Northern dialect. “I am Rolf of the Thenn. My people fled when the Cold Ones came. We do not flee anymore.”

Robert Stronghammer stood at the top of the stone steps, the black fur of his cloak flapping around him. His Warhammer, glinting with embedded dragonglass, rested in his grip.

He eyed Rolf and the hundred wildlings behind him—hardened, scarred, and starving.

Robert descended the steps slowly.

“You want revenge,” Robert said.

Rolf bared his teeth. “I want justice. I want to rip the Cold Ones apart and feed their bones to the frost wolves.”

Robert grunted, nodding.

“Then you’ll have food. You’ll have spears tipped with dragonglass. And you’ll have a place among my warriors.” He paused, looking over the crowd. “Fight with me, and when this is over, your children will grow in a world not frozen in fear.”

The wildlings murmured, uncertain.

Thorfin, one of domestic wildling turned to them. “This man speaks true. I saw with my own eyes—one touch of the black glass, and the Cold One shattered like a river stone beneath a bear’s paw.”

Cries of approval erupted from the wildlings.

Robert gestured toward the quartermaster. “Feed them. Arm them. And tell the smiths—anyone from Thenn who wants to learn how to make speartips, they can start tonight.”

As the Thenn were brought into the camp, given food and warm furs, Robert looked out from the walls once more. Beyond the horizon, he saw other fires beginning to glow. Other warbands. Other clans.

And they were coming.

Day by day, the clans arrived.

From the Bone Cliffs came the Elk Runners. From the Whitetree forest, the Ghost Skins arrived bearing totems carved in blood. Even the Cannibals, mad and fierce, marched from the far north, grim-faced and grim-armed, drawn by the promise of vengeance.

Each clan brought their own hatred. Their own stories of the Cold Ones.

And Robert welcomed them all.

Soon, a new army was formed—not just soldiers of Stormrage, but wildlings and exiles, raiders and hunters. Men who had once fought each other now stood shoulder to shoulder with a common purpose.

At a council fire one night, Rolf sat beside Robert, chewing roasted elk meat.

“You’ve done what no man south of the Wall could,” Rolf said. “You got the clans to kneel.”

Robert smirked. “They haven’t knelt. They’ve stood. That’s all I asked.”

“Not all of us are ready to stand,” Rolf muttered. “Some still hide in caves, praying to ice gods. Some think the Cold Ones are too strong.”

“They’re not,” Robert said, tossing a piece of charred wood into the flames. “They’re clever, aye. And powerful. But they made a mistake.”

Rolf raised an eyebrow. “What mistake?”

“They rushed.”

Robert leaned forward, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes.

“They wanted a dragon. They saw Cannibal and thought they could claim him. But their greed cost them surprise. Now the world knows they're coming.”

At that, another voice joined them—Commander Jorak of the Stormrage army.

“We’ve sent scouts into the northern passes. The White Walkers have gone quiet. They’re regrouping. They know they can't charge through fire and black glass anymore.”

“They’ll wait,” Robert murmured. “Wait for weakness.”

“Will we give it to them?” Rolf asked.

Robert stood, tightening the black wolf-cloak over his shoulders.

“No. We’ll give them war.”

He turned toward the central yard where smiths hammered dragonglass into arrowheads and spearpoints, where young wildlings practiced with borrowed spears, and Stormrage veterans showed Thenn warriors how to march in formation.

As the smoke of the forges curled into the night, a new army was being born.

Not of one nation. Not of one house.

But of the living.

Together, they would fight to bring the dawn.



Commanding wildlings was proving far more difficult than Robert Stronghammer had anticipated. Convincing them to fight was the easy part—vengeance and fury made loyal soldiers of them. But when it came to giving up command, to submitting their warriors to orders from another clan—or worse, a kneeler—the old pride and feuds returned like stubborn frost.

Around every war table, voices clashed.

"I'll not take orders from a Bearclaw," one chieftain snarled. "They burned my uncle’s tent with his children inside."

"And I won’t follow a Ghost Skin who once raided my people during a famine," another shouted.

Robert rubbed his temples, jaw tight as he watched the leaders bicker like children. He understood their grievances. He understood their rage. But he also understood something they didn’t—this war would not be won in fractured groups. Not against the White Walkers.

In a rare moment of silence, he stood from his seat, slamming the butt of his Warhammer against the table. The room hushed.

"You all hate each other," he said, voice low and cold as the winds beyond the wall. "And yet, you're all here. You came because your kin burned. Because your children froze in the arms of their mothers. You came to avenge the dead. So tell me—will you let your pride raise the next army of corpses for the Cold Ones?"

The silence lingered. And then slowly, begrudgingly, they nodded.



From Hardhome, Robert began to execute his plan. No longer would they remain in a single place, waiting to be surrounded. They would expand, inch by inch, and turn the frozen wilderness into a line of defenses.

Every territory they reclaimed from the snow was marked. Men built strongholds from timber and frozen earth—simple, practical fortresses fortified with dragonglass. They weren’t castles, but they didn’t need to be. They only needed to hold until reinforcements arrived.

The march was slow.

They advanced under storms and bitter winds, securing ground at a crawl. Each stronghold was manned by mixed troops—Stormrage veterans, wildlings, even a few Night's Watch defectors who had joined the cause. Bows tipped with dragonglass hung at every gate. Fires never ceased.

For months, the White Walkers remained elusive. They had fled deeper north, beyond even the reach of the wildlings—into the Lands of Always Winter.

From time to time, scouts returned with signs of their presence—slain animals frozen upright, or worse, human shapes buried under the snow with glowing blue eyes. These were dealt with swiftly, and the lessons were recorded.

Eventually, Robert moved the command center. Hardhome had served them well, but the time had come to push further.

Their new headquarters was the Frostfangs—a jagged mountain range scarred by centuries of blizzards and hidden paths. At the peak of the passable cliffs, they built a new fortification—a bastion of fire and stone, crowned by black banners bearing the sigil of House Stronghammer.

And from there, they waited.

The White Walkers didn’t need rest. They didn’t eat. They didn’t tire. But men did. Even with three layers of fur, even with roaring fires in every hall, Robert still felt the bite of the wind.

He stood at the edge of the mountain’s overlook, frost clinging to his beard.

Behind him, the army rested. Before him, endless white.

"They’re waiting for us to break," said Jorak, stepping beside him.

Robert didn’t look away from the distant horizon. "Let them wait."

And he tightened his grip on the Warhammer.

Because when the White Walkers returned—he would be ready.



Snow lashed the Frostfang stronghold like claws of the wind gods, and even the thick log walls could not keep out the creeping cold that sank into bone. Inside the command tent, heated by enchanted stones imported from Dragonstone, Emperor Robert Stronghammer stood hunched over a massive map of the Land Beyond the Wall. His jaw was clenched, his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness, and his warhammer rested beside the table, crusted with the blood and ice of countless skirmishes.

Across from him stood Commander Jorak, Lord Marcus of Stormrage, Maester Karlon, and a handful of seasoned wildling chieftains. The silence was brittle—everyone sensed something heavy was about to be spoken.

Robert straightened, his voice low but resolute. “We can’t wait any longer.”

Lord Marcus raised a brow. “You’d have us march into the Land of Always Winter? With half-starved men and steel that freezes in our hands?”

“No,” Robert said, shaking his head. “We won’t march. We will draw them out.”

Maester Karlon’s quill paused mid-scroll. “Draw them out? With what, Your Grace?”

Robert turned to the window of the tent and stared into the swirling storm. “A dragon.”

Jorak’s face twisted. “You mean Cannibal.”

Every man in the room stilled. Even the wildlings exchanged nervous glances. The Cannibal was a legend in these parts—older than any other dragon, a monster of scale and flame, who had no rider save one: Robert Stronghammer. He had tamed the beast not with whip or chain, but with unyielding will. Their bond was said to run deeper than blood.

“They want him,” Robert said. “The Cold Ones. Their master... he desires fire. A dragon is the only thing that can breach the Wall. That’s why they came south. That’s why they’ve waited.”

“But if they take him,” Marcus murmured, “we’re doomed. A wight dragon could melt our walls and burn our cities. All our sacrifices would mean nothing.”

“I know,” Robert said. His voice broke with the weight of what he was saying. “And that’s why we control the bait.”

He picked up a silver circlet from the table—a beacon stone bound with fire magic. “Cannibal is in Skagos. Resting. Waiting. I can call him here with this. And he will come, because he trusts me.”

Jorak crossed his arms. “So we send him into the sky and hope the Cold Ones come running?”

“No,” Robert said. “We’ll send him alone, flying low across their lands. Tempting. Vulnerable. Then we’ll watch. We’ll trace them back to wherever they’re hiding.”

“You want to find the Night King,” Thren said softly.

Robert nodded. “We’ve killed enough of their lieutenants. But the source—the source remains. He hides in the ice, untouched. We need to know where he is. If we end him, the war is done.”

Boris looked uncertain. “And what if Cannibal is lost? What if we lose the one advantage we have?”

“I won’t let that happen,” Robert said. His eyes darkened. “If Cannibal is captured, I will ride into the heart of winter myself and rip the Night King apart with my bare hands.”

Silence followed his words.

Then one of the wildling chieftains—Throg of the Ten—grunted. “Fire for blood, aye. I say we let the beast fly. The Cold Ones took my daughters. My clansmen will ride through the blizzard for this.”

Robert nodded. “Good. Then we make preparations.”

He stepped away from the table and walked out into the cold. The wind howled like wolves in mourning, but he didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes and reached into the bond that linked him to Cannibal, far away in the jagged mountains of Skagos.

“Come to me,” he whispered in his mind.

Far to the east, a black shape stirred among the cliffs, great leathery wings unfurling against the grey sky. Amber eyes opened. And with a deep, rumbling growl, Cannibal rose into the storm.

The bait had been set.