The Stronghammer - CH - 100

Snow fell in thick curtains upon the North, veiling the sky and softening the thud of boots upon the icy ground. But amidst the gloom, a new fire burned within the hearts of men.

The war against the White Walkers had changed—turned on its axis like a wheel gaining sudden momentum—after a single critical discovery: when a White Walker fell, so too did every corpse it commanded.

From the battlements of Hardhome, cheers had risen when the first truth of this revelation struck home. A single arrow, shot from a trembling wildling's bow, grazed the cheek of a tall White Walker standing amidst its deathless horde. For a heartbeat, nothing happened—then, like dominoes collapsing, the dozens of wights around it froze mid-motion and toppled into the snow like broken marionettes.

Word spread like wildfire.

"The key is the master!" cried Eddard Stormrage, standing before the training yard where hundreds of men practiced not with swords or axes—but bows.

"Strike the White Walker, and you win the battle."

Aemond Targaryen stood nearby, a fur-lined cloak wrapped around his tall frame. In his hands, he held a dragonglass-tipped arrow, turning it between gloved fingers.

“They die easily when struck,” he said, eyes scanning the target dummies being used for archery drills. “They shatter like frostbitten ice. It doesn’t even have to be a clean shot. Just… contact.”

Commander Jorak nodded beside him. “We’ve already reforged thousands of arrowheads. The forges burn day and night. The wildlings are helping—never thought I’d say that.”

“Neither did I,” Aemond replied with a faint smirk. “But war makes allies out of enemies.”

In the field beyond the walls of Hardhome, a demonstration was under way. Archers stood in tight formations, bows at the ready. Wooden figures shaped to resemble the tall, slender form of a White Walker were placed amid wight effigies.

“Loose!” came the cry from the drillmaster.

Arrows hissed through the cold air, striking targets with sharp cracks. When the White Walker dummy was struck, the nearby ‘wights’ were knocked over by runners playing the role of collapsing dead, providing a visual simulation of real combat.

“The men are learning fast,” Jorak observed. “And with every victory, they gain confidence. We might just stand a chance, my prince.”

Aemond narrowed his eyes. “No. We will stand a chance. We’ll break their lines, kill their masters, and send them back to whatever frozen hell they came from.”

A grizzled ranger stepped forward. “Prince Aemond,” he said with a salute. “A scouting party just returned from the Ice Flats. They encountered a small force—about three hundred wights—led by two White Walkers. They used the new tactics.”

“And?” Aemond asked.

“ A rain of arrows. Both Walkers went down. Not a single casualty on our side.”

A smile crept across Aemond’s face. “Good. Very good.”

Back within the great hall, where maps were strewn across long tables and commanders gathered in strategy meetings, Emperor Robert Stronghammer pounded his gauntleted fist against the wood.

“We shift everything now,” he declared. “Bows. Arrows. Speed. If you see a White Walker, don’t rush it with a blade—bring it down from afar.”

Lord Cregan Stark, his face still scarred from the retreat from the Frostfangs, nodded. “We’re sending for every hunter and archer from the North. My men are good with a bow, and we’ll fight in the snow like wolves among sheep.”

“Do it,” Robert said. “And I want every boy and girl who can hold a bow trained as well. This isn’t just a soldier’s war—it’s a war for survival.”

As the meeting broke, Cregan turned to Aemond.

“You killed two White Walkers on your own?”

Aemond gave a slow nod. “Didn’t even need to aim for the heart. One took an arrow to the thigh. The other—just a nick on the neck.”

Cregan chuckled darkly. “The old tales never mentioned that. We thought they were unkillable.”

“They still are,” Aemond replied. “Unless we have dragonglass. Without it, we’re cattle in a slaughterhouse.”

Outside, fires roared in the forges. Blacksmiths hammered dragonglass into spearheads and arrowheads. Women shaped shafts and sorted fletchings. The sounds of industry filled Hardhome like a battle drum building to war.

And across the horizon, where the snow fell thickest, the White Walkers stirred.

They had lost battles before—small ones—but they had never lost face.

Now, they knew.

They were being hunted.



The snow beat hard against the walls of Hardhome. Aemond Targaryen stood on the cliffside watchtower, his one eye gazing out over the frozen sea as ships were still docking with supplies. A cold wind lashed against his cloak, but the numbness he felt had little to do with the weather.

A rider had come bearing news. A royal raven from King’s Landing. The words still echoed in his mind like a storm trapped in stone.

King Viserys Targaryen is dead.

His father was gone.

The letter bore more than grief—it carried the sting of ambition. His mother, Alicent, and his grandfather, Otto Hightower, had written it together. The ink was bold. Urgent.

"You must return at once, my son. The throne is yours by right. Your sister too young and timid. Rhaenyra is already gathering support, preparing to declare herself queen. If you do not return now, she will sit the Iron Throne, and you shall have none."


Aemond clutched the letter tighter in his gloved hands, the parchment crumpling.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He turned as Emperor Robert Stronghammer stepped in, brushing snow from his beard.

“You look like a man who’s just heard the world fall out beneath his feet,” Robert said, stepping beside him. “Or are you just trying to freeze yourself to death before the Cold Ones get the chance?”

Aemond didn’t smile. “My father is dead.”

Robert gave a slow, respectful nod. “I’m sorry. He was a good man. A little too obsessed with peace for a world like this—but good.”

“They want me back in King’s Landing,” Aemond said bitterly. “My mother and grandsire. They say I must claim the throne. That Rhaenyra is gathering banners.”

Robert leaned his arms on the cold stone of the battlement, staring into the horizon.

“Let me guess—they told you if you don’t return now, she’ll take the throne?”

“Yes,” Aemond replied. “Exactly that. But... I don’t want to go.” His voice cracked slightly. “There’s a war here, Robert. A war that matters. If we lose this—there is no throne. Just snow and silence.”

Robert didn’t reply immediately. He studied the young prince, measuring his words before he spoke.

“You’re right,” Robert said finally. “This war is greater than anything down south. And here… you’re not a prince. You’re a warrior. Just another man in the snow with a bow, a spear, and enough fire in your blood to hold back the end of the world.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched.

“But you’re also wrong,” Robert continued. “Because you are not just another man. In King’s Landing, you are a king. That means something. To them, to the world, and to the legacy of your house.”

Aemond turned to him. “You think I should leave?”

Robert sighed, then looked him in the eye.

“I think,” he said slowly, “if you don’t return and claim your crown, this war won’t end when the White Walkers fall. You’ll live the rest of your life hunted by your sister’s men. And if she takes the throne, she will never stop until you're dead. Your presence alone is a threat to her.”

Aemond’s hands clenched around the letter. “Then let her try.”

Robert shook his head. “No. That’s pride. You think you can hide, or fight two wars at once? You can’t. But if you take your throne, you’ll have the entire realm behind you. You’ll have armies. Gold. Power. And when this war is done, you’ll be remembered as the king who fought the darkness and won.”

Aemond turned back to the sea, his voice low. “And what if I die on the throne before the White Walkers fall? What if I never come back?”

Robert placed a heavy hand on the prince’s shoulder.

“You won’t die,” he said firmly. “Because I’ll make damn sure you live long enough to return. And when you do, we’ll drink to your crown, and burn the last of those icy bastards to ash.”

Aemond stood there for a long moment, the wind whipping around them.

Finally, he spoke.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “I’ll return to King’s Landing. I’ll claim the throne. But I swear this to you, Robert—when the time comes, and the final battle begins, I’ll be here. With fire in my blood.”

Robert smiled. “I’d expect nothing less.”

They clasped forearms—a soldier’s bond. Then Aemond turned and strode toward the port, where the ship waited.

He would take the crown—but the war in the North would remain his to finish.

And when he returned, he would return as king.



The wind howled endlessly beyond the Wall. It whistled through the narrow passes and beat against the high stone walls of Hardhome like the cry of the dead. Snow swirled in the air as if the very land was mourning something unseen.

Prince Aemond Targaryen had flown south, gone to claim his throne and prepare Westeros for the coming storm. But even as his dragon’s wings vanished into the horizon, the storm in the North continued to build.

More and more northern soldiers arrived each day.

From Last Hearth, Karhold, White Harbor, and Barrowton—they came in hundreds, their banners flapping like ghosts in the snow. The land beyond the Wall, once a place of myth and exile, now became the frontline of a war no bard had ever sung.

And they came not for glory—but because Lord Cregan Stark had called them.

Robert Stronghammer watched the northern encampment swell from atop the walls of Hardhome. His great fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders as he held a parchment in his gloved hands. A letter. Not one from the North—but one he himself had written.

He turned to his aide and grunted, “Send it. With my seal.”

The aide bowed and took the letter. It was addressed to Boris Baratheon, his younger brother, and it bore the sigil of Stormrage.

Robert didn’t like meddling in another Lord’s affairs—but this wasn’t just about houses or honor anymore. This was about survival.

Later that evening, in the command hall, Robert summoned Lord Cregan Stark.

Cregan entered with the calm authority of Winterfell. His armor was worn but immaculate, his Valyrian steel sword, Ice, strapped to his back like a reminder of who he was. The scar across his jaw had not yet faded from his recent battle—but his eyes burned brighter than ever.

“You sent for me?” Cregan asked, stepping forward.

Robert nodded and gestured toward the chair across the war table. “Sit, Lord Stark.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“As you wish.”

Robert folded his arms. “You’ve done more than any man could ask. You rallied your bannermen, bled for your people, and stood against the Cold Ones when most still called them fairy tales.”

Cregan raised a brow. “And?”

Robert paused, then said plainly, “It’s time for you to go.”

The silence that followed was as cold as the ice outside.

Cregan stared. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Robert replied. “You’re the last of your line, Cregan. You’ve no heirs, no children, and your betrothal to Cassandra is yet unfulfilled. You need to go back to Winterfell, marry, and secure your house’s future.”

Cregan’s jaw clenched. “And leave this war?”

Robert stepped forward. “A lord can be brave, but he must also be wise. If you die here, Stark ends with you. And that’s a price I won’t pay.”

“You’re not my King.”

“I know that,” Robert said without offense. “I’ve no command over you, and I won’t pretend I do. But I’m asking you, not as Emperor, but as a man who’s seen too many friends die before their time—leave, Cregan. For now. Wed Cassandra. Have children. Then come back to the fight.”

Cregan’s eyes dropped to the table, where a map of the land beyond the Wall was spread with pins and marks of blood. He placed his hand on the North, just above Winterfell.

“I’ve spent my life hearing about duty,” he murmured. “And I thought mine would end in the snow, with a sword in hand. Like my father. My grandfather. All the way back to the First Men.”

Robert nodded. “Maybe it still will. But not today.”

Cregan was silent for a long time. Then, with a heavy breath, he said, “Very well. But I’ll not go empty-handed.”

He reached into his cloak and placed a sealed letter on the table.

“I’ve already written orders. One thousand northern men will stay here under my banner. And I’ve spoken with the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch—they’ve agreed to join the war effort. Their oaths may bar them from the politics of the realm, but not from defending the realm itself.”

Robert’s expression softened. “You’ve done more than enough.”

Cregan gave a grim smile. “Don’t think I’m fleeing. I’m preparing. When I return, I’ll bring the fury of Winterfell with me.”

Robert offered his hand.

“When you return, I’ll be here,” Robert said. “Still standing. Still waiting. We’ll finish this together.”

Cregan clasped his hand firmly.

And then, as snow fell gently on the battered stones of Hardhome, Lord Stark turned away from war—for now—and began his journey south. To wed. To build a future.

So that when the final war came, the name Stark would still be there to fight it.