The Stronghammer - CH - 99

The wind howled over the jagged cliffs of Hardhome, carrying with it the scent of salt, snow, and smoke. Beneath the grey sky, the once-abandoned settlement now throbbed with life, activity, and purpose. The first shipment of dragonglass had arrived from Dragonstone only three days prior, and already the forges had been lit, the anvils rung like bells of war, and the blacksmiths of Stormrage had begun shaping the volcanic glass into weapons that could kill death itself.

Robert Stronghammer stood at the edge of the central courtyard, watching with folded arms as men toiled beside glowing furnaces. The black shards of obsidian shimmered in the firelight like captured night. Each weapon—each spearhead, dagger, and arrow tip—was a talisman of survival. A spear was cheap to produce, easy to wield, and the perfect weapon against the Cold Ones. That had been the Emperor’s decree, and now spears were stacked in piles, waiting to be handed out to soldiers and wildlings alike.

“More spears, less axes,” Robert said, turning to the smithy overseer. “They’re not here for duels. They need to keep the monsters at bay.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” the blacksmith bowed, sweat streaking through the soot on his brow. “We’ll double the next batch. The mold’s been holding.”

As Robert walked through the camp, wildling children scattered before him, some stopping to stare at the massive Warhammer strapped across his back, others peeking from behind their mothers’ cloaks. It was an odd sight—wildlings and Southerners working side by side. The clans of the north had come down from their crags and caves not with weapons raised but with outstretched hands, asking for protection, for fire, for steel.

And they were met not with spears, but with food, blankets, and dragonglass.

In a clearing beside the main fortification, Aemond Targaryen oversaw a group of wildling warriors being taught how to fight in a formation. He stood tall in his polished armor, silver hair fluttering in the wind. His voice was firm, instructive.

“Don’t throw your spear unless you know it will kill,” he warned the group, demonstrating a quick jab. “You only get one shot. If you miss, you die. Hold the line. Stay together. Watch each other’s backs.”

One of the wildlings, a scar-faced man named Harkan, sneered. “We don’t need formations. We’ve been fighting in the mountains all our lives.”

“And how many of you are still alive from the Frostfangs?” Aemond asked coldly.

Harkan’s lips twitched, but he said nothing more. The rest of the wildlings fell quiet and followed the drills.

A distant horn blew across the frozen coast.

“Ships on the horizon!” a watchman shouted from the ramparts.

Robert and Aemond both turned to look. Black sails crested the snowy mist, and moments later, the banners of Stormrage unfurled proudly from the masts. Dozens of soldiers in gleaming black-and-bronze armor stepped off onto the shore, weapons strapped to their backs, laughter and determination in their voices.

“They’ve come,” Aemond said, a faint smile on his lips. “The Empire still answers.”

When the new troops gathered in the courtyard, one of their commanders approached Robert, dropping to one knee.

“Your Grace. We bring you over eight hundred spearmen and twenty wagons of dragonglass from the Spine Mountains.”

Robert helped the man to his feet. “Welcome to Hardhome. You’ll be remembered for what you do here—not in ink or stone, but in fire and blood.”

One of the young soldiers, barely a man, stepped forward. “Is it true, your grace? That you slew two of the White Walkers with your own hands?”

Robert studied him, then smiled faintly. “Aye. But I don’t intend to stop there.”

A murmur rippled through the ranks. Excitement. Awe. Determination.

As the sun dipped behind the clouds and the firepits blazed across Hardhome, men and women from every corner of Westeros—lords, bastards, wildlings, and commoners—stood shoulder to shoulder, armed with the black glass of the earth’s fury, ready to defend life itself.

Robert Stronghammer stood atop the wall of the fort and raised his hammer high.

“This is not just a war against the dead,” he called, voice thundering across the cliffs. “This is the war that will echo for a thousand years. Let them say we stood. Let them say we fought. Let them say we were the storm that defied the frost!”

The cheers that followed shook the earth.

And in the far distance, beyond the range of human sight, the Cold Ones stirred.




The wind bit through cloak and mail as Lord Cregan Stark rode down the icy trail from the Frostfangs. His horse struggled against the snowdrifts, nostrils flaring with every breath. Behind him, what remained of his company limped, bloodied, weary, and broken in numbers. Where once two hundred Northern warriors had marched with pride into the white wilderness, now fewer than seventy trudged behind him—haunted, hollow-eyed, and silent.

They had faced something beyond steel and valor. They had seen death walk on frostbitten feet. They had fought, bled, and buried kin whose eyes now glowed blue in memory.

Cregan did not look back.

The sky above was gray, heavy with snow. His breath misted before him, but his jaw was clenched, his thoughts burning hotter than any hearth.

"We ride for Castle Black!" he had roared when they emerged from the ambush days ago, riding like madmen to escape the Cold Ones who had massacred them inside the Stark Colony’s gates.

Now, as the black walls of the ancient stronghold came into view on the horizon, Cregan felt a bitter weight settle over his chest.

The Night’s Watch had warned him, in part. The Stormrage men too. He hadn’t listened.

Inside the courtyard of Castle Black, the survivors were greeted with alarm and shock. Rangers and stewards rushed to help the wounded, but there were too few hands, too little medicine. The Lord Commander met Cregan personally at the gates, but the grief in his eyes made it clear: he had not expected so few to return.

“We will send ravens,” the old commander promised. “To every holdfast in the North.”

Cregan nodded, his eyes dark. “Send them under my seal. Tell them Winterfell calls.”

That same night, as snow fell gently upon the towers, a dozen ravens were released into the sky—each bearing a message of urgency and dread. The House Stark sigil sealed each scroll with wax, and on every message the words were simple:

“To all bannermen of the North—rally to the cause. The dead march. Winterfell calls.”

But Cregan did not stay to wait for answers.

The next morning, he left Castle Black behind and turned his horse eastward—toward Hardhome. His men followed him with quiet resolve. Though some had wounds, they would ride still. They would not leave their lord alone on this new front. They too had seen the sapphire eyes. They had fought things that bled no blood.

As they rode across the frozen wilds, Cregan clenched the reins tightly. They will need weapons, he thought. Not steel, not fire—but dragonglass.

Word had spread that the Stormrage colony was forging such weapons in Hardhome. The black stone of the earth’s fury, made sharp by the breath of dragons. Cregan Stark had dismissed the rumors once—but no more. He would forge an alliance with Stormrage. Not for politics. Not for gold.

But because it was the only chance the living had.

They reached the cliffs overlooking Hardhome on the third day of travel. Smoke rose in thick columns from the great forges, and men swarmed the ramparts like ants preparing for war. Ships came and went from the docks below, carrying supplies and soldiers.

The banners of Stormrage fluttered in the wind—black and bronze, forged with the crest of the hammer and the flame.

Cregan Stark dismounted and approached the gates with what men he had left. A Stormrage soldier stepped forward.

“State your name and purpose.”

“I am Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I come not for titles. I come for survival. Let me see the Emperor.”

The guard’s eyes widened. “Yes, my lord. You are expected.”

Within moments, Cregan was escorted through the fortified camp and into the war hall, where Robert Stronghammer himself stood beside a large table covered in maps and reports. The Emperor looked up as the Stark lord entered, and the two men studied each other in silence.

Then Robert spoke. “I heard what happened in your colony.”

Cregan nodded. “We were fools. I was a fool.”

“No. Just late.”

Robert gestured to a seat. “Sit, Lord Stark. You have arrived at the right hour. The hour of war.”

Cregan sat, but his eyes remained fixed on the table. “I sent ravens. The North will come. But I don’t know how many will believe me.”

“They’ll believe once they see what’s coming,” Robert said grimly. “You’re not the only one who dismissed the stories of Cold Ones. I did too. Now I forge hammers out of dragonglass.”

Cregan nodded. “We’ll need those weapons.”

“You’ll have them. And men to wield them.”

Cregan looked up. “Then let us stand together. Stormrage and Winterfell. Fire and frost.”

Robert Stronghammer extended his hand.

“We already do.”

Their hands clasped in the dim light of the forge-lit hall, and the fire crackled in the hearth behind them.



The wind howled through the tall towers of the Red Keep, carrying the scent of the sea and something colder—something unseen. Within the king’s solar, the hearth blazed, but King Viserys Targaryen felt no warmth. His trembling hands held the parchment once more, eyes rereading the letter written in Aemond’s unmistakable script.

"Father,
The rumors are true. The Cold Ones—the White Walkers of ancient memory—have returned. The Stormrage Empire and House Stark are preparing for a war unlike any Westeros has ever known. I request support—troops, supplies, weapons. What we face beyond the Wall is no fable, no tale told by nurses in candlelight. It is death itself. I write this not only as your son… but as a Targaryen and as a defender of men."


Viserys exhaled and set the letter down, his brow heavy with worry. He leaned back into his cushioned chair, the crown on his head weighing heavier than it ever had. The candlelight flickered across his tired face as he glanced toward the window. The city still bustled below—gold cloaks patrolling, merchants calling out their wares, life continuing as though the end of the world weren’t approaching from the frozen north.

“How do I rule when I no longer know what is real?” he whispered to himself.

The knock at the door stirred him.

“Enter,” he called softly.

Ser Otto Hightower stepped in, his expression composed, though he had already seen the letter. The Hand of the King approached with a mixture of concern and duty.

“You’ve read it again?” Otto asked.

Viserys nodded. “Twice. And it’s the same each time. My son believes what he writes.”

“Belief is not truth,” Otto replied carefully. “Even wise men can fall to madness… or fear. The Wall has always inspired strange stories. And the Stormrage Emperor—Stronghammer—he is known for bold, theatrical declarations.”

“Bold? Yes,” Viserys murmured, “but not a fool. And Aemond has never written to me in such a tone before. He isn’t seeking glory—he’s pleading for help.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And yet if we spread this message across the realm, Your Grace… you risk being called mad. Already, lords whisper of your health. They wait for a sign—any sign—to challenge your rule.”

“I have ruled long enough to know that lords always whisper,” Viserys said sharply. “But Aemond… he has done everything I once feared he wouldn’t. He built that colony beyond the Wall. He mastered Vermithor. And now he asks for aid not for himself, but for the realm. Would I be a father or a king if I turned away?”

Silence fell between them.

“I will send the ravens,” Viserys said at last. “Let every lord of the Seven Kingdoms know that their king calls upon them for aid. Let them laugh, let them scoff—but let them also know that when the world ends, I did not sit idly on this cursed throne.”

Otto bowed, hesitating only a moment. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The next day, hundreds of ravens were dispatched from the rookery of the Red Keep, their black wings carrying the weight of dread. The letters were brief and formal, bearing the royal seal.

“To all Lords of Westeros—
The King has been made aware of a rising threat beyond the Wall. The White Walkers, creatures of legend and death, have returned. The Stormrage Empire and House Stark have witnessed their return and prepare for war. I call upon your banners to send men, weapons, and aid to Hardhome, where humanity makes its stand.
—Viserys I Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”


The response came swiftly… and with venom.

From the Reach, Lord Tyrell’s reply was wrapped in sweet words and sarcasm, questioning whether the king had taken to drinking wildfire. From the Westerlands, Lord Lannister’s note was blunt: “The Wall holds. It always has. We do not send our gold to chase children’s stories.” In the Vale, Lord Arryn’s letter came half a moon late and offered prayers, not men.

Only a few houses replied with action.

House Celtigar, old allies of Valyria, pledged two ships of soldiers and dragonglass from their hidden reserves. The Hightowers, bound to the king through Alicent, reluctantly offered coin. The Blackwoods of Raventree Hall sent a hundred archers, claiming their blood remembered the cold tales from before the Doom.

And still, Viserys waited.

“I am old,” he told Alicent one night, as she sat beside his bed. “But not so old that I cannot see what must be done. If Aemond dies out there, I will have failed him. Failed us all.”

Alicent took his hand in hers and whispered, “Then let us not fail him. We will send what we can. The rest… must be decided by the gods.”

And so the royal ships bearing the Targaryen sigil departed from Blackwater Bay, headed north with precious cargo: armor, gold, dragonglass, and men. Men who did not mock the king’s words—but swore to stand beside Aemond Targaryen, and beneath the shadow of dragons, defy the cold.

And in the far north, as the frost deepened and night grew longer, the White Walkers marched on.