The Stronghammer - CH - 98

The snowstorm raged around them, a howling fury of ice and wind, as Robert Stronghammer tightened his grip on the haft of his reforged warhammer. Black shards of dragonglass gleamed wickedly along its head, glistening like frozen obsidian in the dying light. His breath came out in heavy puffs, fogging the air before him. The very ground beneath his boots crackled with frost.

Even after years as an emperor, Robert never let his body grow soft. Every morning at first light, before council meetings or courtly duties, he trained in the yard—swinging his hammer, drilling with the precision of a master. That hammer, his weapon of choice since youth, had broken bones and shields, shattered lines and legends alike.

But this—this was something else.

Two White Walkers.

They were tall, thin, and terrible. Their skin was like frostbitten ice, pale blue and dry like cracked permafrost. Their eyes burned like twin orbs of cursed sapphire. One held a longsword forged from glacial death; the other clutched a spear carved from winter’s breath.

Robert knew what he faced.

“Can’t block it,” he murmured to himself, watching the sword glint in the wind. “Can’t take the hit. Move fast. Hit harder.”

He took a deep breath and charged.

As his boots pounded across the snow, he could feel the temperature drop with each step. The air grew so cold it bit into his lungs like shards of ice. His joints stiffened. His breath thickened. His hammer grew heavier.

This was their domain.

The White Walker with the sword moved first. Fast. So fast it was like a flicker of light across a mirror.

WHOOSH!

The sword sliced through the air toward Robert’s neck—but Robert twisted at the last moment, letting it pass an inch from his shoulder, the wind of it trailing like a razor.

In return, Robert swung his hammer low and hard, aiming at the creature’s ribs.

CLANG. Missed.

The White Walker ducked with unnatural grace and retaliated. Its blade sang toward Robert’s throat, a blur of shimmering death.

Robert ducked, falling to one knee as the sword hissed past overhead.

And with a roar from deep in his gut, he brought his hammer upward in a vicious arc—an uppercut strike from below.

CRACK!

The head of the warhammer struck the White Walker under the chin.

Shards of ice exploded outward.

The White Walker’s head shattered like a glass statue falling from a tower, splinters of frozen bone and cursed snow spraying into the air. The rest of its body stood frozen for a moment—then collapsed in pieces with a hollow clink clink clink.

Robert stood, panting, turning—

The second White Walker had already thrown its spear.

FWOOOOOSH—

Robert leaned backward just in time, the spear grazing past his armor, the sound of it screaming like a banshee in the wind.

He landed hard, snow puffing up around him. The White Walker advanced—now unarmed.

“Let’s end this,” Robert growled, standing.

The White Walker snarled without sound, and the two began to circle. Robert fainted right—then swung left, a feint and a trick he had used in countless battlefields before.

The White Walker fell for it.

Robert pivoted on his heel and swung low into its side—

SMASH!

The hammer struck ribs and spine.

The creature exploded into shards, twisting into the wind like shrapnel caught in a storm.

Silence.

Only the soft hiss of the wind remained.

Robert stood still, his chest rising and falling with heavy breath, his hammer now coated in ice and frost—but intact.

“Two down,” he muttered. “More to come, I’ll wager.”

Suddenly—shouts from the ridge.

“There! He’s alive!”

“The Emperor!”

“He fought them alone!”

Men came rushing down from the high slope—Stormrage soldiers, wildlings in Empire colors, and scouts who had watched from afar.

Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape. Many of them had never truly believed the legends. Not until now.

They had seen the Cannibal sweep across the sky like a winged storm. They had seen black fire devour the dead. And they had seen one man—a man of blood and breath—stand alone against creatures from beyond death.

One grizzled wildling dropped to a knee.

“That ain’t no man,” he whispered. “That’s the storm that walks.”

Another nodded. “That’s why we follow him. That’s why we should follow him.”

Robert glanced over his shoulder as the men gathered. Some reached to help him. Others simply watched in awe.

“You alright, Your Grace?” asked Commander Jorak, eyes wide.

Robert shrugged.

“Bit chilly.”

He raised his hammer.

“But the bastards broke.”

The men laughed, some nervously, others with relief. It didn’t matter. The truth had been witnessed.

Robert Stronghammer had killed two White Walkers. Alone.

And the war, it seemed, had only just begun.



Robert knew that there was no point in hoarding riches when every living soul's life was hanging by a thread. The White Walkers were not a threat to be dismissed or delayed. Their presence in the far north, the reanimation of the dead, and their pursuit of dragons were signs of an ancient terror rising again to devour the living world.

Standing atop the fortress walls at Hardhome, Robert Stronghammer addressed the colonists gathered before him, their faces pale with worry, many still shaken from the sight of the undead army and the Blackfire Cannibal's devastating flame. "We came here for gold," Robert began, his voice booming over the howling wind, "but we must live to spend it. There will be no riches if we are bones buried beneath the snow."

He turned to Commander Jorek. "Evacuate the Frostfang mines. Tell every man and woman stationed there to return to Hardhome. This settlement is defensible, and we will make our stand here."

Jorek bowed sharply. "Yes, Your Grace."

Robert's next move was swift and decisive. He took up his royal seal and penned a letter to Prince Aemond Targaryen. The parchment bore the Stormrage sigil in crimson wax, the ink scrawled in Robert's own firm hand:

Prince Aemond,

The cold ones are not a tale, nor are they a distant threat. They are here. And they are coming for your dragon. They wish to use its fire to breach the Wall, to unleash eternal winter upon our world.

Leave the Frostfangs. Bring your people to Hardhome. Send Vermithor to Skagos, where Cannibal has made his temporary roost. Your dragon will be safe there. Our bond to these beasts may be strong, but their survival is greater than our pride.

We will face the cold ones together.

—Emperor Robert Stronghammer


The raven was dispatched at once, and as expected, Aemond Targaryen did not hesitate. The bond of friendship and respect between him and Robert was forged in the crucible of war and strategy. Aemond arrived with his people before the next moonrise, bringing not only manpower but valuable gold and additional supplies from his Frostfang mining efforts.

After their arrival, Robert welcomed Aemond personally, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You've done well."

Aemond gave a short nod. "Your warning saved Vermithor. He flies now to Skagos. I trust Cannibal will keep him safe."

"He will," Robert said. "Cannibal may not speak, but I understand him well enough. He refused to leave me. Now he waits at Skagos, where he knows the cold can't reach him."

Together, the two stood before the command table, poring over maps of the north. "We need dragonglass," Robert said. "More than we've ever had."

Aemond nodded. "Dragonstone holds an ancient supply. I've already sent word. A Night's Watch messenger will carry my letter to the island. They will mine it and bring it north. I've paid them handsomely."

Robert smiled. "Good. I’ve also dispatched ships to Stormrage, Spine Mountains had a large deposit of dragon glass. Cannibal and the others left plenty of dragonglass in their wake. The fire of dragons creates the only weapon we can rely on."

Even as Stormrage and Targaryen colonies united under one banner, the Stark colony deep within the Frostfangs remained blind to the rising doom. Lured by greed, they continued to mine the mountains, convinced the warnings were a ploy. They did not yet understand that the cold was not just weather, nor the wind just air. Something was coming.

And it wanted dragons.

And it wanted war.



Lord Cregan Stark rode with grim determination through the heavy snows of the North, flanked by fellow Northern lords and a dozen hardened warriors. They arrived at Castle Black, cloaks whipping in the cold wind, the sun veiled behind gray clouds. The Night’s Watch met them with wary eyes and bowed heads.

"You stopped receiving letters from the colonies?" Cregan asked Lord Reed, his voice edged with tension.

"Aye," answered the acting Lord Commander. "We’ve had no ravens from the Frostfangs in over two weeks. Only whispers. Ships keep sailing from Hardhome, but few know why. Targaryens and Stormrage men abandoned the mountains."

"And still you do nothing?"

The Lord Commander frowned. "We were told of the threat... of White Walkers. But we have no proof. We’re too few to risk a full sortie."

Cregan narrowed his eyes. "Then we will find the truth. We do not leave our own behind."

The Stark lords formed a search party that very night. Rangers of the Watch guided them north, through blinding winds and thick snow, to secret caves used by the Night's Watch during patrols. They carried enough food and supplies to last weeks.

After three days of treacherous travel, they reached the edge of the Frostfang Mountains. There, hidden among the icy peaks, they discovered the abandoned Targaryen fortress. The stronghold was silent, its towers half-buried in snow. Inside, everything of value was gone, taken during the retreat.

From the vantage of a cliff, Cregan’s sharp eyes spotted activity on a distant hill. "There," he said, pointing. "That’s the Stark colony. They’re alive."

Relief swept the group, and they marched to the fortress, calling out, "Open the gates! Lord Stark has come with supplies and to speak with your leaders!"

The heavy wooden door creaked open. No answer came. Standing there was a familiar man—a Karstark bastard known well to Cregan. But something was wrong.

His eyes glowed sapphire blue.

Without warning, the man lunged, blade raised. More figures poured from within—former comrades, now lifeless, eyes glowing, faces blank.

Chaos erupted.

Northern steel clashed with the weapons of the undead. The reanimated showed no pain, no hesitation. Even beheading them did not stop them. Limbs kept moving, torsos crawled.

"They were our kin!" cried one of the warriors, slashing at a former friend.

Within the fortress, Cregan pushed through the melee, his Valyrian steel blade Ice drawn. On the high seat sat a White Walker, silent, watching the slaughter unfold with cold amusement.

Cregan charged.

The White Walker rose, drawing a blade of shimmering ice. The air grew colder. Frost gathered on Cregan’s beard.

Their swords met with a ringing clash. Sparks flew. The Walker was fast—inhumanly so. But Cregan was a Stark of Winterfell, and his skill had been honed through years of training and duty.

He ducked a swing, rolled aside, and drove Ice upward. The Walker deflected, but stumbled slightly.

They fought in silence, only the clash of steel and the crunch of boots on frozen stone echoing around them.

With a roar, Cregan spun, feinted, then drove Ice through the Walker’s chest.

The creature screamed—a sound like shattering ice—and exploded into a shower of frozen shards.

All around them, the undead collapsed. Bodies fell mid-lunge, frozen expressions locked in their final motions.

The fortress went silent.

The living stood in awe. The dead were truly dead once more.

Cregan Stark stood over the broken remnants, chest heaving. His sword gleamed in the fading light.

"We have seen the truth," he said to his shaken men. "The dead rise. We ride to warn the world."

And the wind howled like the voice of winter itself.