The Stronghammer - CH - 96

The ravens flew by the dozens, black wings slicing through the skies above Westeros and Essos alike. Their scrolls bore the sigil of the twin dragons of Stormrage, sealed with the mark of the Emperor himself and addressed to nobles, allies, merchants, and rulers across the known world.

The announcement was simple, yet the weight behind it was monumental:

"By decree of His Imperial Majesty,

Robert Stronghammer, Emperor of Stormrage,

let it be known that his heir and Crown Prince, Lord Eddard Stormrage, shall take to wife Lady Baela Targaryen, daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen, in sacred union. The wedding shall be held in the Imperial Capital of Zeagan on the First Moon of the New Year. All lords and dignitaries are invited to bear witness to this celebration of unity between House Stormrage and House Targaryen."

Across the continents, the invitations stirred the world to motion.

In the frozen ridges of the Frostfangs, Aemond Targaryen stood on the northern ramparts of his half-finished fortress. The cold was biting, the wind howled like an angry ghost, but he smiled as he read the letter brought by one of the black-cloaked messengers.

“Eddie,” he whispered, eyes scanning the scroll, “finally tying the knot with the she-dragon.”

Behind him, Ser Lorent approached carefully, glancing over the icy parapet. “My prince, shall we begin preparations to depart for Zeagan?”

Aemond shook his head. “No. Not this time.” He folded the letter and tucked it away in his coat. “The wildlings are growing bolder. I can’t leave this colony just yet. But I will send my gift—and my congratulations.”

He turned to the scribe. “Write this down:

‘To Eddard Stormrage, Crown Prince of Stormrage, heir to Zeagan, my brother by bond though not by blood. May your union with Lady Baela bring you strength, joy, and many dragon-riding heirs. I regret I cannot attend your great day. Duty holds me in the frost, and danger waits beyond the snow. But know that I am with you in spirit. May your fire never fade.’

He paused, then added, “And send a chest of gold. Not that he needs it—but let him know the Targaryens still pay tribute to greatness.”

In Storm's End, the halls of House Baratheon buzzed with preparation. Lord Borris Baratheon boomed with laughter as his daughters and sons packed their cloaks and finery.

“An imperial wedding, eh?” he bellowed, clapping his hands. “We’ll make a fine showing, won’t we, girls?”

Cassandra Baratheon, wrapped in a fine green and gold cloak, nodded with a grin. “I’ll finally see Zeagan with my own eyes.”

Beside her stood Cregan Stark, stoic as ever, but his fingers were laced with hers. “And I’ll finally stand beside my future family. Eddard has earned his happiness.”

Lord Borris grunted. “Just don’t go making the North colder than it already is, lad.”

In King’s Landing, Queen Alicent sat with her daughter Helaena in the Red Keep’s sunlit gardens. The news of the wedding had reached them swiftly, and while Alicent felt mild relief that the Targaryen line was securing such a powerful ally, her daughter’s face was shadowed with sadness.

“He’s marrying Baela,” Helaena whispered, her voice tight. “He once promised me he’d write.”

Alicent placed a hand on hers gently. “You know such promises are fleeting, my sweet. But you are still a princess. Your place is sacred.”

“I dreamed of him,” Helaena murmured. “In a city of white towers. His fire was bright, but… the sea tried to drown him.”

Alicent’s face tightened. “We must prepare for the journey. We’ll go together to Zeagan. You’ll see him once more—and perhaps, you’ll gain closure.”

Across the Summer Sea, emissaries, merchants, and dignitaries from Volantis, Qarth, Lys, and even Braavos made ready to set sail for the wedding. The empire of Stormrage, once thought to be merely a rising power, was now the center of the world’s attention.

The marriage between two dragon houses—Stormrage and Targaryen—would be the spectacle of the age.

In Zeagan, the city itself had already begun to transform. Banners of crimson and gold flew beside black and silver. The massive Dragon Plaza was being decorated with floating fire lanterns and silk sails. Dragon handlers prepared the arenas, while thousands of guests’ chambers were readied.

Crown Prince Eddard Stormrage stood on a balcony, overlooking the growing throngs. Baela Targaryen stood beside him in silence.

“They’re coming,” she said softly.

Eddard nodded. “All of them. From every corner of the world.”

She turned to him. “And do you regret this?”

He looked into her eyes and shook his head. “Not a day. You’re fire and storm, Baela. The match was written long ago… but I choose it now. Not for alliance. Not for legacy. For you.”

She smiled, rare and real. “Then we shall set this world ablaze… together.”


The capital of the Stormrage Empire, Zeagan, had never been so vibrant. Banners of black and gold danced in the breeze, lanterns hung from every rooftop, and fountains were dyed crimson and silver in honor of the great union between Crown Prince Eddard Stormrage and Baela Targaryen. Music floated through the cobbled streets as children, clad in newly gifted clothes, raced one another under garlands of storm lilies and fire roses.

Every household had been instructed to celebrate, and Eddard had personally ensured that even the smallest of folk felt the joy of the moment. From the high lords in their manors to the stable boys in the lower districts, no corner of Zeagan was untouched by the Crown Prince’s generosity. A feast had been arranged in every square, and public kitchens served roasted boar, spiced pigeon, and sweetmeats without pause.

"Look, mama! It’s new!" cried a small girl, twirling in a bright orange dress two sizes too big. Her mother only smiled, overwhelmed with emotion. “The Prince thinks of even us,” she whispered.

Inside the towering Dragon Hall, a fortress-sized sanctuary designed to accommodate dragons and lords alike, guests from across the known world gathered. It was the only place capable of housing the thousands who came to witness this legendary wedding. Lords and envoys from the Free Cities arrived on wind-powered skiffs, warriors from the Basilisk Isles rode elephants into the outer camps, and emissaries from Yi Ti brought exotic perfumes and carved jade dragons as tribute.

The hall where the wedding would take place was filled with the murmuring of foreign tongues and the rustle of silks and armor. A massive golden storm-dragon banner stretched from ceiling to floor behind the altar, while a circular platform, rimmed with volcanic glass, served as the dais for the betrothed.

Emperor Robert stood beside Daemon Targaryen, both men wearing broad smiles, their eyes fixed on their children. Robert’s voice rumbled with pride as he addressed Eddard, “The people love you, my son. You’ve earned this day not just as a prince, but as a man of your people.”

Daemon turned to his daughter, adjusting the delicate flame-shaped circlet on her brow. “You’re more dragon than half the fools who claim our blood,” he said gruffly, and Baela smirked with pride.

When the hour struck noon, a deafening roar split the skies. Four dragons soared over Zeagan—Stannis, Steffon, Nymeria, and Nymella—riding atop their dragons with fierce glee. The children of the storm scattered rose petals from the sky in a cascading rain of color and fragrance. Below, the crowd cheered and waved flags, their voices echoing from the palace walls to the mountain cliffs beyond.

As the ceremony began, silence fell over the hall. High Priest Cormund of the Storm Temple stepped forward, his cloak bearing both the sigils of House Stormrage and House Targaryen.

“Today, we join storm and fire,” he intoned, his voice amplified by whispering wind magic. “Not in conquest, but in kinship. Not in war, but in peace.”

Eddard turned to Baela, his expression unreadable to all but her. She smiled and whispered softly, “I didn’t think I’d be nervous.”

He chuckled quietly. “You fight horse lords of dothraki sea and yet tremble at marriage vows?”

“Dothrakis don’t wear this much silk,” she shot back.

The vows were spoken in both the tongue of the old Valyria and the language of the Stormlands. When the final words were spoken and their hands bound in silver cords, thunder cracked overhead—natural or summoned, none could tell—and the hall erupted in applause.

Later that evening, Eddard’s hall of gifts was overflowing. Chests of dragon glass from Skagos, golden sculptures from Qarth, war horses from Dorne, and even a flying carpet from Asshai sat beside dozens of other exotic and priceless artifacts. Even Eddard, who had seen half the world, stood overwhelmed.

Among the many letters was one from Prince Aemond Targaryen, still in the far north.

Eddard folded the letter slowly, the weight of his friend’s words sitting heavy in his chest. “He would’ve loved this day,” he murmured.

Baela placed a hand on his. “And when the wildlings are ashes beneath his dragon’s fire, he’ll return. I believe that.”

From the high balcony, Queen Alicent and Princess Helaena looked on. Helaena’s face was unreadable, though Alicent clasped her daughter’s hand tightly. “He was never ours,” Helaena whispered.

“No,” Alicent said with a sigh, “but he was kind.”

As the stars rose above Zeagan and the dragons flew once again, carrying lanterns into the night, all knew that the age of the Stormrage Empire was only just beginning.


Even after the grandest wedding Zeagan had ever seen, the city refused to fall into silence. The laughter of children, the clatter of street performers, and the coin-song of entertainers filled the capital for days. Nobles who had come from distant lands continued to dine in the winehouses, toss coins at fire-jugglers, and fund elaborate street plays reenacting the tale of Storm and Fire.

It took two full weeks for Zeagan to return to its rhythms. Slowly, the music faded, the visiting nobles returned home, and the celebratory banners were taken down. The final to leave were the Baratheons, who took their time packing up and bidding farewell to every corner of the city. Lord Borris Baratheon smiled as he hugged Emperor Robert Stormrage one last time.

“You’ve built more than a empire here, brother” Steffon said. “You’ve built legend.”

When the Baratheon banners finally vanished from the towers of Zeagan, a rare quiet settled over the capital.

That silence did not last long.

A sealed raven scroll arrived from the Stormrage Colony beyond the Wall, bearing the crimson sigil of the frontier command. It was opened in the Imperial Council Hall, where Eddard, Robert, and the other advisors had just begun discussing post-wedding affairs.

Robert Stormrage frowned as he read the message. His hand tightened on the parchment as he passed it to Eddard. “Read it aloud,” he said, voice grim.

Eddard unfolded the letter and began:

To His Majesty the Emperor and the Council,

One of our hunting parties sent west of the Frostfang camp encountered a creature not seen in living memory. A spider—undead—its eyes glowing blue with the light of winter itself. It continued to move after being beheaded.

We lost four men. The rest barely escaped.

The creature bore enchantments we cannot explain. Something old, something terrible stirs beyond the Wall. Strange winds blow at night, and the aurora burns in unnatural shapes above us.

Awaiting further orders.

Commander Varrick, Frostfang Garrison

The room fell into a deep, heavy silence.

“An undead spider,” muttered Lord Torrhen Malgren, scratching his beard. “Could be northern superstition. A tale to scare children.”

“No,” Eddard said flatly. “A spider that continues to fight after being beheaded is no tale. That’s dark magic. Old magic.”

Robert leaned back in his chair, his jaw clenched. His great Warhammer rested against the wall behind him, quiet and cold, but the mention of unnatural creatures made it feel heavy again, as if it remembered what it once did to the triarchy banners.

Eddard stood. “Let me go, father. I’ll take a thousand Stormguard and investigate—”

“No,” Robert interrupted. “You were just married. Your people need to see you ruling, not vanishing into the frost with a sword.” His voice carried no anger, only understanding. He looked at his son with pride. “This is my task.”

Eddard frowned. “You’ve already done more for this empire than any man—”

Robert raised a hand. “And I still have one more thing to give.” He turned to the council. “Send word to High Commander Darion to ready three hundred elite Stormguard, mounted and winter-cloaked. Prepare my dragon, I ride for the Frostfangs.”

“But the Wall—” started Lord Malgren again.

Robert narrowed his eyes. “We are not dealing with wildlings. If this is what I fear it is… we may be staring into the dark maw of the old world. This is beyond a raiding party. This… this smells of death magic.”

Eddard stepped forward. “Then let me ride with you.”

Robert reached out and clasped his son’s shoulder. “You have a kingdom to shape. A wife to honor. And soon… perhaps a son to raise. If I do not return, you will be the shield of Stormrage. Let me be its hammer one last time.”

Eddard looked into his father’s eyes, the eyes of a man who had crushed tyrants, sailed with dragons, and fought gods beneath the stars.

“…Then promise me you’ll return.”

Robert grinned, not with arrogance but with certainty.

“If death wants me, he better bring an army.”

That night, as word spread, Stormrage stirred again. Blacksmiths were called to sharpen swords, cannibal was fed and saddled, and the Warhammer of Stormrage was taken from its resting stand and strapped once more to the back of a warrior who had long defied time.

The Emperor was riding north.