The Stronghammer - CH - 95

The wind howled over the craggy ridge, dragging sheets of white across the newly built palisade of rough-hewn logs and stone. Within the walls of the fledgling stronghold, men huddled around makeshift fires, cloaks pulled tight, cheeks reddened by the cold. Smoke drifted from small chimneys like ghostly tendrils, and the sound of axes echoed faintly from the forested slopes below where Northerners and Southerners alike felled trees for reinforcement and fuel.

Prince Aemond Targaryen stood atop the highest parapet, Vermithor curled behind him like a slumbering mountain of molten heat and scale. His violet eyes scanned the jagged horizon beyond, the Frostfangs looming like sleeping giants, their peaks cloaked in permanent winter.

He muttered, mostly to himself, “We have walls, we have shelter. But what we don’t have... is bread.”

Behind him, his steward Ser Lorent Hill appeared, snow clinging to his boots. “My prince, we’ve finished inventory. We have stores for another twelve days, at most. Less, if the men keep eating like they’ve marched to the ends of the world.”

“They have, in a way,” Aemond replied with a sigh. “This place might be defensible, but without a steady supply line, it’s a coffin waiting to be filled.”

Ser Lorent hesitated. “There’s always Castle Black—”

“No,” Aemond said sharply. “I won’t beg the Night’s Watch for bread and oats. We are Targaryens, not beggars in black. There’s another way.”

He turned, his long cloak trailing behind him as he descended the wooden steps back into the courtyard. “The Stormrage Colony. It’s near. One day’s march, no more. They have hunters, foragers—and more importantly, logistics.”

“You plan to open trade?” Lorent asked, matching his pace.

“No. I plan to form an alliance,” Aemond said. “We bring gold. They bring food. It’s time I send them a message.”

Later that evening, around the central fire in the command hall—a circular space reinforced with timbers and warmed by a great iron brazier—Aemond summoned his officers. The walls were decorated with carved wooden shields and rudimentary maps, hastily drawn based on the ranger’s descriptions.

“We’re sending envoys to Stormrage colony,” Aemond announced, spreading a scroll across the table. “They’re no strangers to the cold, nor the land beyond the Wall. They’ve succeeded where many have failed. It’s time we work together.”

“Stormrage is another kingdom,” said Maester Alwyn, stroking his frost-covered beard. “You would treat with foreign rulers from our lands?”

“Stormrage may be another realm, Maester,” Aemond said, “I was part of their empire, and their Prince is my friend. We’ve both claimed lands up here. Better to work together than compete and die alone.”

He turned to Ser Ryam Mallery, a seasoned knight from Oldtown who’d taken command of the southern contingent. “You’ll lead the group. Take ten men—half northborn, half southron. Bring coin, iron, and the message of peace. No pride. No insults. We need bread more than we need pride.”

“Yes, my prince,” Ser Ryam bowed.

“And take a banner,” Aemond added. “Let them know Targaryens are not only dragonfire and war. We come to build something that lasts.”

The next morning, before the sun had even cracked the horizon, Ser Ryam and his men set off through the powdery snow. Aemond stood at the gates watching them vanish into the mist, Vermithor rumbling low behind him like a mountain sighing.

He turned to Lorent. “We will survive this winter, Ser Lorent. And if we do, we’ll thrive. One stone at a time.”

Lorent nodded. “With you leading us, my prince, I believe it.”

Aemond looked back to the Frostfangs rising like a wall of ice and stone.

“Let the world watch,” he said. “Targaryens do not freeze.”


The crunch of boots against ice echoed off the jagged walls of Frostfang. The once-quiet mountains now rang with the rhythmic strike of pickaxes, and smoke from the forges and cooking pits curled up into the iron-grey sky.

Prince Aemond Targaryen stood upon a stone outcrop above the newly dug shaft, his cloak of black wolf fur billowing in the wind. Below, miners—southerners hardened by their journey and northerners accustomed to the cold—worked side by side. The frost still bit at their fingers, but the discovery of gold had breathed new life into their veins.

"Look at them go," Ser Lorent Hill remarked, coming to stand beside Aemond. "Even the southerners have begun to work like mountain folk."

"They have no choice," Aemond said. “Gold is the best motivator I’ve ever known.”

He handed Lorent a scroll marked with a wax seal. “Send word to King’s Landing. Tell them Frostfang yields gold. Let them know the expedition was not a fool’s errand.”

Lorent accepted the scroll and tucked it into his cloak. “And what of the alliance? Have we had word back from Stormrage?”

“Not yet,” Aemond replied. “They’re cautious. They don’t trust southern crowns. But they’re not fools—they understand the need for cooperation.” He turned toward the northwest, where the Stormrage Mining Facility was located near the shadow of an icy gorge. “But it wasn’t them who gave us the most important information.”

Lorent raised an eyebrow. “The Starks?”

Aemond nodded. “Their colony lies seven days west, nearer to the coast, but they have no formal ties to Stormrage. However, they do receive supplies regularly—ships from Bear Island unload at hidden coves beyond the ice cliffs.”

Lorent let out a low whistle. “So supplies flow not from the south, but from the western sea. That changes the game.”

“Indeed. That supply route must be secured. And we must remain friendly with both the Starks and the Stormrage miners. We need both gold and food if we’re to stay here for long.”

As the men below shouted triumphantly—one miner having struck another rich vein—Aemond gave a rare smile. “The first vein we found is promising. We’ve set up proper timber supports, and the deeper we dig, the purer the luster of the ore. But this is only the beginning.”

He called out to a nearby officer. “Ser Taryn, organize a hunting party. Take twenty men north. Bring back meat, and if you find another cave or sign of precious metal, mark the site and report back.”

“Yes, my prince!” Ser Taryn saluted before moving down the ridge, barking orders.

Aemond turned again to Lorent. “We’ve got more than enough men. The stronghold is built. The forges are lit. If we mine one vein, we gain gold. If we mine three, we gain power.”

“You want to expand?” Lorent asked. “More mines? More camps?”

“Exactly,” Aemond said. “Spread the men out. Establish new shafts. We can send patrols between them. The more ground we hold, the harder it will be for the wildlings—or the Starks—to push us out.”

“You suspect the Starks might turn?” Lorent asked warily.

“No,” Aemond said, though his voice was guarded. “Cregan Stark is a man of honor. But we Targaryens are fire and blood. Sooner or later, the snow and flame will clash. I intend to be ready when that happens.”

Below, the mining party struck another bright glimmer in the stone, and a loud cheer rose up from the workers.

“Gold,” Aemond murmured. “Gold and glory. Let the realm see what lies beyond the Wall.”


The halls of the Targaryen stronghold in Frostfang echoed with life. Where once the winds howled through half-built corridors and hollow walls, now the scent of cooked meat, roasted vegetables, and hot mead filled the air. It was a place of stone and snow, but also of purpose. Prince Aemond Targaryen stood in his quarters overlooking the central courtyard, watching the crates being unloaded.

Dozens of sturdy northerners carried bundles of dried venison, barrels of mead, sacks of oats, flour, and salted fish into the underground larder. The party he had sent to Stormrage Colony had returned at last—and not empty-handed.

Ser Lorent entered his chamber, grinning as he peeled off his gloves. "It seems the Stormrage men have hearts warmer than their homeland."

Aemond arched an eyebrow. “What did they say?”

“They said this,” Lorent replied, patting a loaf of warm bread he’d swiped from the kitchens, “is a welcome gift. Enough food to feed our people for a fortnight, maybe more. They expect gold for the next shipment—but not for this one.”

Aemond nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “They understand diplomacy.”

“Or commerce,” Lorent said. “They’re here to make coin, not friends. But they did mention Commander Jorek personally approved the shipment.”

Aemond paused, staring through the frost-flecked window toward the rising peaks. “I have met Jorek before.”

He turned and addressed the scribes nearby. “Draft a letter. To Commander Jorek. Tell him the Targaryen stronghold beyond the Wall recognizes the generosity of Stormrage Colony. Inform him that the alliance stands, and gold will flow freely in exchange for future provisions.”

The scribe bowed and scurried away.

Lorent crossed his arms, nodding with satisfaction. “With food in our bellies and gold in our chests, we’re beginning to look more like a kingdom and less like exiles.”

Aemond’s eyes flicked to the far end of his chamber, where crates of gold ore were neatly stacked. “Speaking of gold… I want every ounce stored here. Counted and sealed. We’ll need it to pay for provisions, tools, mercenaries, and... maybe even bribes.”

“Already done,” Lorent assured him. “No one touches it without your word. And the miners—they’re happy. Full bellies make lighter hearts.”

“I want them working harder now,” Aemond said. “Double shifts if necessary. The deeper they dig, the richer the vein. The richer the vein, the faster we can turn this from a mining camp into a throne strong enough to rival Dragonstone.”

Lorent grinned. “Spoken like a true king.”

Aemond gave a wry smile. “Not yet.”

As the winds of Frostfang wailed outside, the fires in the stronghold burned brighter. Men laughed over their meals, drank to their fortunes, and sang songs in half a dozen tongues—southerners and northerners alike, finally finding unity in gold and survival.


In the heart of the Targaryen stronghold, Prince Aemond Targaryen paced the stone floor of the war chamber, his jaw clenched and eyes burning with fury.

Fifteen men—gone.

No word. No tracks beyond a certain point. Just silence and suspicion. They had been part of a hunting party, sent three days ago to scout for game and fresh meat in the pine valleys west of the base. Now, all were missing.

Ser Lorent stood nearby, trying to remain calm. “We’ve sent scouts—three of them. No signs of a blizzard, no cave-ins. They simply vanished.”

Aemond slammed his fist on the war table, making the maps flutter. “Men don’t vanish into snow, Lorent. They were taken. Or slaughtered.”

A horn sounded at the gate—short and sharp.

Moments later, a ranger burst into the room, breathless and snow-crusted. “Your Grace—one of the scouts has returned.”

Aemond stormed outside, where the wind tore at his cloak. The scout stood with frost-bitten cheeks and haunted eyes, shaking as he removed his gloves.

“My prince,” he said, dropping to a knee. “We found them. Or what’s left of them.”

“Speak,” Aemond ordered, voice like ice.

“They were found piled... like firewood,” the ranger said grimly. “Naked. Stripped of everything—cloaks, blades, boots. Their eyes were left open. Frozen wide in terror. No wild beast did this. It was the work of men. Wildlings. The clan wore their stolen cloaks like trophies.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened. “Which direction?”

“Northwest. Beyond the pine ravine.”

He said no more—he didn’t need to. Aemond turned on his heel and strode toward the stables where Vermithor lay coiled in the snow.

“Prepare him,” he commanded.

Ser Lorent caught up to him. “Your Grace, let us send a retaliation force—”

“No.” Aemond’s voice cut like a blade. “This is personal. They dared. They dared to strike my people, my banner, without cause. I will answer in kind.”

Vermithor stirred as Aemond approached, his massive head lifting from the snow. The great bronze dragon rumbled deep in his chest, sensing his rider’s rage. Snow melted around him as fire pulsed beneath his scales.

“Vermithor,” Aemond whispered as he mounted the saddle. “Tonight, we remind them who the dragons are.”

With a single command, the dragon soared into the storm-laced sky, wings blotting out what little light remained. The stronghold trembled under the beat of those wings as Aemond and Vermithor vanished into the clouds.

Hours passed.

The night was black and filled with fire.

At the foot of the Frostfang ravines, wildlings danced around their stolen spoils, clad in cloaks that did not belong to them. They laughed, they drank, they told stories of the men they killed. But their revels ended with the sound of thunder—not from the ground, but from the sky.

Vermithor descended like a comet.

“DRACARYS!” Aemond roared.

Fire poured from the dragon’s throat—bright and brutal, sweeping across the snow and tents like divine wrath. Screams filled the night, swallowed by the roar of flame. Wildlings ran, stumbled, burned.

Aemond circled once, twice—letting fire judge every last soul. It wasn’t a battle. It was a purge.

And when it was done, and the valley glowed red beneath ash and embers, Aemond dismounted among the burning remains. He found one of the stolen cloaks—charred, blood-soaked—and lifted it in his hand.

“You chose wrong,” he whispered to the corpse beneath it. “You should’ve feared the dragon.”