The Stronghammer - CH - 94

When Aemond Targaryen next stood before his father, King Viserys, it was in the private solar. The king looked frail, draped in furs and velvet, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the goblet of warmed wine.

Aemond waited in respectful silence until his father motioned for him to speak.

“You asked for a task,” Viserys began hoarsely, “and I have one.”

Aemond stepped forward, eager. “Name it.”

The king's eyes narrowed, voice low but firm. “There are whispers, from the North. That the Stormrage Empire has sent miners beyond the Wall. That Stark himself is backing a northern colony... seeking gold, silver, and more.”

Aemond tilted his head. “The rumors are true.”

“They are,” Viserys confirmed. “And if they are not challenged, the realm will wake to find itself surrounded. Westeros must show it is not weak. I want you, my son, to establish a Targaryen colony beyond the Wall. Our own banner flying above the frost.”

The words were heavy.

Aemond felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders—but he straightened, resolved.

“I will do it.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow. “You may ask your grandsire for aid. Otto will ensure you have the gold—”

“No,” Aemond interrupted. “This I will do myself. With my own men. My own hands. If I am to prove I can rule, I must show I can build something from nothing.”

Viserys studied him for a long moment. “You sound like a king.”

“I am the prince of the realm,” Aemond replied.

The king allowed himself the faintest smile. “Then go north. Carve your name into the ice. Let the world know that the dragons still breathe.”

That evening, Aemond stood atop the battlements of the Red Keep, looking out toward the darkening horizon.

Vermithor waited in the shadows.

And soon, they would fly north.

With the task set before him, Prince Aemond Targaryen wasted no time.

He began recruiting for his northern expedition immediately.

He knew the journey would be arduous—the terrain harsh, the weather unforgiving, and the threat of wildlings and beasts very real. The men who came with him would need grit, strength, and the will to survive.

Fortunately, King’s Landing held no shortage of desperate souls.

Men without work, veterans without cause, and younger sons of noble houses eager for land and titles—they all came to hear Aemond’s offer.

“Riches beyond your imagining,” Aemond had proclaimed from the training yard of the Red Keep. “Land for those who earn it. Gold for those who endure it. And honor for those who survive it.”

The promise worked.

Within days, the line to enlist stretched down the hill.

Using his access to the royal treasury, Aemond drew enough coin to fund the expedition. He spared no expense—iron carts, thick cloaks of wolfskin, salted meat, dried grains, hunting tools, and tents reinforced with boiled leather.

He also hired craftsmen to forge tools and mason crews to help with fortifications once they arrived. Wheelwrights, cooks, herbalists, and even a few adventurous septons signed on.

And he trained them.

Day by day, the yard of the Red Keep echoed with drills, shouts, and hammering.

Two weeks later, Aemond had assembled a company of five hundred men—fighters, builders, scouts, and workers—a full expeditionary force.

As he walked among them, inspecting their ranks, a fire burned in his chest.

This was his task.

His legacy.

“Mount up,” he commanded the captains. “We march at dawn.”


The northern expedition marched steadily through the Crownlands and into the Riverlands. The path was long but manageable.

With Vermithor, the colossal dragon, constantly circling above, bandits, poachers, and outlaws dared not even approach the convoy. The mere sight of the dragon's shadow sent most hiding in fear.

Crossing into the Twins, they were welcomed formally by House Frey, who offered the prince and his men bread, salt, and strong mead. Lord Frey, ever watchful of alliances and power, greeted Aemond with courtesy and awe.

But beyond the Twins, the world began to change.

The snow deepened.

The air grew sharper.

Men from King’s Landing, even with fur cloaks and layers of wool, struggled. Their boots froze. Their fingers numbed. They found walking difficult as visibility dropped in the thick snowfall.

When they entered the Neck, the challenge grew worse.

The marshes were hidden under slush, the ground deceiving, swallowing carts and horses whole.

Even Vermithor, mighty as he was, could not tell solid ground from treacherous bog. From the skies, the Neck looked like a shifting mass of trees and white.

Realizing they needed help, Aemond took to the sky alone and flew to the crannoglands, where he sought out Lord Reed, the Warden of the Neck.

Vermithor’s landing outside Greywater Watch stirred the reeds and sent birds scattering. But Lord Reed, a man of foresight and strange wisdom, did not hesitate.

“I will guide you,” Reed said calmly. “The Neck is my blood, Prince Aemond. I will walk your men through it, and not one will sink.”

With crannogmen scouts leading the way, the expedition slowly wound its way through hidden paths and safe islands, finally emerging beyond the swamps and into the true North.

Here, the world was endless snow and cold, the horizon flat and white, and the wind bitter and constant.

The men looked ahead in silence.

They had crossed the kingdoms.

Now they stood at the edge of something older, harsher, and waiting.

And Aemond, atop Vermithor, looked forward.

His journey was far from over.


By the time Prince Aemond Targaryen’s expedition arrived at Winterfell, the force of five hundred had been reduced by nearly half.

Some had deserted, unable to bear the growing cold as they moved deeper into the North. Others—over fifty men—had succumbed to the elements, freezing in their sleep despite the fur cloaks and heavy provisions.

Their morale was broken.

But Winterfell was waiting.

Lord Cregan Stark welcomed Aemond and his battered expedition with open arms. As allies bound through honor and mutual cause, Cregan provided the prince with warm lodging, roaring fires, and feasts of hot meat and thick stews that lifted spirits faster than gold.

The castle, ancient and vast, seemed to embrace Aemond in its frostbitten stone.

“I have walked the halls of Driftmark,” Aemond remarked as Cregan showed him the crypts and towers, “but none of them have the weight that these walls carry. Eight thousand years… this place breathes the old North.”

Cregan smiled. “It endures, just as we do.”

When Aemond confessed the dwindling numbers and growing fears of his company, Cregan placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You are not alone in this, my prince. I have already sent two thousand men beyond the Wall—soldiers, miners, builders. I lack dragons to protect them, so I relied on numbers. You have Vermithor. And now, you will have more men.”

Cregan marched with Aemond to Wintertown, where he spread word that those who wished to join the Targaryen expedition would be paid five gold dragons—an amount far beyond what most earned in years.

The response was overwhelming.

Blacksmiths, trappers, hunters, and laborers all lined up. Aemond paid each in advance, their hands trembling with gratitude.

“And there will be more,” Aemond promised. “Once we strike gold, each of you will be rewarded for your courage.”

As the fires crackled that night in Winterfell’s great hall, Aemond’s expedition swelled once again, not just in numbers—but in hope.

They would face the cold together.

And they would not be forgotten.


The road north from Winterfell was long, cold, and unforgiving.

But it wasn’t the climate that threatened Prince Aemond Targaryen’s expedition—it was the men within it.

His company, now over four hundred strong, was an uneasy mix of southerners from King’s Landing and northerners from Wintertown. And where their bodies marched in unison, their tempers did not.

The northerners, hard-born and snow-worn, looked with disdain on their southern counterparts.

They mocked the southerners’ constant shivering, their complaints about the wind, their need for extra layers.

“Look at ‘em,” one northern soldier spat. “Bundled like babes. Can’t even walk in snow without whining.”

The southerners, for their part, tried to hold their pride.

They marched faster.

They lifted more.

They fought to keep up, to prove their worth—but the cold gnawed at them, and hunger came quicker.

Fights broke out, tempers flared, and Aemond was forced to personally intervene more than once to break them apart.

“This expedition is not a tourney ground,” he snapped during one such incident. “If you have the strength to fight your brother, then save it for what waits beyond the Wall.”

Still, a quiet transformation began.

Some southerners, stung by insults, grew more determined.

They hardened.

They adapted.

And the northerners, grudgingly, began to acknowledge the efforts.

After nearly a month’s march from King’s Landing, the expedition reached the Wall—a towering wall of ice that seemed to scrape the sky.

The black brothers of Castle Black watched from above as Vermithor circled once, and then landed.

The gates opened.

The Night’s Watch had already been informed of Aemond’s approach.

He was greeted with solemn bows.

“You are welcome, Prince Aemond,” said the Lord Commander, stepping forward. “The dragon brings fire, and Winterfell brings trust. You may pass.”

Aemond nodded.

His eyes turned northward.

Beyond the gate lay the unknown.

And ahead waited the future he intended to carve with his own hands.


It was just as Aemond expected—

The land beyond the Wall was another world entirely.

Snow lay thick across the land, blanketing every path and tree. The cold wind bit through even the heaviest cloaks, seeping into bones, numbing fingers, and cracking lips. It was a place where the weak were left behind, and the careless, buried.

The ranger sent by the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch stepped to the fore. Hardened by decades of survival, he was to be the scout and guide for the expedition.

And he didn’t mince words.

“North of the Wall, the snow feeds no one. The trees give no shelter. You either learn to use the land—or the land takes you.”

He trained the expedition quickly. Where to dig for clean snow to melt for water. Where to look for signs of wild beasts, and how to mark paths without drawing attention.

Even the northerners had never ventured this far, and many hung on his every word.

Aemond, at first, bristled.

He was a prince. A dragonrider. This was his expedition.

But then he remembered the lessons of Holden Cross, and the wisdom of Stormrage’s ruling council:

“Know when to lead—and when to follow.”

So, Aemond yielded. Not out of weakness, but strength. He let the ranger command the path forward, and the men followed.

They camped in hidden caves, known only to the rangers—caverns invisible to the naked eye but vital for survival. In each cave, the men huddled for warmth, built fires from wind-dried roots, and counted the stars when they could.

Days blurred together.

Marches turned into treks.

And finally, through white wind and blinding drifts, they stood before the base of the Frostfang Mountains.

Jagged.

Silent.

Towering like the teeth of gods.

The expedition had made it.

But their journey was just beginning.


“My task was to lead you here,” he said with a curt nod. “I am not your prospector or your warden. Beyond this, your path is your own.”

With that, the ranger vanished into the mists, his dark cloak swallowed by the snow-covered trees.

Aemond watched him go.

Then turned to the expedition.

They were tired, frost-bitten, but determined.

“From here on,” Aemond said, “we are alone.”

With Vermithor circling above, they began the ascent into the Frostfangs—climbing one narrow mountain pass after another, deeper and higher into the ancient, icy ridges.

Snow clung to the rocks like armor. The air thinned. And even the dragon felt the strain of the cold.

Aemond knew.

They were being watched.

Shadows moved in the trees. Eyes glinted in the dark. The wind carried sounds that did not belong to it.

But the prince pressed forward.

And then they found it—a ridge, sheltered by stone and elevation, flanked by steep drops on three sides.

“Here,” Aemond declared. “This will be our stronghold.”

The terrain was difficult, but that was the point. It would be hard to attack, easy to defend. And if they could hold it, they could build anything.

Following the ranger’s advice, Aemond ordered his captains:

“No mining. Not yet. First, we build.”

The men were divided into teams to gather logs, cut stone, and dig foundations. Fires were lit. Tents were pitched.

The beginning of a fortress had begun.

High in the Frostfang Mountains, Prince Aemond’s Targaryen colony had taken its first breath.

And the wind howled to greet it.