The Stronghammer - CH - 92

The sea had been unusually calm throughout the voyage. As the ship carrying Prince Eddard Stormrage and Lord Cregan Stark cut through the waters, no waves crashed, no winds howled. Even the infamous harbor of Storm’s End, known across the kingdoms for its violent tempests and brutal surf, was eerily still.

“Strange,” Eddard murmured as they neared the docks. “It’s almost too quiet.”

Cregan grinned. “Perhaps your home remembers its prince returning.”

The ship docked smoothly, ropes tossed to the waiting dockhands. Eddard stepped off first, followed by Cregan and his guards. The ship’s captain bowed, his pouch heavy with silver.

“Safe journey back to Braavos,” Eddard said.

The captain nodded. “And strength to your family, Your Highness.”

As the ship turned from the harbor, Eddard looked toward the towering silhouette of Storm’s End, the ancestral seat of House Baratheon. Memories struck him—sunlit walks in the training yard, sparring matches under his grandfather’s watchful eye, shared stories before a roaring hearth.

And now... that chapter was closed.

He barely had a moment to compose himself before a chaotic shout erupted.

“EDDARD!”

Four bodies collided into him like a battering ram. He stumbled backward, arms flailing, before falling flat on the stone dock under a pile of siblings.

Steffon, Stannis, Nymeria, and Nymela—two pairs of fraternal twins, born two years apart, yet inseparable. Together, they were a whirlwind of energy, laughter, and mischief.

“Off—off me!” Eddard wheezed, laughing as he tried to sit up.

“You’re late!” Nymeria scolded.

“We came for the funeral,” added Stannis. “It was two days ago.”

Eddard’s smile faded. “I missed it...?”

Nymeria’s tone softened. “We waited. But the wind didn’t. Grandfather would have understood.”

Standing slowly, brushing dust from his cloak, Eddard turned to see a tall figure approaching from the gates of Storm’s End.

It was his father—Emperor Robert Stronghammer.

“Father,” Eddard said, bowing his head.

Robert clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’ve grown even colder-looking than a Stark.”

Eddard chuckled faintly. “I suppose the North did its job.”

Robert’s expression turned somber. “You missed the funeral, but not the remembrance. Walk with me.”

As they began to walk, Eddard turned to gesture toward Cregan. “Father, this is Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. He insisted on coming with me.”

Robert nodded. “A Stark at Storm’s End. You honor us, Lord Cregan.”

Cregan bowed. “It’s a debt of respect. Your son showed me wisdom where I didn’t expect to find it.”

Before more could be said, another voice called out.

“Is the North with us, or does he just want our wine?”

It was Lord Borys Baratheon, Robert’s brother and warden of the Stormlands. He approached with a wide grin, clasping forearms with Robert and then Cregan.

“Lord Stark,” Borys said. “Warden to Warden, welcome to Storm’s End.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Cregan replied with grace.

While the men exchanged words, Cregan excused himself and made his way into the keep, descending the dark stone steps into the ancient tomb beneath Storm’s End.

There, where the old Storm Kings lay with their swords of stone and cloaks of dust, he paid quiet respect to the man whose death brought North and South together.

Lord Boremund Baratheon.

The storm that bore his name had passed.

But his legacy echoed still.


As the days passed at Storm’s End, the castle that once echoed with storm and stone now rang with laughter, tales, and unexpected companionship.

Lord Cregan Stark, with his quiet voice and sharp memory, quickly became a favorite of the younger Stormrages. It didn’t take long before Eddard’s siblings—Steffon, Stannis, Nymeria, and Nymela—began pestering him for stories.

"Tell us about the Children of the Forest!" Nymeria begged.

"What about the Night King? Did he really exist?" Steffon asked, eyes wide.

"Were the Ice Monsters real?" Nymela added.

Cregan chuckled, sitting near the hearth as servants brought sweet cider and bread. "You lot ask for horrors as though they’re bedtime tales. Very well. Let me tell you how the Long Night truly began..."

Word of his storytelling spread, and soon knights, ladies, and even guards paused to listen. Tales of the North, ancient and cold and fierce, captivated the Stormlanders—who rarely heard stories older than the Targaryen conquest.

In the midst of it all, Eddard noticed something else.

From across the great hall, Cregan Stark’s eyes often met those of Cassandra Baratheon.

Cassandra, known for her martial prowess and blunt tongue, was uncharacteristically soft-spoken around the Stark lord. And once—just once—she even giggled.

Eddard raised an eyebrow.

Later that evening, while walking beside Cregan on the castle walls, he nudged him with a grin. “You know, if you keep telling those stories, the South may never let you leave.”

Cregan smirked. “You just want me tied to your house by marriage.”

“Not to my house,” Eddard said with a wink. “Ask my uncle. He’s probably already writing the terms.”

Sure enough, Lord Borys Baratheon had noticed as well. And it didn’t take much convincing when Eddard suggested the match.

Cregan was Warden of the North, young, strong, noble.

Cassandra was a Baratheon warrior, proud and brilliant.

A Stark and a Baratheon.

A bond of ice and storm.

Within days, the betrothal contract was signed, bearing the seals of House Baratheon and House Stark. There would be no lavish feast—just a quiet acknowledgment, a respectful embrace, and a promise made beneath the banners of two great houses.

And when the time came, Eddard prepared to return to Stormrage, and Cregan to the North.

But now, each carried more than they brought.

Eddard with memories.

Cregan with a bride-to-be.


With their time at Storm’s End concluded, it was time for the royal family of Stormrage to return home.

Prince Eddard Stormrage, alongside his father and his four siblings stood in the shadow of the towering beast that had waited patiently for them: the Cannibal, Robert’s ancient and powerful dragon.

The saddle affixed to the Cannibal’s back was no ordinary one. It had been specially crafted by Stormrage’s finest smiths—reinforced leather, dragonbone ribs, and multiple riding holds—designed to carry more than one rider. In this case, six.

“Are we sure this is safe?” young Stannis asked, eyeing the massive wings with a mix of awe and terror.

Robert smirked. “You’re safer here than on any ship. Cannibal’s flown longer and harder flights than this. He won’t even notice the weight.”

Nymeria elbowed her twin. “Stop shaking. You’re making the dragon nervous.”

“We should go back in the ship like we came here!”

“Enough,” Eddard said with a grin, helping his siblings into their harnesses. “Hold tight. It’s a long flight back to Zeagan.”

Once everyone was secured, Robert climbed into the front saddle, taking the reins. Eddard sat just behind him, and the younger children clustered together toward the rear.

With a deep, thunderous growl, the Cannibal spread its wings, casting a shadow across the courtyard of Storm’s End. The beast took a single running step—and leapt into the air.

The wind roared past their faces as the dragon climbed higher and higher, the Stormlands shrinking beneath them. Green cliffs gave way to endless skies.

And then they turned south—toward the heart of the empire.

Toward Zeagan.

It had been some time since Eddard had last walked the halls of the capital. He had ruled Norvos. He had fought in the wilds. He had made alliances, spilled blood, and forged peace.

But now...

Now he would return not just as a son of the empire.

But as the one who would one day rule it.


Upon returning to Zeagan, the capital of the Stormrage Empire, the days grew swiftly heavier for Prince Eddard Stormrage. The warmth of family reunions faded, replaced by the sharp chill of duty.

Eddard now sat at the Elder Council, the ruling body of advisors and lords who helped govern the vast holdings of the empire. And he quickly learned that power was not as romantic as battle, nor as thrilling as the hunt.

Each day brought dozens of scrolls, petitions, and disputes.

One lord argued with another over border tariffs.

A merchant complained about pirate raids along the eastern sea.

A group of scholars demanded funding for a new alchemist tower.

Every hour required decisions—firm, wise, and fast.

Worse still were the military reports. Free Cities like Pentos and Tyrosh eyed Stormrage warily. Dothraki scouts had been spotted in Essos’ inland plains. And spies sent whispers that some Free Cities had begun secret alliances, fearing Stormrage’s growing power.

Eddard understood now why his father, Emperor Robert, aged not from battle—but from responsibility.

His only reprieve came in the high peaks of the Spine Mountains, where his dragon Arya rested.

There, among the clouds and cold stone, he could be himself.

He was not a prince.

He was not a commander.

He was just Eddard, a rider.

Often his younger siblings would come, laughing as they climbed the slopes, eager to spend time with their own dragons and each other. Steffon brought meat scraps to toss to the smaller drakes nesting nearby. Nymeria tried to race her dragon across the ledge trails. Even Stannis, quieter than the others, found peace in the dragon’s presence.

Those moments were fleeting.

But in them, Eddard remembered why he bore the weight he now carried.

Not for glory.

But for them.

For his people.

For Stormrage.


A raven arrived in Lorath bearing a sealed message with the crimson wax of the Red Keep. It brought grim news: Prince Aegon Targaryen, heir to Viserys and first son of Queen Alicent, had been found dead in a brothel.

The letter bore no further clarity—no suspects, no motives. Only confusion and mourning.

King Viserys, grief-stricken and enraged, sent a summons directly to his second son: Prince Aemond Targaryen, now Lord of Lorath under the Stormrage Empire.

It wasn't just one letter.

Messages came from Queen Alicent, full of sorrow and urgency.

Another from Otto Hightower, heavy with veiled instructions.

Aemond sat alone in his chamber at Lorath’s citadel, the letters spread before him like a battlefield.

“I don’t know what he wants,” he muttered. “He says nothing… yet asks everything.”

After hours of deliberation, Aemond made his decision. He would go to Zeagan and speak to Emperor himself.

Robert received him in the grand hall, dark eyes unreadable.

“You wish to return to Westeros,” Robert said flatly.

“I don’t know if I should,” Aemond admitted. “My father didn’t name me heir, not directly. But I’m his only living son now.”

Robert stepped down from the throne.

“Let me be very clear, Aemond. The moment you involve yourself in another kingdom’s politics, you no longer serve Stormrage. You’ll be stripped of your titles. Lorath will have a new lord.”

Aemond’s throat tightened. He’d learned much about rule—about patience and power—from Holden Cross, from the people, from leading.

It stung.

But he nodded. “I understand.”

Still uncertain, he sought out the one person who might offer clarity: his oldest friend.

Prince Eddard Stormrage greeted him with a brotherly clasp of the forearm.

“I heard,” Eddard said. “I’m sorry.”

Aemond nodded, voice quiet. “I don’t know what to do, Eddie. He didn’t name me the crown prince. Rhaenyra’s still his heir, officially. But the court is calling for me. Westeros needs a ruler.”

Eddard looked him square in the eye.

“Then go take it.”

Aemond blinked. “What?”

“Go to Westeros,” Eddard said firmly. “Become King. With you on the Iron Throne, and me soon to rule Stormrage, we can create an alliance no one dares challenge. You’d have seven kingdoms. I’d have a growing empire. And together—we change the world.”

“But what about Lorath?” Aemond asked.

“Lorath is a small island,” Eddard replied. “Westeros is a continent. An empire in its own right.”

Aemond fell into silence, torn.

Viserys had not named him king.

But if he did not act—Rhaenyra would.

And Aemond Targaryen stood at a crossroads, unsure which path led to legacy… and which to ruin.