The Stronghammer - CH - 91

After the heated debate in the hall of Greywatch, a quieter hour followed. The Northern lords had retreated to their chambers, some still grumbling, others deep in thought. Only Lord Cregan Stark and Prince Eddard Stormrage remained in the long hall, the fire crackling low as snow fell softly outside.

The two young men sat opposite each other, a fresh pot of tea between them, poured by one of Eddard’s guards who left immediately after.

"They don’t treat you like a boy," Cregan said after a long pause.

Eddard raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea. "Your lords do."

Cregan let out a low laugh. "That obvious?"

Eddard leaned forward. "They’re loyal. Fiercely loyal. But they look at you like a cub, not a wolf."

"And you?" Cregan asked.

Eddard smirked. "I see a wolf. One who’s trying to keep the pack together. That’s harder than leading warriors into battle."

The two sat in companionable silence a moment longer, then Cregan asked, "Is it true? You’ve been to all the Free Cities?"

Eddard nodded. "Almost all. Volantis, Braavos, Lys, Myr, Pentos, even Sarnor before it was fully rebuilt. I’ve ridden camels in Essaria. Hunted manticores with Dornish trackers. Got lost in the Isles of Cedars once and had to swim five leagues to shore."

Cregan blinked, impressed. "And you’re what, sixteen?"

"Seventeen this past moon," Eddard replied. "I grew up with a sword in my hand, and books in my pack. My father made sure I knew how to command and how to listen."

"My father died when I was ten," Cregan said, his tone quieting. "Since then, they’ve all tried to protect me. Even when I gave orders, they smiled and nodded like I was a pup barking in the snow."

Eddard’s tone was firm, but kind. "Then stop barking. Bite."

Cregan gave him a look, then laughed.

"You really talk like someone who’s seen the world."

"And you act like someone who belongs to it," Eddard said. "Don’t let them forget that."

The fire popped between them, sending sparks upward.

There, in the dim light of Greywatch, two young leaders found something rare: respect.

Not for titles. Not for blood.

But for each other.

A prince and a warden.

A Stormrage and a Stark.

Days of debate, argument, and reflection finally bore fruit. In the torch-lit great hall of Greywatch, amidst snow swirling beyond stone walls and ravens calling overhead, a historic agreement was signed.

A scroll of thick parchment was laid before them—the first treaty between the North, the Night’s Watch, and the Empire of Stormrage.

Lord Cregan Stark affixed his sigil. Then came Prince Eddard Stormrage, followed by the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Their signatures marked a new age for the land beyond the Wall.

The terms were clear:

The North acknowledged the Stormrage Empire’s rightful ownership of the land it had secured beyond the Wall. The forts, mines, and settlements built by Stormrage would remain under its rule.

In return, Stormrage soldiers pledged support to the Night’s Watch whenever the Watch called for help—especially in the face of violent, lawless wildling clans and cannibal tribes like the Ice River Clan.

Trade was opened. The Wall would become a hub, where goods and resources could flow freely between Stormrage and the North. Silver, gold, furs, tools, and more.

Stormrage soldiers were given free access to roam the land beyond the Wall, as long as they respected the holdings of other colonies.


And most notably...

Whispers passed through the Northern lords’ ranks.

Gold. Silver. Iron.

Many lords began to consider founding colonies of their own, inspired by Stormrage’s success. Even Lord Umber murmured to Karstark about a valley he knew well that once shimmered with metallic veins beneath the ice.

Eddard leaned toward Cregan, his voice low.

"You should plant a Stark colony, Cregan. There’s enough land, enough wealth, and enough need. This is your legacy to shape."

Cregan nodded slowly. "Perhaps. If the North can learn to work together, and not against each other."

The prince smiled. "Then let them follow your lead."

And so, the meeting at Greywatch ended not with swords drawn, but with ink spilled.

The wild frontier had begun to change. It would never again be the same.

And now, from frost and fire, a mutual future was forged.

The ink had barely dried on the treaty signed at Greywatch when the ice was broken again—this time by blood and flame.

News came swiftly, carried by a half-dead scout stumbling into the main Stormrage fortress near Hardhome, his body broken and clothes soaked in blood. He brought terrible tidings:

The Frostfang Mine, guarded by a small but growing Stormrage garrison and settled by miners and wildling laborers, had been attacked.

The Frozen Foot Clan, known across the wilds for their savagery and cannibalism, had descended like a storm. The recently built wooden fortress was overrun, its walls torn down and its defenders slaughtered.

Sixty lives were lost—both Stormrage soldiers and wildlings who had sworn loyalty to the Empire.

When Prince Eddard Stormrage received the report, the fire in his eyes rivaled the rage of dragons.

He stood before the council of officers and said with cold clarity:

"This is no longer a frontier problem. This is a declaration of war."

He wasted no time. A message was immediately sent to Castle Black. A black-feathered raven bearing the seal of the Empire flew across the snows.

Within two days, a reply came.

Lord Commander Stark agreed without hesitation.

The death of Night’s Watch allies—Stormrage men and converted wildlings—was a blow to the peace they were trying to build.

He wrote:

"We march under one banner. The Frozen Foot Clan must be broken. Their violence dishonors all wildlings who seek peace."

Within the week, a combined force gathered in the white-covered fields south of the Frostfang peaks.

Stormrage soldiers, clad in reinforced furs and scaled armor, stood shoulder to shoulder with the black-cloaked rangers of the Watch. Wildling trackers led the way, burning for vengeance.

And Prince Eddard stood at their head.

"We are not just marching for revenge," he told them. "We march for every miner who died with a pickaxe in hand. For every child whose mother screamed behind those wooden walls. We march so this never happens again."

The Frostfangs echoed with the sound of war drums.

The Frozen Foot Clan would soon learn what happened when peace was shattered...

...and Stormrage answered.


Scouts of Stormrage moved like shadows through the white-capped valleys, guided by wildling trackers who knew the jagged terrain like the backs of their frostbitten hands. Their mission was precise: locate the heart of the Frozen Foot Clan.

After days of tracking, the scouts returned to Prince Eddard Stormrage with grim confirmation: they had found the hidden caves deep in the northern ridge of the Frostfangs. A sprawling, naturally formed labyrinth concealed beneath layers of snow and rock.

“They’ve grown arrogant,” one scout said. “No guards. No lookouts. They believe their caves are ghosts.”

Eddard studied the map scratched in soot and stone. “Then let’s haunt them.”

The combined force of Stormrage and Night’s Watch soldiers approached the cave entrance by moonlight. Snow muffled their steps. Blades were drawn, not a word spoken. Inside, the air turned heavy, damp with the scent of blood and mold.

Fighting in the snow had been punishing. Eddard, like many of his soldiers, had not grown up in a world of ice. Even his great strength felt dulled in drifts that swallowed his legs. But inside the caves, the battlefield changed.

Confined.

Cramped.

Perfect for controlled strikes.

The tunnels were a maze of stone—twisting chambers, winding paths, and split caverns that divided the force. Eddard’s sword arm burned with effort as he led the first wave. Steel clashed against bone and bark. The Frozen Foot came screaming from the darkness, wielding jagged wood, sharpened stone, and bloodied clubs.

They were many.

But they were undisciplined.

They struck in rage, not formation. They snarled like beasts, not men.

And one by one, they were cut down.

From chamber to chamber, Stormrage soldiers and black-cloaked rangers fought in small skirmishes, clearing the tunnels. It was a gruesome dance—lit only by torches and flashes of steel. Blood painted the cave walls, and the cries of the dying echoed through the halls of rock.

Hours passed. The battle was not without cost—Stormrage lost men, brave warriors and brothers of the Watch alike. But when the dust and ash settled, no Frozen Foot remained.

Every tunnel had been searched.

Every chamber cleansed.

And when the final torch was extinguished, Eddard Stormrage stood at the mouth of the cave, breathing heavily, the blood of enemies still wet on his blade.

“We’re done here,” he said.

They returned to the ruins of the Frostfang Mine, where their comrades had died days earlier. The snow had not yet erased the blood.

There, in a circle of silence, they buried their dead, Stormrage and wildling alike.

And Eddard knelt, placing his sword in the snow.

“Your sacrifice is not forgotten,” he whispered. “You died as one people. And that’s how you will be remembered.”

The cave had been cleansed.

The justice had been served.

The land, for now, was at peace again.


The cold winds of the Frostfangs still howled, but Prince Eddard Stormrage stood at the gates of the Stormrage colony with a heart made heavy not by battle—but by grief.

He had come to the land beyond the Wall not for conquest, nor for glory. He came to learn, to understand, and to harden himself against the northern cold—to experience life where survival was a daily war.

And now, that chapter had come to its close.

A black-feathered raven had arrived days prior, bearing the seal of the Night’s Watch. The letter it carried brought solemn news: Lord Bormund Baratheon, Warden of the Stormlands and Eddard’s paternal grandfather, had died.

Eddard stood in his fur-lined cloak, wind tugging at his dark hair, the scroll still crumpled in his hand.

His voice was quiet as he addressed Commander Jorak and his gathered soldiers.

"I did not come here to live among wildlings for the rest of my life," he said. "I came to understand this land—to see its truth. And I’ve seen it."

He looked out beyond the gates. "Now I must return south. To honor the man who helped raise me."

Commander Jorak nodded. "He was your blood?"

"He was my grandfather," Eddard replied. "And more than that, he was a great man. Fierce, proud... but kind in his way."

The soldiers bowed their heads. They had seen Eddard face death and snow without flinching. But now, his eyes told a different story—of personal loss.

With a small escort of his most trusted guards, Eddard prepared to depart. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch met him personally at the Wall.

"We’ll open the gate," he said. "And I’ll see to it the road south is safe."

Eddard offered his hand. "Thank you. For more than this."

The great gate of Castle Black groaned open, and the wind howled through like a song of farewell.

From there, Eddard traveled by horse across the North, bound for White Harbor, where a ship waited to carry him home to the Stormlands.

The road was long. The snow slowly faded. The land grew warmer.

But in his heart, he carried the chill of the North.

And the memory of a grandfather lost.


The snow was melting away as Prince Eddard Stormrage arrived at White Harbor, the salty tang of the sea replacing the dry frost of the North. He had expected a brief stop—passage booked quickly, a quiet journey south to the Stormlands.

But as he reached the port, his eyes widened in surprise.

Waiting by the harbor walls, cloaked in the colors of House Stark, stood Lord Cregan Stark, flanked by a small retinue.

"Cregan?" Eddard called out, approaching. "What are you doing here?"

Cregan smiled and stepped forward. "I heard the news of your passage through the Wall. A raven reached Winterfell the day after your crossing. Since I too hold the title of Warden, and the Warden of the Stormlands has passed, I thought it proper I accompany you to the funeral."

Eddard clasped his friend’s arm. "You honor me, Cregan. And you honor him."

The two stood for a quiet moment, watching ships rock gently in the harbor, seagulls circling overhead.

They soon secured passage on a large trade ship—its original course set for Essos. But with Lord Stark’s insistence, and generous compensation from both houses, the captain agreed to sail for Storm’s End first.

The crew quickly made preparations, barrels and crates shifted, canvas tightened. And within hours, the ship cast off from the White Harbor docks, its sails catching the wind.

As the northern coast faded behind them, Eddard and Cregan stood at the stern of the vessel, cloaks whipping in the breeze.

"Funny," Eddard said with a tired smile. "We just left a frozen war behind, and now we go to mourn a man who never feared battle."

"Life doesn’t wait for peace," Cregan replied.

"Nor for grief," Eddard said.

Side by side, two wardens of two great lands stood beneath the rising sun.

And the sea carried them south.

Toward sorrow. Toward honor.