The Stronghammer - CH - 90

Snow swirled endlessly over the northern lands as messages passed like cold breath between kingdoms. From Winterfell to Castle Black, from the Night’s Watch to the Stormrage Colony, letters had flown and riders had crossed frozen trails.

From Castle Black to Hardhome. From Hardhome back to Castle Black. Then again to Winterfell.

The parchment moved faster than swords, but the weight of their words was heavy with uncertainty.

In the Great Hall of Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark stood over a long map table, eyes narrowed. Another raven had arrived.

"He’s agreed," he said, holding the scroll in his gloved hand. "The Crown Prince of Stormrage. Eddard Stormrage himself."

Around him, bannermen stirred.

"About time," muttered Lord Karstark. "Too many unknowns on our doorstep."

"He’s a boy," growled Lord Umber. "A boy with dragons in his blood, and foreign steel behind him."

Cregan looked to Maester Toman. "Send word to Castle Black. Tell them the Stark of Winterfell will meet the Stormrage heir at Greywatch, halfway between the Wall and the Frostfangs."

"And the terms, my lord?" the maester asked.

"Neutral ground. No more than twenty men each. No swords drawn unless in defense."

Meanwhile, at the Stormrage Colony, the message was delivered to Prince Eddard Stormrage in the stone hall of the command keep. The wind screamed against the walls as he read the letter.

Commander Jorak stood nearby.

"You’re really going to meet him?"

Eddard looked up, eyes sharp. "We’ve mined their mountains, we’ve sheltered their enimies. We need to show them we aren’t here to conquer. We’re here to live."

Jorak grunted. "Still. Northern lords don’t take kindly to strangers, even if they wear crowns."

"They don’t have to like me," Eddard replied. "But they do have to see me. I want them to know who leads Stormrage. Not a ghost. Not a rumor."

He handed the letter to Jorak. "Tell the men. We leave at dawn. Greywatch. No more than twenty. And no steel outside of custom."

Jorak nodded. "And if they come with more than twenty?"

Eddard’s voice was calm. "Then we’ll come with fifty. But I don’t think they will."

So it was set.

In the cold heart of the north, two powers—old and new—would meet. Not by fire or blood.

But, for the first time, face to face.


The ancient stone halls of Winterfell were filled with voices and clashing boots. Lords Umber, Karstark, Bolton, Reed, and Ryswell had all arrived with retinues of their finest warriors, their loyalty to the Stark name unquestioned—but their distrust of Stormrage etched into every grim expression.

The ravens had carried word of dragons.

And dragons were not taken lightly in the North.

"We ride with you, Lord Stark," grunted Lord Umber, gripping the hilt of his greatsword. "But make no mistake—if this is a trap, we will see it drowned in southern blood."

Cregan stood at the high table, arms folded. "You ride as northern lords. You ride for caution, not war. This meeting is diplomacy, not conquest."

"And if the dragon soars above us?" asked Lord Karstark, his voice tight. "If the Crown Prince decides to make an example of the North?"

"Then let him know we are not easily caged," replied Cregan.

Cregan Umber, now back from the Stormrage colony and trusted by both sides, addressed the gathered lords.

"Bring your men if you must. But only twenty are permitted at the table. The rest stay back—close enough to be called, but far enough not to provoke."

Lord Bolton spoke for the first time, his voice cold and soft. "We will abide. But our blades will be ready."

And so the host departed Winterfell in a slow and steady column—hundreds strong, their banners waving in solemn procession through the falling snow. The direwolf of Stark led the way, flanked by the sunburst of Karstark, the flayed man of Bolton, the black hand of Reed, the trident of Ryswell, and the roaring giant of Umber.

They rode in silence, crossing the frozen wilds between Winterfell and the Wall. They passed old keeps, forgotten watchposts, and fields of untouched snow.

They were not riding to conquer.

They were riding to see whether peace could survive in dragon-shadowed snow.


Greywatch stood nestled in the heart of the snowy wilderness north of the Wall, a small but sturdy stone keep surrounded by a ring of sharpened stakes and low walls. Once built as a resting post for Night’s Watch rangers, it had now taken on a much greater role—a neutral ground where old blood and new power would finally meet.

The black-cloaked Watchmen guarded the gates and walls with vigilance, their crossbows ready but lowered, their eyes watchful as the Northern host arrived in solemn procession.

Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell, grim and regal, led the way through the gates. He had brought with him not the strongest warriors, but the lords themselves—Umber, Karstark, Bolton, Reed, and Ryswell. Each one had come out of pride, suspicion, and loyalty to the North.

Cregan had chosen to bring all who answered the call. No one would be left feeling slighted, no banner lowered in deference to another.

And among them walked two maesters, robes flapping in the chill wind—Maester Toman of Winterfell and Maester Elrik of Castle Black. The pair had argued and then agreed to co-document what would be said, what would be promised, and what might change the course of Northern history.

They had set up a long table in the central hall, parchment and inkpots already arranged.

"It’s not just a council," Maester Elrik whispered as he adjusted his spectacles. "It’s a chronicle of what may become a second dawn beyond the Wall."

Maester Toman nodded. "Empire meeting tradition. Dragons speaking to wolves."

Outside, the assembled Northern lords waited. No one spoke.

Lord Umber cracked his knuckles. "They’re late."

"Or wise," Bolton murmured. "They want us to stew a bit before they show us their teeth."

Cregan stood at the edge of the ramparts, his cloak snapping in the wind. His eyes were fixed on the southern road that led into the wild.

He said nothing.

He simply waited.

The North had come.

And now, the Stormrage was expected to follow.


From the southern trail that wound through the cold valleys of the land beyond the Wall, the Stormrage delegation approached. At their head rode Crown Prince Eddard Stormrage, cloaked in thick fur, his boots covered in frost, and his hair tied back in a warrior’s braid. He looked more wildling than prince—but none could mistake the authority in his bearing or the strength in his gaze.

He did not ride alone. Behind him rode nineteen of Stormrage’s finest warriors, handpicked by Commander Jorak himself. Each man carried a distinct air of readiness—blades sharp, eyes wary, willing to lay down their lives if their prince was betrayed.

Upon the ramparts of Greywatch, Cregan Umber of the Night’s Watch peered through a spyglass. His brow furrowed.

"Commander Jorak’s not with them," he muttered to Maester Elrik beside him.

"A tactical decision," Elrik replied, scribbling in his journal. "Leave Jorak at the colony in case of treachery."

As the Stormrage party neared, the gate creaked open. Guards stood on edge, but their hands did not reach for their weapons. The tension was heavy.

Eddard rode in, dismounted swiftly, and handed the reins to one of his men. Despite his simple, rugged attire, the way he moved, the way he looked at the assembled Northerners, made it clear: this was a prince raised for command.

Lord Cregan Stark stood waiting, flanked by his fellow Northern lords and the maesters. They studied Eddard with cautious eyes.

He met each of their gazes in turn, nodding respectfully.

"My lords," he said, voice calm but firm. "I thank you for agreeing to this meeting."

Cregan returned the nod. "Prince Eddard of Stormrage. The North welcomes you to Greywatch."

With formal courtesies exchanged, the parties were led to the large banquet hall, now transformed into a long council chamber. Torches burned in iron sconces, and the great hearths blazed to hold off the chill.

A great oaken table had been placed in the center, seating nearly forty men, with enough space for the two sides to sit across from each other—the North and the Empire.

As they took their seats, Maester Toman and Maester Elrik opened their inkpots, ready to record.

"Let us begin," Cregan said.

Eddard nodded. "Let us speak plainly. You believe we occupy land that was once yours."

"The land beyond the Wall was always guarded by the Watch," Cregan replied. "Now it’s settled by outsiders. That concerns us."

Eddard leaned forward. "We came not to conquer, but to build. To mine, to trade, to survive. No banners of war fly over our walls."

"But your presence draws wildlings to your gates," interjected Lord Karstark. "What happens when they come with weapons, emboldened by your support?"

The hall had fallen quiet as Eddard Stormrage turned his sharp gaze upon Lord Karstark.

"What wildlings?" Eddard asked, voice calm, but carrying an edge like a drawn blade. "They are people. Just like you. The only difference is they live north of the Wall, while you say you live south of it. That is all. There is no such thing as 'wildlings'."

He stood from his seat and let his words carry across the hall.

"And let me tell you something. Just because you claim a land is yours, does not make it so. To own a land, you must conquer it, bring order to it, protect the weak, punish the wicked. That is when land becomes yours. This land existed long before your first ancestors were named kings, and it will still exist long after your last successors are dust."

The maesters were scribbling frantically, ink flying across parchment.

Eddard continued, his tone never rising, yet full of conviction.

"We are here to bring peace, to create order, to protect the innocent. We are not raiding. We are not burning. We are teaching. Feeding. Settling. So by that measure, this land now belongs to us—the people of Stormrage—because we do the work of rulers."

A heavy silence fell.

Then Lord Bolton spoke, his voice low and chilling.

"How dare you compare us to the wildlings. They’ve raided our farms, stolen livestock, murdered our men. You sit there—dressed in fur and foreign pride—and say we are the same?"

Eddard’s gaze turned to the lords flanking Lord Stark.

"Tell me, any of you—have you ever traded with a wildling?"

The lords looked at him as if he’d grown horns.

Lord Ryswell scoffed loudly. "Trade with wildlings? What sort of self-respecting lord would do such a thing?"

Eddard nodded slowly. "So you never tried. Never offered them anything. And you expected them to act with civility and respect for your property, even while you starved them."

He leaned forward, his eyes locked with Ryswell’s.

"Tell me, Lord Ryswell—have you ever been starving? Truly starving? Have you ever seen your children suffer from hunger? If you had, I promise you—if you saw your child dying in your arms—you’d kill any man who had food and refused to share it."

Gasps echoed around the room.

Eddard raised a hand. "But we are not pushing them to steal. We are teaching them to fish, to build, to trade. And we are sending them provisions—so they don’t have to steal from you anymore."

The room stirred in agitation. Some lords fumed silently. Others exchanged glances, unsettled.

The maesters’ quills scraped madly on parchment.

Amidst it all, Lord Cregan Stark sat in quiet observation. He had not spoken a word since the Stormrage delegation arrived. But he watched Eddard closely.

There was fire in the boy. Fire and logic. Not only boldness, but a vision.

Some of the things Eddard had said—things about ownership, about justice, about responsibility—struck a chord in him.

Things he had never considered before.

The North had always protected its lands.

But perhaps it had never truly understood the lands beyond the Wall.

Not until now.