The Stronghammer - CH - 88

The morning Cregan Umber departed the Stormrage northern fortress, the snow was light but persistent, a curtain of white that danced over the tall palisades. Commander Jorak stood with him at the main gate, handing over a leather-wrapped satchel filled with dried meat, oatcakes, two water flasks, and a carefully stitched fur cloak.

"This should last you to Castle Black," Jorak said. "If you ration it."

Cregan took it without a word, slinging it over his shoulder.

"You’re sure you want to go alone?" Jorak asked. "You’ve only just healed."

Cregan nodded. "I have to. The Night’s Watch needs to know what’s happening here. If I die, they’ll never hear of it until it’s too late."

Jorak grunted. "You’re braver than most. Or more stubborn."

"Both," Cregan said with a faint smile. "That’s why I’m still alive."

The gate opened slowly, revealing the cold white world beyond. Cregan took his first step into the wilderness, pulling his cloak tight.

His destination: Castle Black.

His path: through some of the most dangerous land north of the Wall.

He knew the route from Hardhome to Castle Black was treacherous. Even in good weather, it would take days—possibly a full week—riding hard and fast. But in the current snowfall, with the mountains and ice rivers, and the ever-present threat of wildling clans, it could be twice that.

I can’t die here, he reminded himself. If I die, no one will know. No one will believe this colony exists. Not until Stormrage ships land on Westerosi shores.

The memory of wildling children playing peacefully within the Stormrage fortress haunted him. It didn’t make sense. Wildlings and Essosi men, mining and building side by side.

But it was real.

And the realm needed to know.

On the third day of his journey, Cregan spotted smoke from a small wildling camp in a distant grove. He stopped, considered sneaking close for information, but shook his head.

No distractions. No fights. No scouting. Just the message.

He circled wide, traveling along half-frozen riverbeds and windswept ridges. He slept in shallow caves and beneath overhanging cliffs, always with one eye open, sword close.

One night, he awoke to the howl of wolves and kept his fire low, hands steady on the hilt of his blade.

On the sixth day, his provisions were nearly out. But the black line of the Wall was now a distant shadow on the horizon.

He smiled grimly.

"Almost there," he muttered.

If he reached Castle Black alive, the Seven Kingdoms would learn of the Stormrage foothold beyond the Wall.

And the world would never be the same again.

The gates of Castle Black groaned open beneath the towering Wall as Cregan Umber approached, half-frozen, bruised, but alive. The black-cloaked guards who stood atop the battlements stared in disbelief as the lone figure trudged forward through the snow.

"Is that—?" one of the sentries began.

"Cregan!" cried another. "Open the gate!"

The heavy iron bars were lifted, and the portcullis rose with a creaking shriek. Cregan passed through with a final gasp of relief, the cold wind finally blocked by ancient stone and timber.

He was greeted at once by the Lord Commander, Stark of Winter’s Reach, who rushed to meet him in the yard.

"By the Old Gods," Stark muttered. "We thought you were dead."

Cregan dropped to one knee, exhausted. "Most of the others are. We were ambushed. The Ice River Clan. I survived by chance."

The Lord Commander placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You came back alone?"

Cregan shook his head. "I came back with something worse than wildlings."

Inside the warmth of the war room, with hot wine in his hands and his cloak drying beside the hearth, Cregan told the tale.

He described the Stormrage Colony—a fortress built at Hardhome, reinforced with stone and timber, occupied by men from Essos clad in iron and fur, armed with fine weapons and wearing armor superior to anything the Night’s Watch had seen.

He spoke of wildlings working with them, living among them in peace, mining gold and silver, building boats, receiving clothing and food.

Stark listened in growing silence.

"They’ve built a foothold," he murmured. "A colony beyond the Wall. And no one in the Seven Kingdoms knows?"

"Until now," Cregan said.

Stark stood and moved to the writing desk. He unrolled parchment with shaking hands.

"One letter to King Viserys Targaryen, another to Lord Stark of Winterfell. This must be handled swiftly, carefully. If Stormrage declares war one day, that colony becomes a dagger pointed at our backs."

Cregan nodded. "And worse, if they give weapons to wildlings—real weapons—we’ll never stop them."

The Lord Commander scribbled with force. "We can't let it come to that."

He looked back at Cregan.

"You’ll return. Not as a spy. As an envoy. We need to know more. And if peace can be kept, it must be. Make friends where you can—but keep your sword sharp."

Cregan hesitated. "You want me to return to them?"

"We need a voice in their walls. Someone to speak for the Watch—and to watch for war."

Cregan nodded slowly.

"Then I’ll go. But this time, I’ll carry more than a message. I’ll carry a warning."

The Lord Commander finished sealing the letters with wax and handed them off to the fastest ravens in the rookery.

Far beyond the Wall, Stormrage was building.

And the world, slowly, was beginning to stir.


Eddard Stormrage, Crown Prince of the Empire, sat on the bow of the lead ship cutting through the icy waters of the northern sea. Waves lapped against the hull, the sky overcast and moody. The chill in the air did little to cool his growing impatience.

I should have taken Arya, he thought, grinding his teeth.

His dragon, Arya, would have soared above the clouds, reaching the Stormrage northern colony in a single day. Instead, Eddard had chosen to travel with the new recruits and settlers—soldiers, builders, and a few wildlings returning to the land they now called home.

He had told himself it was to learn—to see the men, speak with them, hear their thoughts. To understand the wildlings who had chosen to stand with Stormrage. And yet, the slow, crawling pace of sea travel made every moment feel like a curse.

A Stormrage sailor passed by and offered a nod.

"Seas are calm today, Your Grace."

"Too calm," Eddard muttered. "Feels like we’re barely moving."

The sailor chuckled. "Compared to flying, aye. I imagine it does."

Later, gathered in the officer’s quarters with a few veterans from the first expedition, Eddard leaned forward, his voice low.

"What’s it like there now? Any fighting?"

One of the miners, a man named Rothen, scratched his beard. "Not much. A few wildling clans keeping their distance. Some trade. Some tension. But no open blood yet."

"Yet," Eddard echoed.

Another settler chimed in. "We’re building fast. The Frostfangs are rich. But the wilds... they never stay quiet long."

Eddard nodded. That was why he came. Not just to observe.

To be ready.

Back in his quarters, he penned the last of his letters before they passed too far north for ravens to fly safely.

One to Aemond, his closest friend.

Another, longer one, to Baela.

He could already imagine her reaction.

She’s going to kill me, he thought. Or worse, glare at me like her father does when he’s disappointed.

Still, he couldn’t pass this up.

The North called to him. Not just for its danger, or its opportunity—but for the challenge. Here, he could make something of his own. A foothold beyond the edge of maps.

And when Baela saw what he built there, perhaps her anger would turn to admiration.

Eventually.

The ship rocked gently as night fell, stars beginning to pierce the clouds above.

And the prince of Stormrage sat alone, sailing into a land of frost, fire, and fortune.


As the three ships of Stormrage cut through the frigid waters, the cold had already begun to creep through the wood and canvas. The men aboard had long since changed into heavy fur-lined cloaks and thick leather boots. Even Eddard Stormrage, Crown Prince of the Empire, had abandoned his usual finery for a cloak of white direwolf fur, fastened with a silver clasp.

The chill bit through the layers like needles, and Eddard could feel it in his bones. It was a far cry from the cold winds of Norvos or even the mountain passes of Qohor. This was something older. Wilder.

He stood near the prow, watching the horizon.

Behind him, a veteran settler leaned against the railing, arms folded.

"See that?" the man said, pointing ahead. "That dock—wasn’t there when we left."

Eddard squinted and nodded. A long pier, freshly hewn from local timber, extended out into the sea. It was crude but functional, a testament to the speed and resolve of the northern colony.

A handful of fishing boats bobbed in the bay nearby—rough things made of pine and sealed with animal fat, but clearly seaworthy. More surprising were the crews aboard them.

"Wildlings?" Eddard asked.

"Mostly," the settler confirmed. "They’re learning. Stormrage sailors showed ’em how to net, how to cast lines. The ones that took to it, anyway."

Eddard watched closely.

Each boat had five or six figures aboard—most of them wildlings, ragged and bearded, some wrapped in mismatched furs. But in every vessel, there were one or two Stormrage sailors, distinguishable by their armor, posture, and gear.

One of the boats had just pulled in a large northern trout, silver and thrashing.

The wildlings burst into cheers. One of them, laughing, grabbed a knife, sliced the fish open, and bit into it raw.

The settler beside Eddard chuckled. "They still eat it raw. Says it’s their way. Took us weeks to get them to try smoked fish."

Eddard raised an eyebrow. "And they like it?"

"They say it’s better, but not as fun."

He watched the boats a moment longer, then turned toward the distant walls of the fortress rising from the trees.

"If they’re fishing," Eddard muttered, "then they’re not raiding. That’s something."

The ship’s horn blew, echoing across the bay.

The colony was in sight.

And Eddard Stormrage was ready to see what his empire was building on the edge of the world.


The port of Hardhome bustled with energy as the three ships of Stormrage drew near. It had only been weeks since a single vessel returned south, yet now—three ships, each laden with men, supplies, and new ambition—sailed confidently into the bay.

The wooden dock groaned under the number of people rushing to unload crates of tools, barrels of salted meats, and sacks of grain. Wildlings and Stormrage settlers moved side by side, shouting in different tongues, yet working with the same goal.

Commander Jorak Vel stood at the edge of the dock, flanked by his lieutenants. His grizzled face was taut with anticipation.

"More men," he muttered. "More mouths to feed. More walls to build."

But when the Crown Prince of Stormrage, Eddard Stormrage, stepped onto the dock, Jorak’s breath caught in his throat.

"By the Forge," he whispered. "That's the prince."

Jorak strode forward quickly, bowing with a hand across his chest.

"Your Highness," he said. "We weren’t told of your arrival."

Eddard smiled faintly, his fur-lined cloak catching the wind. "I didn’t come for ceremony, Commander. I came to see what we’re building."

Word of his presence spread fast.

People—Stormrage citizens and wildlings alike—stopped what they were doing to watch him, murmurs rippling through the camp like a breeze through tall grass.

"That’s him? The Emperor’s son?"

"He’s barely older than my cousin."

"Look how they bow to him."

Wildling children peeked from behind crates and barrels, wide-eyed. They whispered and giggled as they saw the teenaged prince being greeted with deference by men twice his age.

They didn’t know who he truly was—not yet. But they could sense the gravity that surrounded him.

With a polite wave, Eddard walked beside Jorak toward the fortress, passing groups of men unloading cargo.

"Commander," Eddard said, "double the guards on the outer walls. I want to make sure this new shipment isn’t lost if any of the northern clans get bold."

"Already planned it, Your Grace," Jorak replied. "But it’s good to have a Stormrage eye watching from within."

The prince’s arrival meant more than additional hands or leadership—it meant presence, authority, and hope.

And now, the colony had a symbol to rally behind.

Not just a name.

But a Stormrage, walking among them.