The Stronghammer - CH - 87

The northern wind howled across the frozen plains, biting at every exposed inch of skin. For Commander Jorak Vel, a man who had spent most of his life under the warm sun of Essos, the cold was an enemy more relentless than any sword.

Wrapped in multiple layers of furs and leather, Jorak paced the ramparts of the wooden fortress, built with wildling and Stormrage hands. The snow never stopped falling. The frost clung to his beard. Yet he stayed—because the Emperor had given him a mission, and Jorak intended to complete it.

It had been days since the combined team of miners and wildling scouts had ventured deep into the Frostfang Mountains, seeking the veins of precious metals rumored to lie buried in the rock. Each day brought silence.

Until today.

A shout came from the southern watchpost. One of the guards ran toward him. "Commander! We have a rider—one of the wildlings!"

Jorak’s heart surged. He rushed to the gate, where the figure was already dismounting—a tall, gaunt wildling with a frost-bitten cheek and eyes wide with adrenaline.

"You live?" Jorak asked.

The wildling nodded quickly. "The miners found it. Gold, yes—but silver too. Deep, wide, rich. We need more men. More hands."

Jorak’s breath caught. "Where?"

"Half a day west from the split rock valley. They’ve marked the path."

Jorak wasted no time. That evening, beneath the flickering torches of the fortress square, he gathered 100 men—forty Stormrage soldiers, twenty miners, twenty wildling workers, and twenty builders.

He addressed them from the wooden dais, his voice hoarse but strong.

"You leave at dawn. You carry tools, timber, food, and fire. You will reach the site, confirm its size, and begin construction of a new outpost. A small wooden fortress will be raised to protect our claim. You will not just be miners—you will be guardians of Stormrage gold."

He turned to the wildlings. "You asked for warmth. You asked for food and clothes. I give you work that will bring you both—and pride."

There was no cheering. Just nods. Grunts of approval. These were not soft men. They had survived much worse.

That night, Jorak stood in his quarters, hands trembling slightly as he poured himself warm wine.

"We found it," he whispered. "By the gods of fire and frost, we found it."

He looked northward, toward the mountains.

A mine of gold, a river of silver.

And now, the real challenge would begin.

Protecting it.

Working it.

And turning the dreams of Stormrage into legacy.

He had no illusions about the peace in the north. For every friendly wildling clan, there could be ten more who saw the Stormrage fortress as an invading force.

And so, he prepared.

He ordered ranger patrols to be sent out—Stormrage soldiers paired with seasoned wildlings who knew the land like their own bones. Their task was simple: map the terrain, scout for dangers, and most importantly, monitor for any signs of hostile wildling movements.

One such patrol, led by Captain Hallen, was nearing the edge of a frozen forest to the east when they came upon something unexpected.

A black horse stood shivering under a tree, its breath misting heavily in the air.

The scouts approached cautiously, weapons half-drawn. Nearby, lying half-buried in snow, was a figure clad in thick black wool and leather—the garb of the Night’s Watch.

The man was unconscious, a bloodied gash on his temple. His sword lay sheathed but untouched. One of the wildlings, a grizzled man named Skarl, immediately reached for a large stone.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Hallen snapped, stepping between Skarl and the wounded man.

"It’s a crow," Skarl growled. "You don’t leave crows breathing."

Another wildling chuckled grimly. "He’ll wake up and gut us in our sleep. That’s what they do."

"He's half-dead," Hallen replied. "He’s not gutting anything. We take him back. Let the Commander decide."

Skarl scowled, hefting the stone again. "We don’t forget what they did to our kind. You think they’ll show you mercy when they find us here?"

"I don’t care what you forget or remember," Hallen barked. "He’s still a man. And if he survives, he might have answers. We bring him back. That’s an order."

The wildlings exchanged glances, but relented.

Together, they lifted the black brother onto a makeshift sled, fashioned from pine and rope, and began the slow journey back to the fortress.

When they arrived, the gates opened swiftly. Jorak was already waiting at the ramparts, alerted by one of the scout birds.

"What is this?" he asked as the sled passed through.

"Night’s Watch," Hallen said. "Found him near Frostpine Ridge. Alive. Barely."

Jorak descended the steps, approaching the figure. Blood matted the man’s dark curls, and his face was pale as frost.

"Get him to the infirmary," Jorak said at once. "Warm blankets. Clean water. Stitch that wound."

"You’re helping him?" asked Skarl, who had followed behind.

Jorak turned, his eyes cold as the mountains around them.

"If he’s a scout, I want to know why he was out there. If he’s running from something, I want to know what. And if he’s bait for something worse..."

He looked out over the snow-covered horizon.

"...then I want to be ready."

The wildlings said nothing more. But that night, more stones were gripped tightly in hands.

And the fires in the watchtowers burned a little hotter.

Because somewhere in the dark, the Night’s Watch had stirred.


Cregan Umber opened his eyes slowly. Pain throbbed at the side of his head, and his leg ached with every breath. The roof above him was new—fresh timbers, recently laid, still smelling of cut pine. Not the cold stone ceiling of Castle Black, nor the crude shelter of a wildling hut.

He blinked.

Where am I?

The bed beneath him was far too soft to be Night’s Watch issue. The blanket was clean. A fire crackled in a stone hearth nearby.

He tried to move, groaning as he swung his legs over the edge.

His sword was still there.

Resting beside the bed. Untouched.

Cregan narrowed his eyes. If he had been captured, his weapon would be gone. If he had been threatened, he would not be lying in comfort.

He reached for the blade but could barely grasp the hilt before his leg buckled. He dropped to one knee, panting.

Footsteps approached.

The door creaked open.

A man entered. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in thick fur-lined clothing—not unlike a nobleman’s hunting gear, but with finer stitching and smoother hide. His face was clean-shaven. Hair trimmed short.

He didn’t look like a wildling.

He looked... civilized.

The man knelt and handed Cregan a bowl of steaming stew. He gestured for him to sit.

Cregan’s instincts screamed caution, but his stomach howled louder. He accepted the bowl and drank greedily. Meat, roots, and some kind of spice he didn’t recognize.

When he finished, he looked up and asked hoarsely, "Where am I?"

The man tilted his head. He spoke, but not in the Common Tongue.

Not in the Old Tongue either.

Valyrian.

Cregan recognized the cadence—he had heard Targaryens speak it before. He could understand fragments, but not enough to respond.

"Do you speak Westerosi?" he asked again.

The man only looked at him, his expression calm.

Not a prisoner. Not a wildling. Not a brother of the Watch.

Cregan’s mind raced.

He remembered riding north, tracking the Ice River Clans. A storm. Something spooking his horse. A fall.

And now this.

He clutched his ribs and eased back onto the bed.

Wherever he was, he wasn’t under threat.

Not yet.

The fire crackled.

The strange man stood by the window, watching the snow fall.

Cregan drifted back into sleep with one thought lingering in his mind:

What in the name of the Old Gods is this place?


When Cregan woke again, the pain had dulled to a manageable throb. His head was clearer. His limbs ached, but the stiffness was retreating. He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He rose slowly, but steadily this time, and walked to the door. He pushed it open.

Outside, the world was a blend of motion and purpose. The small wooden fortress buzzed with activity. Men in furs—well-organized, well-fed—moved with practiced rhythm. They weren't wildlings. Their clothes were tailored, their weapons forged.

And most striking of all, wildling children were playing in the courtyard.

Laughing.

Chasing each other in the snow without fear.

Cregan stood for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

No one stopped him. No one even paid him special attention. A few nodded in passing.

As he took a step into the open yard, a man approached him with a confident stride. He looked to be in his early forties, broad-chested, wearing a thick fur cloak trimmed with leather.

"You’re up," the man said in clear Common Tongue. "Good. Thought you might be dead for a while."

Cregan blinked. "Who are you?"

"Jorak Vel, Commander of this settlement."

Cregan looked around again. "This... is a wildling camp?"

Jorak shook his head. "This is a Stormrage colony. You’re standing in the first fortress of the north beyond the Wall."

Cregan frowned. "That’s not possible. No kingdom rules this land."

"And yet, here we are."

"Why would you come here?" Cregan asked. "This is dangerous, cursed ground."

Jorak nodded. "It’s harsh, yes. But it’s free. No lords. No taxes. Just land, mountains, and more riches under the snow than you’ve seen in a lifetime. We’ve found silver. Fish like you wouldn’t believe. And wildlings who would rather eat warm meals than freeze in the woods."

Cregan folded his arms. "You won’t last. Winter will eat you alive. And when the wildlings turn—"

"Then we’ll be ready," Jorak cut in. "We don’t take anything we can’t defend. And most of the wildlings are working beside us now. The rest will join. Or they won’t."

The two men stared at one another in silence.

"I need to get back," Cregan finally said. "Castle Black. They’ll want to know I’m alive."

Jorak didn’t flinch. "Of course. You’re free to go."

Cregan raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

Jorak smiled. "We’re not prisoners here. And besides, once you return, word will spread. The Seven Kingdoms will know that Stormrage now has roots beyond the Wall."

"You’re not worried about that?"

Jorek shrugged. "The land belongs to no one. We took it. Built on it. Bled on it. Let them come if they dare."

Cregan stared at the man.

Mad or brave? Or both?

Either way, he knew his mission was now larger than himself.

He would return to Castle Black.

But he wouldn’t go alone.


The arrival of the second expedition from the south brought renewed energy to the wild terrain of the Frostfangs. One hundred fresh men disembarked with determined faces and tools in hand, following the guidance of wildling rangers who had become unlikely allies.

They trekked over frozen ridges and narrow trails until they reached the mining site—a narrow valley nestled between two ice-bitten peaks. There, gleaming in the exposed rock, were veins of gold and silver, shimmering faintly under the weak northern sun.

There was no time wasted.

Miners and builders immediately took to the site. The miners began clearing the tunnels, reinforcing shafts, and hauling out the first precious ore. The builders, meanwhile, began the construction of a small mountain fortress—a wooden stronghold with spiked palisades and a watchtower overlooking the gorge. It would serve as both a shelter and a line of defense.

"Gold draws more than just men," said Foreman Krennor, an older builder from the Stormrage capital. "It draws greed. It draws blood. If we don’t protect our claim, we’ll lose it."

The men agreed. Shifts were divided between mining, guard duty, and construction. The wildlings proved useful not just in labor but in security—watching the woods, setting traps, and guiding hunting parties.

Every shovel of dirt brought up more than metal.

It brought hope.

It brought the idea of permanence.

And it brought the eyes of the Frostfangs upon them.

The Stormrage Empire now had its first true hold in the northwestern mountains.

And it would not be easily taken.