The Stronghammer - CH - 86

The air over Qohor was heavy with early morning mist as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood once more beside her dragon, Syrax, preparing to depart. Her visit had come to nothing. Daemon Targaryen—the uncle she once believed would burn the world for her—had refused to leave with her.

She had pleaded, argued, reminded him of their shared blood, their old bond, the dream they once spoke of. But none of it pierced his resolve.

Daemon had made his choice.

He had fallen deeply and truly in love with Laena Velaryon, and over time, his life had rooted itself in Qohor. He had children now, a position, a future already blooming before him.

And most importantly, he had peace.

Rhaenyra stood silent as Daemon watched from the steps of his black-stoned palace, his arms folded, Laena by his side. There was no animosity in his gaze—only finality.

"Good fortune to you, niece," he said softly.

She nodded, her face stone. "And to you, uncle."

With a flick of her hand, Syrax unfurled her wings, the wind tearing through the courtyard.

Rhaenyra mounted in silence. A moment later, they were in the air, the black walls of Qohor shrinking beneath them as she turned her face toward Westeros.

Her heart burned—not just with defeat, but with bitter reflection.

She had gambled everything on this journey, hoping to reclaim old ties, old loyalties. But Daemon was no longer hers to command.

And yet, there was one thing that gave her a measure of peace: Robert’s word.

The Emperor had been clear. Stormrage would not involve itself in Westeros.

If Aemond or Daemon chose to fight on behalf of Queen Alicent or her children, they would do so alone—stripped of their Stormrage titles, their armies, their power.

They would be dragons without wings, Rhaenyra thought. Dangerous, yes. But isolated.

It was not the alliance she had hoped for. But it was something.

As she soared westward, the cold winds of the Narrow Sea biting at her cheeks, Rhaenyra’s mind began to sharpen.

She would return to Dragonstone.

She would prepare.

And if war was coming, she would face it—not as a hopeful girl chasing old flames, but as a queen in waiting.

With or without them.

Before returning to Westeros, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen made a calculated detour. Riding Syrax across the cold skies of Essos, she descended upon the mist-veiled city of Braavos, the richest and most independent of the Free Cities.

She came not as a refugee nor a guest—but as a claimant to the Iron Throne, a royal account-holder in the Iron Bank, and a woman with a keen understanding of power.

The Sea Lord of Braavos welcomed her with all formal courtesy, granting her an audience in the high halls of the Purple Harbor Tower, draped in silks and stormglass. Rhaenyra was offered luxury accommodations, endless wine, and a procession of dignitaries who bowed with smiles that held more calculation than respect.

Braavos was not ruled by crowns or dragons—but by ambition.

And Rhaenyra knew exactly how to play their game.

She met with key holders of the Iron Bank, old men with sharp eyes and cold voices, and young ones with even sharper minds. As an established depositor, she held no small influence among their ranks.

"Your Grace," said one of the senior bankers, a narrow man named Tassaro Lann, "if war is coming to Westeros, gold will decide its victor more than swords."

"And loyalty to gold is the purest loyalty of all," she replied.

The bankmen smirked in agreement.

Over the next three days, Rhaenyra dined with merchants, whispered in marble halls, and listened to promises whispered with honeyed tones. Many offered sellswords, coin, and ships—not out of love for her cause, but out of love for what she might become.

A Queen.

But Rhaenyra was no fool.

To every offer, she nodded. She listened. But she promised nothing.

Not yet.

She made no pacts. No binding contracts. Only smiles and veiled promises that meant everything—and nothing.

Braavos was a city of masks, and Rhaenyra wore hers well.

On the third day, Syrax lifted off from the high rooftop of the Sea Watch Spire, her golden wings glinting in the sun.

The people of Braavos watched the dragon disappear into the sky, and behind her, they whispered.

“She may yet be Queen.”

“And if she is, we will have our due.”

Rhaenyra flew westward again—closer now to Dragonstone, to home, and to war.

Braavos had not promised her victory.

But it had reminded her of something important:

Every throne is built not only on fire... but on coin.



The harbor of Zeagan was alive with anticipation.

For days, word had spread throughout the capital that the ship was returning from the northern colony beyond the Wall—Stormrage’s boldest endeavor. Now, as the black-crimson sails appeared on the horizon, the crowds surged along the docks, eyes wide with awe and curiosity.

The first ship pulled into port, its hull marked with salt and frost, yet still proud. Captian Bruno stood at the prow, wrapped in silk, his face aged by wind and labor but resolute. Behind him were sailors, soldiers, settlers—and a group of figures who drew whispers from every corner.

The Wildlings.

Men and women in strange hides and furs, faces painted, expressions both wary and amazed.

The people of Zeagan pressed forward to watch them disembark.

"Are those... barbarians?" a noblewoman whispered.

"No," said a merchant beside her, "they're citizens of Stormrage now."

The docks burst into cheers as the crews came ashore. Families embraced lost sons. Children clung to fathers they hadn’t seen in months. A chorus of horns sounded as the soldiers lined up to march through the city, flanked by banners.

Emperor Robert Stronghammer awaited them at the Imperial Square, standing upon the high dais with his court, his consorts, and his children at his side.

As Bruno approached, Robert stepped forward.

"Welcome home," the Emperor said, voice deep and carrying.

Bruno knelt. "The colony stands strong, Your Majesty. The fortress is complete. The Frostfangs have begun to speak."

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Robert gestured, and golden chests were carried forth.

"For your courage, for your labor, and for the Empire," he declared, "every man and woman of the expedition is granted a purse of gold and a claim to land in the northern colony. Let your names be carved in the stones of its foundations."

Bruno bowed deeply, overwhelmed. "You honor us beyond measure."

Then, Robert turned to the wildlings, who stood awkwardly in their new leather boots and woolen cloaks provided by the city quartermasters.

The crowd watched them with wide eyes.

One wildling child clung to her mother’s leg, staring at the glittering spires and stone roads in amazement.

"They are strangers," Robert said, his voice firm but welcoming. "But they are not enemies. These people have chosen to work with us, to live beside us. Let them be judged not by their past—but by their deeds."

One of the wildlings, Torvik of the Broken Tree, stepped forward.

He bowed, stiffly. "We have never seen such marvels. Never known such food. Or clothes that did not freeze on our backs."

Another wildling, a girl named Nara, pointed at a stained-glass tower.

"Is that a castle made of color?" she asked aloud.

Laughter rippled through the square.

"It’s the Crystal Library," answered a passing court scholar. "You may visit it, if you wish."

The wildlings gawked at the marketplaces, at statues that breathed steam, at carriages pulled by enchanted beasts, and children dressed in silk.

Everywhere, eyes followed them—but not all with disdain.

Some whispered of trade.

Some of adoption.

And some—especially among the younger crowd—whispered of friendship.

By nightfall, a great feast was held in honor of the returned expedition. Spiced mammoth roasted with citrus glaze, honeyed whale meat, and wild berry wine filled the tables. The sailors told tales of their journey, of cold winds and strange stars, of dragonfire in the snow and the first golden flakes found in the mountains.

The wildlings sat among them, still uncertain, but filled with awe.

One young Stormrage guard nudged his companion. "Look at them. Never seen fire dance to music before."

"Give it time," the other replied. "They’ll be dancing soon enough."

And as the moon rose over Zeagan, the city stood united—old blood and new, soldier and settler, noble and wildling—all under the banner of Stormrage.

The north had given something back.

And it had only just begun.


The scent of salt and cedar filled the Imperial Harbor of Zeagan as three newly outfitted Stormrage ships bobbed beside the docks, their hulls brimming with provisions, tools, livestock, and the carefully selected crew for their second journey to the Northern Settlement beyond the Wall.

The expedition was larger this time.

With the success of the first colony, volunteers poured in—young men eager for adventure, seasoned builders and miners, and even families seeking land and opportunity. The gold rewards handed to the first crew had become the talk of taverns across the empire.

Those who had returned from the first voyage were not prisoners, but they had been held in isolation briefly to assess the safety of their travel. Now they were celebrated, paid handsomely, and—almost unanimously—eager to return north.

"It’s colder than a frostmaiden’s kiss," grunted Brennar of the East Coast, adjusting his pack as he boarded. "But the coin’s warm enough."

Wildlings, too, gathered by the docks. They wore fresh furs and city-crafted boots, but their eyes remained on the northern sky.

"You going back, Nara?" asked a city boy with wide eyes.

The wildling girl nodded. "The city is... beautiful. But it is not mine. The snow sings louder than the stone."

Even those who marveled at the glowing towers and heated streets found themselves longing for the open tundra, the ancient pines, the sound of snow beneath their feet. They missed their land—even if it had once meant hunger and hardship.

As the final barrels were loaded, a commotion stirred the crowd.

The Crown Prince Eddard Stormrage rode through the harbor gates on a midnight-black horse, flanked by a dozen guards.

He wore a heavy leather coat lined with direwolf fur, his sword strapped across his back. His expression was one of restless purpose.

On the dock, Emperor Robert Stronghammer stood waiting, arms folded.

Eddard dismounted and approached his father.

"I’m going," he said without preamble.

Robert’s gaze narrowed. "Norvos still bears your banner."

"And it will continue to do so," Eddard replied. "You have governors. Use one. I need this. I need to move, to work, to breathe fresh wind again."

Robert stared at him for a long moment. Then sighed.

"You always were your mother’s son," he muttered. "Fine. You’ll go. But you’ll lead. You’ll bring order. And you’ll bring your honor."

Eddard smiled. "I’ll bring Stormrage."

Robert reached out and clasped his shoulder. "Return whole. The Empire will be waiting."

As Eddard stepped aboard the lead ship, the crew erupted in cheers. Wildlings stared with open curiosity.

"That’s the Crown Prince?" whispered one boy.

"He’s going where we came from?" asked another.

"He’s one of us now," Nara said quietly. "If he returns, he’ll understand."

The sails unfurled as horns sounded from the harbor wall. Three ships turned slowly from Zeagan, bound again for the frozen north.

And upon their decks sailed men of empire, wanderers of ice, and a prince with fire in his heart.

The next chapter of Stormrage had begun.