The Stronghammer - CH - 85

Since the conquest of Norvos, Lorath, and Qohor, the Stormrage Empire had transformed its newly acquired territories into thriving bastions of imperial strength. Roads were repaired, ports were revitalized, and trade resumed under banners of black and crimson.

The cities were no longer broken by internal squabbles or divided by petty rivalries. Now they stood united, bound by the strength of Emperor Robert Stronghammer and the careful governance he had put into place.

It was not just the cities themselves that flourished—the lands in between, once neglected and wild, were now patrolled by Stormrage garrisons and protected caravans. Farms expanded. Markets grew busier. Even former dissidents grudgingly admitted that the empire brought peace where there had been none.

From his court in Zeagan, Robert Stronghammer watched it unfold with grim satisfaction.

At a council meeting, he leaned back in his throne, hands steepled under his chin.

"Our power grows," he said quietly to Holden Cross, Darius, and the gathered lords. "The Free Cities see it. They fear it."

Holden, ever the realist, nodded. "And yet none dare strike."

Darius, the spymaster, smiled thinly. "Because they remember Qohor."

Robert’s gaze sharpened.

Indeed, it was the Free Cities themselves who had given Stormrage the right to conquer. Stormrage never invaded without cause; the Free Cities, fearful of rising strength across the Narrow Sea, had attacked first—and they had been broken for their arrogance.

Now the other Free Cities—Pentos, Tyrosh, Myr, Lys, Volantis—whispered and schemed behind their walls. They formed uneasy alliances, secret compacts, promises inked in blood and sealed with gold.

But they dared not act.

Spies embedded across the Free Cities reported the same again and again:

"They fear another Qohor."

"They fear giving you another reason to march."

"They will fight together if attacked, but none will strike first."

Robert understood the game now. He had become a lion that stalked the edges of their fields, waiting.

One misstep from them—one provocation—and the Empire would fall upon them like a storm.

Until then, Robert would watch.

He would strengthen the cities he ruled.

He would fortify the North.

He would build ships, drill soldiers, and raise dragons.

The Free Cities had made one mistake already.

They would not be given a second chance.

And the world, Robert knew, would soon belong to Stormrage.


The winds were strong and the skies wide open as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen flew eastward, astride her great golden dragon, Syrax. She had chosen not to sail by ship like a common merchant or emissary. No, Rhaenyra was a dragonrider, blood of the old Valyria, and she would arrive in Stormrage in a way befitting her heritage.

The journey was long and grueling, but Syrax cut through the clouds with ease, her wings stretched wide against the endless blue. Below them, the world was a living map—rolling green fields, jagged mountain peaks, winding rivers, and scattered villages like flecks of dust on a canvas.

Rhaenyra’s heart was heavy with anticipation. Each beat of Syrax’s wings brought her closer to Stormrage, the empire born from what was once the lawless Free Cities and the wild lands beyond. What had once been known as The Axe—a chaotic region of trade and piracy—had been transformed into a proud heartland of Robert Stronghammer's domain.

She marveled as she crossed over lands that had once been savage and broken. Now, from the sky, she could see new roads carved through the hills, farms spread like quilt patches across valleys, and towns bustling with life. The scars of conquest were still visible in places—burned-out old manors, shattered keeps—but they were being quickly erased by the steady hand of the empire.

The closer she flew to Zeagan, the more obvious the Stormrage influence became.

She spotted garrisons training in the open fields, their banners fluttering proudly in the wind. Fleets of merchant ships with crimson sails moved along the rivers and coastline, and even the markets bustled with exotic goods from across Essos and beyond.

Rhaenyra adjusted her grip on the saddle, tightening her legs against Syrax's powerful shoulders. The dragon sensed her tension and let out a low, comforting rumble.

"Soon," Rhaenyra whispered to herself. "Soon we’ll see if old bonds still hold."

Her mind raced with possibilities. She had once been close to Robert, once shared whispered promises under starlit skies. Could that bond be rekindled? Would he welcome her as a guest... or see her as a threat?

Below, the vast river that fed into Zeagan came into view, its waters gleaming in the late afternoon light. Beyond it rose the city itself—Zeagan, the jewel of the Stormrage Empire.

Massive walls surrounded it, strong and unyielding. Towers reached toward the heavens, and dragons—dozens of them—circled lazily over the city like living guardians.

Rhaenyra felt Syrax’s excitement as they descended slowly toward the Dragon Tower, a massive spire near the heart of the city built specifically to house visiting dragons.

"Easy, girl," she murmured, stroking Syrax's scales.

With a final beat of her wings, Syrax landed heavily on the designated platform. Soldiers in black and crimson uniforms stepped forward, bowing deeply.

Rhaenyra dismounted with grace, her silver-gold hair catching the sun. Her cloak whipped around her as she straightened her shoulders and faced the approaching officials.

"Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen," one of them announced, bowing low. "Your dragon is as beautiful as I have heard. Welcome to the Empire of Stormrage."

She smiled thinly.

"Then let us see," she said, voice cool and strong, "what welcome truly means."

Her journey was over.

Her true game had just begun.


Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was received with all the honors due to her birthright. Courtiers in fine silks bowed deeply, servants scurried to offer her the finest rooms in the palace of Zeagan, and guards snapped to attention as she passed. Every gesture was correct, every courtesy extended—but it all felt cold.

She was housed in a wing reserved for foreign royalty, her chambers overlooking the bustling heart of the capital. Yet, despite the polite words and respectful bows, the Emperor himself did not come to greet her.

She waited.

An hour turned to two, two to a day. Each passing hour fanned the flames of her anger.

Robert would never have made me wait, she thought bitterly. He would have dropped sword and shield to see me.

But those days were long past.

When Robert finally did grant her an audience, he did so not with intimate eagerness but formal dignity. He entered the audience hall surrounded by his councilors, consorts, and guards—a ruler, not a lover.

Rhaenyra rose from her seat, heart pounding, but when their eyes met, she saw it clearly.

There was no burning fire in Robert’s gaze.

No hunger. No regret.

Just the calm, assessing look of a man who had built an empire from nothing and had no time for the ghosts of his past.

Worse still, surrounding him were women—beautiful, powerful, vibrant. Some were queens in all but name, others fierce warriors or wise councilors. They laughed with him, touched his arm, shared inside jokes.

Rhaenyra’s blood boiled with jealousy.

She was still beautiful, still proud, but she could see it now—Robert had moved on. He had strong sons and daughters, heirs who were already shaping the next generation of the empire.

And I...

She clenched her fists.

She had stayed in Westeros, fought for a crumbling inheritance, and now even that throne was slipping from her grasp.

I could have been an Empress, she thought bitterly. I could have ruled beside him. My children could have flown over a world united in fire and steel.

But instead, she was a guest in a foreign court, clinging to dreams long dead.

She tried to rekindle their old bond, smiling warmly, speaking fondly of their past.

Robert listened politely.

But he did not reach for her hand.

He did not linger when duty called him away.

And Rhaenyra, proud dragon of old Valyria, found herself dismissed—gently, but unmistakably.

That night, alone in her chamber, she sat by the fire, staring into the flames.

Anger burned in her chest.

So did sadness.

She had lost him.

And worse, she had lost the future she had once been promised.

Outside her window, dragons roared over Zeagan—free, mighty, unconcerned with the broken hearts left behind.


The next day, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was granted a private audience with Emperor Robert Stronghammer in one of the high towers of Zeagan. The chamber was simple, practical—designed for discussion, not splendor.

Robert sat at the head of a large oak table, a goblet of wine before him. His demeanor was composed but distant, and Rhaenyra felt the weight of formality press down harder than any crown.

She wasted no time.

"I have come," Rhaenyra said, her voice steady, "to seek your support."

Robert raised an eyebrow. "Support for what, Princess?"

"For my claim to the Iron Throne," she said. "Westeros is unstable. My father grows weak. Queen Alicent and her brood scheme to usurp me."

Robert's face did not change. He leaned back slightly.

"Westeros," he said carefully, "is another kingdom. The Stormrage Empire will not interfere in the politics of a foreign crown."

Rhaenyra’s heart tightened. "But if Aemond Targaryen or Daemon Targaryen decide to aid Queen Alicent and her sons—"

Robert cut her off smoothly.

"Both Aemond and Daemon are now Lords of Stormrage. Their loyalty is to the Empire. If they involve themselves in the squabbles of Westeros, they do so without my blessing."

Rhaenyra hesitated. "You would stop them?"

Robert’s voice grew cold. "If they act independently, they will no longer be Lords of Stormrage. They will lose their lands, their titles, and their dragons will be exiled from our skies."

The words hung heavy in the air.

"Aemond and Daemon are no longer princes of Westeros," Robert continued. "They are part of the Empire. And I will not allow personal ambitions to jeopardize the stability of my realm."

Relief flooded through Rhaenyra. She sighed deeply, her shoulders relaxing.

"Thank you, Robert," she whispered.

He offered her a polite nod, but no more.

The audience ended soon after.

Yet Rhaenyra’s mind churned. She had her reassurance, but she needed more.

She needed Daemon.

Uncle Daemon, the fierce warrior, the dragonlord, the man who had once harbored feelings for her. She remembered the heat in his gaze, the ambition that burned behind it.

If Daemon could be persuaded to leave Stormrage and throw his strength behind her cause, they could seize Westeros together.

And she was willing—if necessary—to offer her hand in marriage.

As Rhaenyra mounted Syrax once again, she set her sights eastward.

Toward Qohor, where Daemon ruled.

Toward a new plan.

Toward a second chance at a crown.

The storm in Zeagan was over.

The real game would begin in Qohor.


The flight from Zeagan to Qohor was swift. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen rode high upon Syrax, her mind churning with plots and possibilities. When she descended upon the Free City, she was greeted not with hostility, but with formal ceremony. After all, she was family.

Daemon Targaryen, Lord of Qohor, awaited her atop the grand stairs of his black-stoned palace, his silver hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. Beside him stood his wife, Laena Velaryon, and his children—beautiful, proud, and unmistakably Targaryen.

It was the first time Rhaenyra truly saw how much time had passed.

Daemon’s face was a little older, the lines around his eyes deeper, but he stood with the same dangerous grace he always had. Laena, dignified and sharp-eyed, watched Rhaenyra with cool curiosity.

The children stood arrayed behind them.

It was when Rhaenyra’s eyes fell upon the eldest daughter, Baela Targaryen, that her heart sank.

Baela, fierce and beautiful, was betrothed to none other than Eddard Stormrage, the Crown Prince of the Stormrage Empire.

Daemon, with a knowing smile, spoke first.

"Welcome to Qohor, niece. It’s been some time."

Rhaenyra smiled, masking the unease bubbling inside her. "Too long, uncle. Too long."

The formalities were observed. They dined together, laughed over old tales, and exchanged stories of distant relatives.

But Rhaenyra’s mind raced.

If Daemon leaves with me, she thought, he will lose Qohor. He will lose his standing in the Empire. And worse—he will betray Baela’s future. The next Empress.

That night, Rhaenyra requested a private audience with Daemon.

They met in his solar, the firelight throwing long shadows on the walls.

"You didn’t come here for pleasantries," Daemon said, pouring them both wine.

Rhaenyra didn’t deny it. "I need you, uncle."

He arched an eyebrow. "To what end?"

She leaned forward, voice low and urgent. "Westeros is tearing itself apart. I need strong allies. I need you. Together, we could take the Seven Kingdoms. Rule them, as we should have."

Daemon studied her for a long moment.

"And what of Qohor?" he asked softly. "What of Baela’s future?"

Rhaenyra hesitated. "I can make you King Consort. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will stand beside me."

Daemon laughed—a short, bitter sound.

"You ask me to abandon what I have built," he said, "to gamble on a kingdom at war with itself."

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded. She saw the calculation in his eyes, the weight of duty and ambition wrestling within him.

She knew then: this would not be easy.

Daemon was no longer just the rogue prince. He was a lord, a father, a builder of futures—not just his own.

And for the first time, Rhaenyra wondered if she was already too late.