The Stronghammer - CH - 84

The longships bore the unmistakable banner of the Stormrage Empire—a black dragon on a white field. Its sails stretched wide in the chill winds of the far north, casting deep shadows on the waves as it approached the jagged coastline near Hardhome. The crew aboard were not mere sailors; they were seasoned warriors, handpicked by Robert Stronghammer himself.

They dropped anchor just beyond the ice-bitten cliffs. The beach was empty, the forests beyond dark and silent. But there was no fear among the men. These were soldiers hardened in the fires of conquest—from Norvos, Lorath, and Qohor. They had fought in dragonfire, stormed stone cities, and now they had come to forge something new.

A Stormrage colony, in Westeros.

Not in the south. Not in any lord’s domain.

But beyond the Wall—in the free, wild, and ancient lands.

Robert had chosen this site for a reason. He remembered the stories—old truths whispered over wine by Eddard Stark, his brother-in-arms and once dearest friend.

“The Frostfangs,” Eddard had said. “They hold more gold than the Lannisters ever dreamed of. But no Stark ever mined it. The wildlings would never allow it. And the brothers of the Night’s Watch... they swore oaths, not gold.”

That memory never left Robert.

The wildlings cared nothing for gold or silver. To them, it held no meaning—only survival mattered. And the Black Brothers who knew of the riches? They could not mine what their vows forbade them to claim.

But Robert was neither a wildling nor a man of the Watch. He was an emperor. And more importantly, he was Essosi now. His banners flew across oceans.

As the crew began unloading supplies—stone, steel, lumber, lanterns, and reinforced tools—they did so with precision. Robert had given strict instructions:

"Build strong. Build silent. Do not provoke the wildlings. But if they come—speak first, fight only if forced."

Leading the expedition was Commander Jorak Vel, a towering man of Stormrage, who had fought beside Robert since the formation of Stormrage.

He stood at the edge of the camp, eyeing the Frostfangs in the distance, the peaks cloaked in mist.

"Do you believe the gold is truly there?" asked his second-in-command, Ser Kavren Darr, as he secured a crate of food.

Jorak nodded slowly. "If emperor believes it, I believe it. Stark men saw it. Rangers died with that truth."

Kavren narrowed his eyes at the mountains. "And if the wildlings come?"

Jorak’s voice was steady. "Then we show them we’re not kneelers. We’re not southern lords. We’re something else."

Deep in the Frostfangs, the mountains slept, hiding their ancient veins of gold and silver, untouched for centuries. Robert’s gamble was simple: if the wildlings considered Westerosi their enemy, perhaps they would treat Essosi differently.

The icy wind rolled in from the north, carrying the scent of pine and snow. Along the rocky shore near Hardhome, the men of Stormrage worked steadily, their axes ringing out as they chopped through the ancient, frostbitten trees of the northern wilds.

There were three hundred soldiers in total, all hardened veterans of the Stormrage campaigns. Yet they worked like laborers—cutting, hauling, sawing, and slowly beginning the first structure of their colony: a fortress of spiked logs and defensive walls.

Every day, fifty men stayed aboard the flagship, anchored just offshore. The vessel—more a floating fortress than a transport—contained the most critical provisions: food, medicine, weapon caches, and arcane tools enchanted in Zeagan. The watch crew rotated daily, ensuring vigilance never waned.

Commander Jorak Vel, sweat frozen on his brow, oversaw the progress from atop a small slope.

"We’ll finish the northern palisade by next week if the weather holds," said Ser Kavren Darr, hammering a stake into the ground.

Jorak grunted. "Good. No provisions move off the ship until every wall stands tall and sharp. If the wildlings come in force, we hold. Not scatter."

The work was slow. The ground was uneven and icy, the wood dense and stubborn. But the men were disciplined, driven by the knowledge that this was no temporary camp—this was the first Stormrage colony on Westerosi soil.

At dusk on the twelfth day, one of the perimeter scouts, Daric of Norvos, returned in haste.

"Wildlings," he panted. "A large clan—at least sixty, men and women. They’re moving along the eastern ridge. Armed. Watching."

Jorak’s jaw tightened. "Too few to take the camp by force. But enough to try if they're desperate."

Kavren looked grim. "And desperate men do stupid things."

Jorak nodded slowly, then ordered a signal torch lit. "Full alert. Quietly."

That night, instead of preparing defenses, Jorak made a bold move.

"Prepare food," he told the cooks. "Good food. Essosi dishes, all of it. And open the gate. We’re inviting them to supper."

Kavren blinked. "You're feeding them?"

"They’re watching us, starving, ready to die for a loaf of bread. Feed them first. Then speak."

As the fires were lit, and the scent of cooked lamb, spiced potatoes, and honeyed flatbread filled the air, the wildlings approached. They emerged from the trees, tense and suspicious, their leader—Sena of the Shattered Tooth Clan—leading them forward.

Jorak stood before the fire pit, arms wide. "You’re welcome to eat. No weapons inside the circle. Our word."

Hunger overrode suspicion. One by one, the wildlings laid down their crude weapons made of wood and stone and joined the circle. They devoured the food—eyes wide in disbelief.

"What is this?" one of them muttered, chewing slowly.

"Essosi cooking," Jorak said with a small smile. "Spiced meat from Stormrage, salt from the Smoking Coast."

Even Sena had to admit, "I’ve never eaten like this. Not ever."

But as bellies filled, voices whispered. Some wildlings still looked to the walls being built, to the ships beyond.

"We should kill them now," one muttered. "Take the rest of their food. Burn it down."

Jorak heard the tension and raised a hand.

"Before you make a decision," he said, voice calm and clear, "let me tell you a story."

The wildlings turned.

"It’s an old tale," Jorak continued. "From the Free Cities. It’s about a poor farmer. One day, he finds a goose that lays a golden egg. Every morning, a single golden egg. He becomes rich. But the farmer is greedy. He wants more. So he kills the goose, thinking he’ll find a treasure inside. But he finds nothing. No gold. Just blood and feathers."

He looked around the fire.

"That goose could’ve fed his family for generations. Instead, he had nothing. Because he took too much, too fast."

Sena stared at him, unmoving.

"You’re saying we should let you live. And in return, you’ll keep feeding us?"

Jorak shook his head. "I’m saying this land is big enough for all of us. We’re not here to take it all. But if you attack us, you kill the goose. You lose the eggs. You lose everything."

Silence. Then a low, thoughtful murmur among the wildlings.

Sena rose. "We’ll talk. Among our own."

"Do that," Jorak said. "We’ll be here. The food will be hot tomorrow too."

And with that, the wildlings slipped back into the trees.

The men of Stormrage returned to their work, but now with double watches.

The north had tasted their food.

And now they would see if the fire could hold.

The next day dawned clear and cold, but it carried with it the unmistakable sound of many feet approaching. From the edge of the frost-laced woods, over a hundred wildlings emerged—men, women, children, and elders. It was now clear that the night before, the warriors had hidden their most vulnerable, fearing an ambush. But now, seeing that the Stormrage soldiers offered fire and food, they had brought their families.

Jorak Vel stood at the gate of the half-finished fortress, arms crossed, watching the approach.

"They trust us," said Ser Kavren Darr, stepping beside him.

"They’re starving," Jorak replied. "Trust comes later."

Despite their need, the Stormrage ship had ample provisions. The wildlings were once again fed—hearty stews, grilled fish, and bread thick with nuts and salt. The children devoured it with wide eyes and eager hands. For many, it was the first full meal in days.

Once they’d eaten, Jorak addressed Sena, the wildling chief.

"This won’t be free every day," he said calmly. "If your people want to eat, they need to work."

Sena studied him, nodding slowly. "What kind of work?"

"Whatever helps us finish this place. Cut timber. Dig foundations. Clear paths. Carry stone."

There were murmurs among the wildlings, but none protested. Most had lived on the edge of hunger all their lives. The idea of earning food everyday was a gift.

Within a day, hundreds of hands were at work. The sound of axes biting into wood echoed through the trees. Pits were dug, beams raised, and the wall around the settlement began to rise faster than ever.

Among the Stormrage men was Drona, a quiet craftsman from the Zeagan harbor. He had served as both a warrior and a ship builder in his time. Seeing the nearby sea brimming with untouched waters, he built the first fishing boat.

With Stormrage lumber and wildling strength, more boats followed. Fishing lines were cast. Nets were knotted and thrown. The bay, untouched for generations, offered bounty beyond imagining. The fish were large and plentiful. And soon, the crew caught their first sperm whale—a massive, meaty beast that fed dozens for days.

Wildlings took to the sea with wonder, learning quickly. Jorak often smiled watching them drag in nets, wide-eyed with the day's catch.

"They're turning into sailors," Kavren joked.

"They’re turning into allies," Jorak replied.

A month passed.

The walls were finished—thick logs, sharpened spikes, and high watch platforms. The fortress stood proud at the mouth of the icy river, protected on all sides by cliffs, sea, and forest. Inside, tents were replaced with timber barracks. Smoke curled from stone chimneys. Children laughed in the training yard, running between the soldiers and their wildling neighbors.

The wildlings had begun forming their own internal order. Elders organized work, younger men coordinated watch shifts, and the women began setting up drying racks and cookfires outside their shared shelters. What began as desperation had blossomed into something more.

Hope.

As the days passed and the fortress stood complete, a new purpose began to take root among the Stormrage men—the purpose that had driven this venture from the very beginning: gold.

Now that they had secured their foothold in the North, it was time to explore the Frostfangs—those ancient, towering mountains whispered to be rich with veins of gold and silver. But the Stormrage soldiers knew they could not explore the wilds alone.

Among the wildlings who had chosen to stay, there were nomads—men and women who had walked the frozen land since birth, who knew the passes, the rivers, the caves, and the cliffs. When the Stormrage miners revealed their goal, the wildling rangers didn’t laugh. They simply nodded.

“We know where to take you,” one said.

And so, a ranger party was formed: thirty Stormrage men—twenty of whom were seasoned miners, trained in identifying precious ores—and twenty wildlings, acting as guides and protectors. They packed heavy and armed heavily, setting out through the snow toward the towering peaks that glimmered in the distance.

Commander Jorak Vel watched them leave from the ramparts. "That’s the spearpoint," he said to Kavren. "Now let’s see if it finds blood."

Meanwhile, the ship that had anchored in the icy bay had completed their role. With the fortress now secure and all provisions moved inside, it was time for it to return to Zeagan—to restock, report, and return.

A hundred Stormrage soldiers boarded the ship. These were men chosen for rotation—some to return to their homeland sick, others to bring back fresh recruits, tools, supplies, food, livestock, even parchment and ink to begin charting official records.

But this time, they were not going alone.

Twenty wildlings joined them.

Sena herself had approved the idea when Jorak made it. "Let them see your world," he said to Sena. "Let them understand what’s possible. Maybe they’ll want more than a scrap of fire and bone."

And so the wildlings boarded the ship, eyes wide, hearts pounding. For many, it was their first time on the sea, their first time leaving the only land they’d ever known. They were about to see cities, ports, lighted streets, markets, and marvels their ancestors could never imagine.

Jorak stood on the shore as the sails caught wind. "They’ll return different," he murmured. "They’ll bring stories. And those stories will plant seeds."

Kavren folded his arms beside him. "And once the mountain gives up its gold? We won’t just be settlers. We’ll live like nobles."

In the distance, the ranger party vanished into the woods, heading for the golden promise hidden in the heart of the Frostfangs.

And out at sea, the Stormrage ship sailed south—with wildlings aboard—toward a world of stone towers and imperial banners, where the future was already written in steel and fire.

The colony had survived. Now, it would grow.