The Stronghammer - CH - 83

The sea was calm, but the mood aboard the returning ships was anything but. The sails of the Iron Sea Dragon and its accompanying vessels pulled slowly toward the shores of Westeros, back to where the journey had first begun. For Queen Alicent Hightower, her daughter Helaena, and her eldest son Prince Aegon, the voyage back to King's Landing was drenched in bitter silence.

There had been no formal farewell. No ceremony. No honors.

Only Aemond’s cold declaration: “Lorath is not Westeros. I have my own men.”

Those words echoed like a slap across every proud noble and highborn advisor who had believed they were sailing east to claim greatness. They had come with dreams—of posts as advisors, command of garrisons, positions as tutors, ministers, and trusted stewards. Instead, they were sent back as nothing more than passengers.

Below deck, one of the knight-captains slammed a goblet against the wooden table. "We were dismissed like beggars. I trained half my life to protect a prince, and now I’m told I’m not needed?"

Another man growled, "We went with the king’s blessing! With his banner! Aemond should have been grateful."

Queen Alicent stood quietly in the captain’s quarters, her back to the gathered nobles, staring out of the narrow window toward the sea. She said nothing for a long time.

Finally, she turned, her voice cold. "We will not forget this."

Prince Aegon, slouched in a corner with a goblet in hand, muttered, "He acted like a lord above lords. My brother, denying us like that."

Helaena, seated beside him, didn’t speak. Her face was unreadable, but her gaze lingered on the waves behind them—as if she longed to turn back.

One of the lesser lords stood. "What happens when we return to King’s Landing? Most of us resigned our positions or handed them over, expecting permanent placement in Lorath. We have nothing to return to."

Alicent’s eyes narrowed. "That is the true insult. We went in service. We returned in disgrace."

As the ships docked at King’s Landing, the realization sank in. Many of their old positions had been filled. New lords had gained favor. The court had moved on.

When Queen Alicent stepped foot onto the docks, her expression was stiff and measured. A handful of retainers met her, offering only formal words and shallow bows. The court buzzed with rumors, and none dared ask what had happened in Lorath aloud—but the whispers spread.

Later that night, Aegon stormed through the Red Keep, furious. "He humiliated us!" he shouted. "He thinks he’s better than us because he has a city and a title!"

Alicent sat in her solar, listening with weary eyes. "He may be better, Aegon. At least in the eyes of the people."

Aegon turned, eyes wide. "You’re taking his side now?"

"I’m speaking the truth," Alicent said evenly. "Aemond rules. You drink."

Aegon’s mouth twisted in pain and anger before he turned away.

In her chambers, Helaena sat in silence, staring out toward the sea. She thought of dragonback rides, of freedom, of Eddie.

They had returned to Westeros.

But none of them were the same.


Prince Aegon Targaryen returned to King's Landing as if nothing had changed.

The moment he stepped foot back inside the Red Keep, the atmosphere around him shifted. Courtiers bowed more deeply. Lesser lords clamored for his attention. The whispers that followed him through the halls turned to praise and sycophancy. He was no longer the overlooked brother of a rising eastern lord. Here, in Westeros, Aegon was a prince of the realm, and people treated him like one.

He welcomed it eagerly.

Within days, Aegon resumed his old habits. He drank into the early hours, laughed raucously in the dens of silk-clad courtesans, and wandered through the city’s brothels with old friends and new flatterers. When he walked through the streets, he did so with a swagger that hadn’t been seen in months. Gone was the brooding brother scorned in Lorath—Aegon was back in his element.

"Lorath was a cage," he told a laughing group in a high-end tavern, goblet in hand. "Let my brother have it. I’ll take the fire and spice of King’s Landing any day."

The crowd nodded, laughed, and raised their glasses. Aegon drank deeply.

Yet not everyone adjusted so easily.

Princess Helaena sat alone most mornings, her hands idle in her lap as her maids laid out silks and embroidery frames. The old rhythm of courtly life resumed with suffocating ease—lessons in dance, singing, needlework, and courtly manners.

She hated it all.

In Lorath, she had been free—free to ride, to learn what she wanted, to laugh beside Aemond and Baela, to explore scrolls and dragon lore and to feel the wind on her face. Here, she was a role. A dress to be worn. A name to be paraded.

When no one watched, she stared out toward the east, eyes fixed beyond the horizon.

She thought often of Eddard Stormrage—not just the way he looked or carried himself, though that did linger in her thoughts, but the way he spoke and listened. How he didn’t seem bound by the old rules, how he smiled at her not because she was a princess but because he wanted to.

He was betrothed to Baela. That was a fact.

But Helaena knew something else—dragons were never monogamous.

In the old scrolls she read by candlelight, she found stories of Targaryens with multiple lovers, of alliances forged in fire and freedom. If she had remained longer in Lorath, she might have had a chance to speak with Eddard alone, to suggest something daring, something unthinkable in the courts of Westeros but not in the free empire of Stormrage.

A political alliance. A shared bond. A future.

But now, she was back in a place where such thoughts were dangerous. And all she could do was dream of what could have been.

In the silence of her chambers, surrounded by silks and songbooks, Helaena whispered a single name to the wind.

"Eddard."

And in the distance, the dragons stirred.


Queen Alicent Hightower stood at the tall windows of her solar, the soft afternoon light bathing the red stone walls in a golden glow. Her hands, folded in front of her, were still. Yet her thoughts wandered far across the sea, to the grey and crimson towers of Lorath, and to the son she had left behind.

Lorath.

She had not expected to find it so beautiful. The cliffs that held the city, the winding bridges over canals, the towers etched with foreign carvings, and the ever-present roar of dragons overhead. It was a place unlike any in Westeros—both ancient and alive.

But what struck her most was Aemond—her Aemond—standing not as a son in her shadow, but as a lord, a ruler in his own right. He had changed. Commanded. The people followed him. And he had refused the very company she brought to aid him.

A knock came to her door, soft but deliberate.

"Enter," she said, turning slowly.

King Viserys Targaryen stepped into the chamber, leaning slightly on his cane. His face was paler than before, his eyes more tired, but there was a quiet sharpness in them that had not dulled.

"Alicent," he said. "I want to speak of Lorath."

She gestured to the cushioned seat beside her. "Of course."

Viserys lowered himself slowly, wincing. "I’ve heard the guards and advisors returned angry. Disappointed. I had expected more cooperation."

Alicent’s expression did not change. "Because they thought they would be rewarded, not used."

"Explain it to me," he said, watching her closely.

She nodded slowly. "They went to Lorath with ambition. They saw Aemond as a means to elevation. But they forget that before he ruled, they treated him with indifference. Barely acknowledged him."

Viserys looked away. "They were... foolish, then."

Alicent’s tone sharpened, though her voice remained calm. "Foolish and proud. They bowed when he was powerful, but where were they before? Why should he trust men who scorned him when he was merely a prince without a seat?"

Viserys sighed. "Still... he could have accepted some."

"He has his men," Alicent said firmly. "Men who stood by him without promise of reward. That’s who he trusts now."

Viserys was quiet for a moment. Then he asked the question he had been holding back.

"Do you think I’ve failed him?"

Alicent looked at her husband. Her voice was soft now. "No. But you failed all of us when you refused to change the law of inheritance."

Viserys’s eyes narrowed. "You would bring that up now?"

"Yes," she said, unwavering. "Because every whisper in the court, every move by Rhaenyra’s allies, every hesitation from your own lords—it all stems from that decision. They believe Rhaenyra is the heir. And no matter what Aemond achieves, or what Aegon was promised, that shadow lingers."

Viserys looked down at his hands. "I did what I thought was right."

"And now our sons fight for scraps of legacy," Alicent replied. "While Rhaenyra waits with her own court, with her own dragons, biding time."

Silence fell between them again.

Finally, Viserys murmured, "Aemond is strong. Perhaps stronger than I ever was."

Alicent nodded. "And he will not forget how they treated him before. That is what makes him dangerous—and worthy."

Outside, the ravens flew toward Dragonstone and Driftmark, toward Pentos and Volantis. The world was shifting.

And in the Red Keep, old choices cast long shadows.


On the cliffs of Dragonstone, where ash-gray skies met the black sea, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood overlooking the horizon. The wind tangled her hair, and the salt stung her eyes, but she did not blink. Her gaze was fixed eastward—toward the empire she once might have ruled.

The Stormrage Empire.

She had heard of its glory. Its cities were rich and blooming, its armies vast, its dragons soaring. And at its center, ruling like a storm-crowned giant, was the man she had once called lover—Robert Stronghammer.

She had refused him. Once.

Long ago, when he had stood before her, scarred and honest, offering not just love but power, she had turned away. Westeros was her destiny, she had believed. The Iron Throne her rightful place.

But now? That dream cracked more each day. King Viserys grew weaker, the realm more divided. Alicent’s sons plotted, and Aemond, now the lord of Lorath, already had Stormrage influence behind him.

If a civil war did erupt—and all signs whispered it would—Stormrage would stand with Aemond. Or worse, with Aegon, if Aemond chose his brother.

Rhaenyra clenched her fists. She could not allow that.

Inside the ancient fortress, her servants prepared her supplies—fine silks, Myrish wine, rare maps, and sealed chests of letters and gifts. This was not a war march. This was diplomacy. Charm. Subtlety. Survival.

"We ride soon," she told Ser Harwin Strong, who stood by the gates, silent and watching.

"Do you think he will receive you?" he asked carefully.

She looked out over the sea. "He will. Robert always had a soft spot for the past."

Harwin nodded, though doubt lingered in his eyes. He had heard the stories—how Robert now ruled with iron will and open fire, how his empire bent not for love but strength.

Still, Rhaenyra knew him differently. Robert was a man of passion. And she had been his first.

"He may yet give me the world," she whispered. "Or at least a place within it."

She was not without strategy. Robert still held ties to Daemon, her uncle and strongest supporter. If she could not win Robert back with history, she might with blood—a reunion with Daemon could tip scales.

As the dragons were prepared—Syrax leading the flight—Rhaenyra donned her traveling cloak. Her children watched silently from the stone walls, uncertain.

She kissed them each once. "Watch for me. I’ll return with a future."

As Syrax took to the skies, the sea opened before her, endless and gleaming. Her path lay eastward—to Robert, to Daemon, to whatever fate awaited in the empire of Stormrage.

This was not a queen’s retreat. It was her countermove.

One last gambit to seize destiny before it slipped forever from her grasp.