The Stronghammer - CH - 82

The skies above Lorath roared with fire and wind as the mighty wings of Arya, the Stormrage dragon, split the clouds. The people below scattered or stared in awe, and within the palace courtyard, whispers turned to gasps. A dragon of that size could only mean one thing: Eddard Stormrage, crown prince of the Stormrage Empire, had arrived.

For the visiting Westerosi nobles, advisors, and guards, the name meant little. But the sight of the dragon landing upon the cliffs, its rider clad in black-and-crimson armor, struck terror into their hearts.

A moment later, the whispers began.

"That can’t be... it’s Eddie. The squire."

"Impossible. The one who used to eat in the servant’s hall?"

"He insulted Lord Charlwyn last year!"

"We thought he was just some arrogant brat..."

But there he was—Eddard Stormrage, descending from Arya’s back like a born conqueror, his face calm, posture confident, and his every step heavy with purpose.

Prince Aemond Targaryen was already waiting in the courtyard with Baela, both smiling broadly.

"Took you long enough," Aemond said.

Eddard smirked. "I like making an entrance."

From the sidelines, Queen Alicent looked visibly rattled, while Aegon, who had long treated Eddie like a minor annoyance, was frozen in place. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Baela walked over to greet Eddard with a knowing smirk. "You just had to show off, didn’t you?"

Eddard shrugged. "You told me your cousins were here. How could I miss the chance to say hello?"

"They’re rather quiet now," Baela whispered, glancing over at the collection of startled Westerosi nobles, advisors, and guards who were now awkwardly adjusting their behavior, unsure whether to kneel or speak.

Alicent stepped forward cautiously. "You’re... the Crown Prince of Stormrage?"

Eddard bowed shallowly. "At your service, Your Grace. Though I believe you once told me to stop lingering near your son as I was distracting him from his duties."

Alicent’s cheeks flushed, but she held her composure. "We were not aware of your... lineage."

"Few were," Eddard replied. "It was easier that way."

Then came Aegon, visibly pale, swallowing his pride as he approached. "Your Highness."

Eddard raised an eyebrow. "You used to call me 'boy' and send me to fetch your wine. Now it’s 'Your Highness'?"

Aegon stiffened. "That was before I knew who you were."

Eddard stepped closer, dropping his voice. "No. That was before you respected me. Let’s not forget that."

There was a long silence before Aegon finally muttered, "Of course."

Aemond and Baela watched the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

Later, in the palace hall, Eddard lounged comfortably at Aemond’s side as the group dined together. The Westerosi visitors, once dismissive and haughty, now sat with their backs straight, minds racing to reframe their memories of the "squire" who had been one of the most powerful young men in Essos.

"So," Eddard said with a mischievous grin, sipping his wine, "tell me again about how I was too bold for a squire. I quite enjoyed that story."

The table remained awkwardly silent. Aemond stifled a chuckle. Baela did not.

"You’re impossible," Baela murmured.

"And that’s why you like me," Eddard replied.

One thing had become clear to all: Eddard Stormrage was not a boy to be overlooked. He was the heir to an empire. And now, everyone knew it.


Two weeks had passed in Lorath, and the winds of change were already shifting again. What had started as a royal visit turned into an unexpected reckoning of identities, loyalties, and desires. Now, it was time for the Westerosi delegation to return home. The ships were being readied in the harbor, and the dragon stables had already seen Vhagar prepared for flight.

In the courtyard, Prince Aemond Targaryen stood before the assembled Westerosi guards and advisors, his tone calm but firm.

"You came with good intentions," he began, eyes sweeping over the silent group, "but I do not need advisors from the Red Keep to guide me. I am not a boy needing coddling. I am the Lord of Lorath."

A maester cleared his throat but said nothing.

Aemond continued, "If any of you wish to remain here, you may do so—but not in my household. Earn your keep. Lorath is not a gift. It is a duty."

Queen Alicent stood beside Aegon, frowning but saying nothing. Prince Aegon, on the other hand, looked more than ready to go.

"Finally," he muttered to his mother. "Back to a place where I matter."

Aemond turned slightly. "You matter here as much as any man who’s done nothing to earn his station."

Aegon flushed, looking away. He had spent the past two weeks in Lorath watching others command respect—Aemond as a ruler, Baela as a dragonrider, and Eddard as a crown prince. Here, he was simply a guest. No servants bowed extra deeply. No one flinched at his orders.

Meanwhile, Helaena stood apart from her family, near the stables where Arya, Vermithor, and Vhagar rested. Her gaze was wistful.

"Do we really have to go?" she asked softly.

Alicent approached her, sighing. "You know your place is in King’s Landing."

Helaena hesitated. "But here... I don’t have to be a princess. I can ride, I can swim, I can fish with Aemond and Baela. I can just be."

Alicent touched her daughter’s cheek. "I know it’s different here. But you belong with us."

What Alicent didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that Helaena’s reasons for wanting to stay weren’t just about freedom.

She had been watching Eddard Stormrage closely. Even before his arrival, she had liked him—quietly, secretly—back when he was just Eddie the squire. Now, knowing he was the heir to an empire, her feelings only deepened. It wasn’t the crown she wanted. It was him—his strength, his humor, his quiet compassion.

Late one evening, Helaena had snuck into one of the old libraries of Lorath, and what she found had sent her heart racing.

In Stormrage, emperor did not marry as Westerosi kings did. They took lovers openly and publicly. Robert Stronghammer, the Emperor himself, had many. No formal queens, no sealed contracts—only those he trusted and cared for.

And in that knowledge, Helaena found something she hadn’t dared feel in a long time: hope.

Even if Baela was betrothed to Eddard, Helaena knew that in Stormrage, that didn’t close the door entirely.

Baela might be his betrothed.

But perhaps—just perhaps—she could still have a place in his heart.

Not as a queen. Not as an empress.

But as his.

That morning, as they prepared to leave, Helaena walked quietly to the training yard where Eddard was speaking with Aemond and Holden Cross.

"Leaving already?" Eddard asked with a teasing smile.

"Yes," Helaena replied, her voice soft but steady. "I just... wanted to say goodbye."

Eddard tilted his head. "I hope it won’t be long until we see each other again."

Helaena looked up at him, her cheeks flushed. "Neither do I."

And with a final glance, she turned and walked away.

Aemond watched her go and nudged Eddard. "You know she’s smitten."

Eddard chuckled. "I’ve noticed."

Aemond grinned. "You're going to have a complicated future."

Eddard looked toward the sea, where the ships were preparing to sail. "Aren’t we all."

And so, the Westerosi sailed away from Lorath, but they left behind something more than footprints and diplomatic posturing. They left behind cracks—cracks in loyalty, in emotion, and in hearts still learning where they truly belonged.


The time had come again for the Council of Stormrage, a gathering that dictated the pulse of the empire. And as tradition and duty demanded, the great lords of the empire were to return to its heart—Zeagan, the capital forged by fire, stone, and ambition.

From the towering cliffs of Lorath, three mighty dragons took to the sky. Arya, bold and swift. Vermithor, ancient and powerful. And Vhagar, vast and awe-inspiring. Upon their backs rode Eddard Stormrage, Prince Aemond Targaryen, and Baela Targaryen, their cloaks trailing in the wind as they soared across the skies toward the capital.

Baela clung tightly to Vhagar’s ridges, her heart alive with both excitement and nerves. She knew her father, Daemon Targaryen, would be attending the council, and part of her wished to see him—but more than anything, she wanted to spend more time with Eddard. The idea of staying near him in Zeagan brought her silent joy.

As the dragons passed over the Spine Mountains, they descended toward the massive circular structure carved into the side of a high valley wall—the Zeagan Dragonpit. Built only a few years prior, it was a wonder of architectural mastery, with great iron gates, high perches, and towering platforms where dragons could rest and be fed. While the wild skies and mountains remained their favored domain, the dragons accepted this as a second home when their riders came to court.

The moment they landed, the dragonpit roared to life.

Stablehands in fireproof cloaks rushed forward. The Cannibal, already resting lazily in one of the central alcoves, raised his massive head but did not stir.

Above, four smaller dragons—still massive by any other standard—soared playfully across the stone arches. They belonged to the two young princes and two princesses of the Stormrage royal family, siblings to Eddard. These were the next generation of dragonriders, still bonding with their beasts, still learning the skies.

Eddard dismounted first and was immediately embraced by two young figures—his younger siblings, flushed with joy and full of laughter.

"Eddie!" cried his little sister, hair whipping in the breeze.

"You missed our dragons’ first loop-the-loop!" added his younger brother proudly.

Eddard ruffled both their heads. "I’ll make you fly a hundred loops when I return. Don’t let them forget how to twist."

Baela watched with a smile as Aemond landed nearby and dismounted Vermithor with practiced ease. The dragons were led to their feeding stations while the three riders were escorted to the palace.

Zeagan’s great Stormspire Palace welcomed them like home. Marble pillars, obsidian floors, and golden banners bearing the sigil of Stormrage—an imperial lion wrapped in stormclouds—lined the hallways.

In the throne chamber, Robert Stronghammer, the Emperor, stood with several of his consorts. Eddard’s mother, a tall and silver-haired woman of westrosi origin, stepped forward and kissed his cheek.

"My boy," she said warmly. "Finally returned."

Robert stepped down from his dais and clasped his son’s arm. "Anything I need to know before the council, unofficially?"

Eddard gave a thoughtful pause. "Aemond’s doing well in Lorath. Daemon’s keeping Qohor in line. But the Free Cities are watching us more carefully now. There’s tension brewing in Tyrosh and Myr. Nothing urgent—but something worth watching."

Robert nodded. "We’ll address it in the small council."

Soon after, the doors to the Inner Council Chamber were sealed. Only a handful of men were permitted within: Eddard, Aemond, Daemon Targaryen, Holden Cross, and Darius, the Emperor’s master of whispers.

The room was windowless, built for secrecy, with a single lantern-lit table at its center.

Daemon leaned back lazily in his chair. "Lorath’s running fine. If anyone’s plotting treachery, they’re hiding it well."

Darius cleared his throat. "There’s movement in Volantis. Our agents report naval gatherings—possibly defense drills, but they’re increasing. Pentos remains neutral, but they’ve sent envoys to Myr."

Aemond frowned. "If they form a pact..."

Holden Cross interjected, "Then we tighten the routes. Strengthen coastal command. Stormrage was not built to be reactive—we lead."

Robert tapped his fingers against the table. "We’ll prepare. Quietly. But no provocations—yet."

The candlelight flickered over their grim faces.

Outside, the city of Zeagan bustled. Dragons rested, citizens prepared for the coming Grand Council, and Baela wandered the palace halls—her eyes always drifting toward wherever Eddard disappeared.

The empire stood strong. But the storm was never far behind.

And the true council was only just beginning.