The Stronghammer - CH - 81

The harbor of Lorath was alive with anticipation. Word had spread quickly through the cobbled streets and among the marble courtyards: the Queen of Westeros was arriving—along with her children, her guards, and an entire retinue of servants, advisors, and scholars. The dock had been cleared, and the city banners fluttered proudly in the wind.

When the Iron Sea Dragon and its escort ships finally docked, crowds had gathered at a respectful distance, eager to glimpse the royals. As the gangplank lowered, Queen Alicent Hightower stepped gracefully onto the stone pier, followed by Princess Helaena, her golden hair veiled in soft green, and Prince Aegon, who looked visibly bored, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Behind them followed Ser David, a full company of guards, and a long procession of scholars and advisors sent by King Viserys himself.

Awaiting them was Prince Aemond Targaryen, standing tall in fine black and silver robes at the head of a Lorathi honor guard. His hair had grown longer, his posture more regal, and his presence exuded calm confidence. Beside him, Holden Cross stood like a stone sentinel.

Aemond approached first and bowed. "Mother. Sister. Brother." His voice was formal, but there was an edge of warmth as his eyes met Helaena’s.

"Aemond," Alicent said, stepping forward with arms outstretched, but he offered only a courteous embrace.

"It’s good to see you again," he said, pulling back. "You look well."

Helaena stepped in next, smiling genuinely. "You’ve grown so much, Aemond. You look... different."

Aemond smiled faintly. "Lorath has changed me."

Aegon followed last, offering a short nod. "Brother."

"Aegon," Aemond replied with equal restraint. The moment passed between them like a cold breeze.

As the entourage began to organize, Aemond raised a hand. "The palace is ready to receive you. But only you three," he added firmly, glancing at Alicent. "The scholars, guards, and advisors will remain at the guest estate."

Alicent blinked. "Aemond, they were sent by your father to advise you."

"And I thank him," Aemond said with polite indifference. "But I already have advisors here. Lorath is not Westeros, mother. I don’t need men who ignored me in court when I was a boy and had no title to now pretend they have wisdom to offer."

One of the maesters behind Alicent shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

"This is not proper," Alicent pressed, lowering her voice. "You should not be dismissing the king’s council."

Aemond’s eye sharpened. "I’m not dismissing them. I’m showing them where they belong. They’re not here to rule. I am."

Holden Cross gave a subtle nod of approval behind Aemond, but Alicent’s lips tightened.

Still, she relented, and the guards and scholars were escorted to the guest estate while the royal family was taken to the palace—a magnificent structure of dark stone and red-tiled roofs, perched high over the harbor.

Over the next two days, Aemond proudly showed his family the rebuilt grandeur of Lorath. Streets cleaned and restored, markets full of trade, and soldiers patrolling with Stormrage banners. He took particular delight in walking the halls of the ruling chamber and hosting dinners in the lantern-lit gardens of the palace.

But the crowning event came on the fourth day, when Aemond invited them to see the islands surrounding Lorath from above.

"We’ll fly," he said simply.

Alicent blinked. "On Vermithor?"

"Yes," he replied, then smirked. "It can bear the weight."

And so, they flew.

Aemond mounted Vermithor with effortless grace, then offered his hand to Helaena, who giggled nervously but climbed aboard. Alicent followed, clutching tightly to her son’s waist. Aegon hesitated, but the challenge in Aemond’s eye was too much to ignore.

When they soared above Lorath, the people below cheered. The dragon roared once, wings spread wide, casting a massive shadow over the city. From above, the city looked like a tapestry of red and stone, surrounded by glimmering sea and lush islets.

"It’s beautiful," Helaena whispered.

Aemond gave a proud nod. "And it’s mine."

Even Alicent, pressed tight behind him, murmured, "I am so proud of you."

And for the first time, Aegon had no insults to offer—only silence, and perhaps, just a flicker of envy in his gaze.


It began subtly, as most storms do—soft whispers in the corridors, disapproving glances during council dinners, and passive observations passed off as polite commentary. But beneath the surface of courtly civility, tension was beginning to boil in Lorath.

The advisors and scholars sent by King Viserys had grown increasingly restless. Expecting a city modeled after Westeros, they were ill-prepared for the freedom and reform Aemond had introduced to Lorath. Their unease turned into frustration, and their frustration into veiled contempt.

"Women sparring in the courtyard," one maester muttered as he passed through the training fields. "Is this what the Stormrage calls governance?"

Another, a scholar of House Redwyne, scoffed as he observed young girls being taught reading and basic swordplay. "Barbaric," he whispered to his companion. "A proper realm educates its men and protects its women. This is backwards."

Aemond, ever observant, noticed the shifting energy. During his daily meetings with Holden Cross, he began to receive murmurs of complaint and rumor.

"They're spreading doubt, my prince," Holden said as they walked through the garden. "And they resent that you're not treating them like they’re gods come from the West."

"Let them resent," Aemond replied coolly. "They came with the hope to influence me, not rule. And if they cannot understand that Lorath is not Westeros, then perhaps they should leave."

Holden nodded. "They're also watching me. Closely."

"They do not understand you," Aemond said, pausing to look toward the royal chambers where his mother and the others were gathered. "They never did."

That evening, Queen Alicent entered her son’s council chamber, her face tight with restrained fury. Aegon followed behind, disinterested but curious.

"You sent away the royal guards," she said without preamble.

Aemond rose from his chair, meeting her gaze evenly. "They weren’t needed. I have guards of my own."

"You insult your father by dismissing the men he entrusted to protect you," Alicent snapped. "And what of the advisors? The scholars?"

"They’ve been placed at the guest estate where they can reflect on the fact that they are guests, not anyone important to me."

Aegon smirked from the wall. "He’s not wrong."

Alicent turned sharply toward him. "You do not help."

Turning back to Aemond, she continued. "I have stood silent, son, but now I must speak. You take advice from a knight—Holden Cross. A man with no lands, no title, no standing."

Aemond’s voice sharpened. "A man who’s earned my respect."

"He is beneath your station," she hissed.

"And yet he knows more of ruling than half the lords of the court," Aemond shot back. "He’s loyal, wise, and unafraid to tell me when I err. Can the same be said of those pompous scholars?"

Alicent clenched her jaw. "You are a Targaryen. You rule by blood and legacy, not by standing beside commoners."

Aemond stepped closer, eyes cold. "I rule by what brings strength and unity. Lorath prospers under my guidance—not yours, not Father’s, and certainly not those who would rather see me reduced to a puppet."

There was a long silence. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the shadows deepened.

Finally, Alicent turned away, her voice low. "You’ve changed."

"No," Aemond said firmly. "I’ve grown."

The next morning, word was sent to the advisors and the remaining guards: they were to prepare for return to Westeros. Though some grumbled, they obeyed, sensing that their influence here had waned beyond recovery.

Below, in the streets of Lorath, children continued their lessons, women trained beside men, and the banner of Stormrage waved proudly above the palace walls.

Lord Aemond Targaryen had made it clear: he would rule Lorath his way. And not even his mother could change that.

The skies above Lorath stirred with fire once more, this time not from Vermithor’s wings but the towering silhouette of Vhagar herself. The city’s people gazed upward in awe and mild fear as the legendary dragon descended near the cliffs beside the palace. Whispers spread quickly—another Targaryen had arrived.

Baela Targaryen, eldest daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon, dismounted with practiced ease. Her silver hair whipped in the wind, and her purple eyes scanned the courtyard with purpose. She was neither overdressed nor overly polite—Baela carried herself with the grace of a dragonrider, not a lady of the court. And that’s exactly how she wanted it.

Prince Aemond Targaryen was waiting to receive her, flanked by a few of his personal guards.

"Cousin," Baela said simply, approaching.

"Baela," Aemond replied, equally curt. There had never been warmth between them, only formality. In Westeros, they had exchanged few words beyond court etiquette.

Baela didn’t waste time with pleasantries. "I heard the Queen and your siblings were here. Figured I’d come before they leave."

Aemond raised an eyebrow. "Or perhaps you came because you wanted to know more about your betrothed."

Baela smirked. "Perhaps."

As they walked through the palace halls, Aemond found Baela surprisingly relaxed. There was a calm confidence in her stride that made her feel as though she belonged in court, among problems and decisions.

"You and Eddie are betrothed," Aemond said, his tone more casual now. "Strange how time changes everything."

"We barely knew each other," Baela said. "I thought him quiet. Thought you were cold."

Aemond chuckled. "And now?"

"Now I know Eddie isn’t just quiet. He’s calculating. Kind. Thoughtful. I’ve read his letters." She glanced at Aemond. "You, though—you’ve changed."

"So have you."

They walked in silence for a moment before Baela added, "Eddie trusts you. Which means I should, too. So I want to know everything. About how he leads, how he thinks, what he believes in. If I’m to be part of his future, I need to understand the empire he’s building."

Aemond nodded. "He’s not like the rest of us. He was forged differently—under hardship, under Holden’s eye. He listens more than he speaks, and he’ll burn down a city if he thinks it’ll save a village."

Baela smiled faintly. "Then I’ll need to sharpen my tongue."

Over the next few days, Baela became a familiar sight in Lorath. She rode through the markets with Aemond, visited the training yards, and even spent time with Eddie’s old sparring companions, eager to learn about the life her betrothed had lived.

Baela borrowed Vhagar from her mother to make the journey. Her presence was felt—not just in the sky, but in court politics.

Queen Alicent noticed this more than anyone. From her private quarters, she watched Baela carefully. The young woman carried influence that worried her. She was bold, fearless, and increasingly familiar with Aemond. And that made Alicent uneasy.

One night, Alicent spoke to her son privately. "She is Daemon’s daughter. You would do well to remember that."

Aemond’s expression didn’t shift. "And I am your son. Baela is my cousin, and soon, she’ll be family to the future emperor of Stormrage. That makes her my ally."

Alicent’s voice lowered. "Your uncle despises me. You know that. He never forgave your father for marrying me. He saw it as an insult to Aemma’s memory. And he sees me as a usurper."

Aemond’s tone turned sharp. "Then let him stew in his bitterness. Baela isn’t her father. She’s strong. She’s loyal to Eddard. That’s enough for me."

Alicent folded her hands tightly. "Just be careful. That girl has Velaryon fire in her blood and Daemon’s ambition."

Aemond nodded once. "So do I."

For all the discomfort Baela’s presence brought to the older generation, the younger Targaryens found something else entirely—kinship, understanding, and the first threads of a powerful alliance. And with every visit she made to Lorath, Baela carved her place into their world more deeply.

The dragons had returned to Lorath, and they were not merely flying in the sky. They were weaving the future of the empire together, one bond at a time.