The Stronghammer - CH - 79

A year had passed since the war began—since the first swords clashed and dragonfire tore through the skies. The once-divided lands of Norvos, Lorath, and Qohor now bowed to the might of Stormrage.

In that year, the cities and the lands between them had changed. The trio of Free Cities, once ruled independently, were now unified under one banner. Roads were repaired, patrols of disciplined soldiers kept bandits at bay, and farmers who once feared raids now toiled in peace. The people spoke in hushed, reverent tones of the new rule—the Stormrage Empire.

In the grand hall of Zeagan, now not just a capital but the heart of an empire, Robert Stronghammer sat on his throne—a throne reforged from black steel and adorned with the sigil of Stormrage. The banners of the newly-formed empire hung on both sides, displaying the crowned black lion with a crimson background.

Holden Cross, the seasoned master-at-arms, stood to Robert’s right, his presence as solid as ever. He had just returned from Lorath, where he had been guiding young Aemond Targaryen in matters of governance and combat.

“Empire,” Robert mused, tapping his warhammer lightly against the stone floor. “It still sounds strange to my ears.”

Holden gave a slight smile. “A well-earned title, Your Majesty. You forged it with fire and steel—and kept it with order.”

Robert nodded thoughtfully. “And the people? Do they accept it?”

Holden nodded. “More than you might think. Patrols in the countryside have made the roads safe. Farmers who once feared for their lives now feel secure. Even the common folk between cities now see the benefits. They call you the ‘Protector of the East.’”

Robert scoffed lightly. “A title too noble for a man like me. I’m just a knight who learned to fight.”

Holden raised an eyebrow. “A knight who broke three cities and forged an empire.”

A voice interrupted their conversation as Princess Nymella and Prince Stannis entered the hall, both bowing before their father.

“Father,” Nymella said, her voice steady and clear, “a raven from Qohor. Lord Daemon writes that the city is flourishing. The trade routes have reopened, and the merchants have ceased their complaints. He has taken his role seriously.”

Robert smiled with satisfaction. “Daemon may be a rogue, but he knows how to rule when given the chance. Loyalty comes easier when there’s something to lose.”

Stannis spoke up next. “And from Norvos, Crown Prince Eddard reports that the city has accepted his rule. He’s been organizing the local militias to ensure security between the walls and the farmlands. The people are cautious, but they respect his strength.”

Robert nodded. “Good. And Lorath?”

Holden stepped forward again. “Aemond is still young, but he has shown growth. I have been overseeing his training, both as a ruler and as a warrior. He’s eager, but I keep reminding him—conquering a city is one thing, keeping it is another.”

Robert chuckled. “You’re a good teacher, Holden. I trust you to guide him well.”

Holden bowed his head slightly. “He’s resilient. And Vermithor’s presence keeps any thoughts of rebellion at bay. Aemond’s youth may be a weakness now, but his ambition will forge him into a proper lord.”

The doors to the hall opened, and a herald entered, bowing low. “Your Majesty, emissaries from Lorath and Qohor have arrived, bearing tribute and seeking an audience.”

Robert leaned back in his throne. “Let them in. Let the world see that Stormrage does not rule by fear alone.”

As the emissaries entered, bringing gifts and formal declarations of loyalty, Robert allowed himself a moment of reflection. One year ago, this alliance would have been impossible. Now, with the free cities unified and the lands between them secure, his dream of a powerful and stable empire was becoming reality.

Later that evening, as the festivities continued, Robert found himself speaking privately with Holden.

“You’ve done well with Aemond,” Robert said. “He’s a boy who needs guidance—and not just the kind that comes from battle.”

Holden nodded. “He admires Eddie. Wants to live up to his legacy. I see promise in him. He’ll grow into the role.”

Robert looked toward the distant mountains, where the lands of the free cities stretched out like a tapestry. “Good. Let him learn. One day, he may need to fight for this empire. I’d rather he be prepared than reckless.”

Holden gave a rare smile. “He’s learning from the best. You taught me that sometimes strength comes not just from muscle, but from knowing when to wield it.”

Robert looked back at his oldest friend and nodded. “A lesson I hope my children remember when I’m gone.”


The taverns of Braavos were never quiet, but tonight they hummed with a nervous energy that couldn’t be drowned out by ale or song. Seated around a long, worn table in the heart of the Moon Pool Tavern, a group of merchants, sailors, and captains whispered in hushed tones. The subject on everyone’s mind: the Stormrage Empire.

"They took Qohor without a single flame," murmured a spice merchant, his hands trembling around a goblet of sour red. "Not a soul dared resist once the gates opened."

"Aye," replied a sea captain, his beard flecked with salt. "And Norvos fell within a day. The nobles tried to fight, but their own people handed over the keys. They fear dragons more than their own lords."

A sellsword at the edge of the group scoffed. "Wouldn’t you? They say the sky turned black with wings. Five dragons, circling above the city, and when the doors opened, it was already done."

The merchant wiped sweat from his brow. "And now they’re calling it an empire. Stormrage Empire. That brute Robert Stronghammer declared himself Emperor after his son took Norvos."

The captain leaned in. "You think Braavos will be next?"

The room fell silent. A younger sailor, barely past his sixteenth year, spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper. "My father says Braavos is too strong. Too rich. They wouldn’t dare."

An older, scarred man, who had fought in the disputed lands, shook his head. "Strength? Riches? Means little when dragons can burn your ships before they even reach the docks. Stormrage has power. And it’s spreading."

Meanwhile, across the sea, the rulers of Pentos gathered in the palace of the richest magister, their silk-clad forms glistening in the candlelight. A magister with a pointed beard, Magister Laedor, slammed his jeweled cane against the marble floor.

"We cannot simply watch as the Stormrage Empire swallows our neighbors! If we wait, we’ll be next."

Another magister, a balding man named Merex, frowned. "If we strike first, it would be seen as provocation. Robert Stronghammer is looking for an excuse. One move from us, and we give it to him."

"Then what? Sit and wait until his son knocks on our gates?" Laedor snapped.

From the back, a pale, thin man named Artar spoke, his voice dry as parchment. "Perhaps diplomacy. An envoy. If we recognize his new titles, perhaps he will leave us be."

Laedor sneered. "And when he grows tired of ruling three cities? When he hungers for more?"

Silence settled like a shroud.

In Lys, where the sapphire sea kissed white sand shores, a council of merchants and guild leaders debated the same issue. The Mistress of the Silk Guild, a striking woman named Darella, tapped her lacquered nails against the map spread out before them.

"The Stormrage Empire is consolidating. They have the trade routes from Qohor and Norvos. Their patrols make the land routes safer. Soon merchants will prefer the Stormrage roads over our ships. We’re bleeding wealth already."

A merchant lord, thick around the middle, grumbled. "They’ve made it clear they’re not stopping. If we join forces with Pentos and Myr, we might—"

"And risk a war?" Darella interrupted. "We’d be provoking dragons. It would be our downfall."

Back in Volantis, the Triarchs held a tense meeting in the Black Walls. The High Triarch, a severe man named Veratho, stood at the head of the long, ebony table.

"Our scouts report that Stormrage’s soldiers now patrol the roads between the free cities they’ve taken. Robert Stronghammer’s son rules Norvos, Daemon Targaryen rules Qohor, and Aemond Targaryen holds Lorath. They have established order swiftly and brutally."

One of the younger Triarchs, Vargos, glanced nervously at the others. "If they continue to expand, they could challenge even Volantis."

An older Triarch scoffed. "They’re not so foolish. We are the oldest, the first. We have armies, fleets—"

"And what good will they do against dragons?" Veratho interrupted. "We must decide whether to treat the Stormrage Empire as an ally or a threat. If we provoke them, they might strike. If we ignore them, they might strike anyway."

In Myr, the council of artisans debated differently. They feared for their craft, their independence. Myros, a master glassmaker, spoke to the gathered guilds.

"Stormrage’s new order is efficient. But efficient is not always free. If they come, they’ll want taxes, obedience. Will we be allowed to practice our craft as we see fit?"

In Tyrosh, amidst the purple dye vats and fragrant marketplaces, a conclave of pirate lords and mercenary captains argued fiercely. One-eyed Darnal, leader of the Bloody Suns, sneered. "If they come for us, we fight. Stormrage doesn’t rule the sea yet."

Captain Farros, a grizzled veteran, shook his head. "We’ve seen their ships. Stormrage is building a fleet. They’re not content with just the land. They’ll come for the ports next."

As word of the growing Stormrage Empire spread, fear and uncertainty brewed in every Free City not yet conquered. None dared attack first, knowing that one wrong move would give Robert Stronghammer the justification to strike. Yet, the fear of being next in line gnawed at them, and whispers of alliances, pacts, and secret treaties began to circulate.


King Viserys Targaryen sat in the solar of the Red Keep, the soft crackle of the fire barely cutting through the murmurs of his council. His face, lined with age and the weight of ruling Westeros, softened into an unexpected smile as he read the latest reports. For the first time in what felt like years, relief washed over him.

The news from the East was startling, to say the least. The Stormrage Empire—a kingdom reborn as an empire, stretching from the heart of Stormrage to encompass Qohor, Norvos, and Lorath. An unstoppable force. Yet, it was not Westeros that Robert Stronghammer set his eyes upon. Instead, his ambitions stretched across the narrow sea. Viserys exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing.

"It seems," he murmured to himself, "that the mad stag hunts in the East, not the West."

Beside him, his trusted advisor, Ser Harwin Strong, nodded. "A fortunate outcome, Your Grace. Robert Stronghammer’s focus on the Free Cities means Westeros is safe—for now."

Viserys traced the edge of the letter, his fingers trembling slightly. "You know as well as I do, Harwin, that Robert could have been a threat to the Iron Throne. But his expansion eastward means he’s more invested in establishing his dominance there. That buys us time—and peace."

The King’s relief was not just political. Personal joy bloomed within him as he read another part of the report.

"Daemon," Viserys said softly. "My unpredictable, impulsive brother. Lord of Qohor now." He couldn’t help but chuckle. "And to think, I feared he would return to Westeros one day, sword in hand, demanding a crown."

Harwin smiled wryly. "Lord Daemon may be many things, Your Grace, but he knows when to seize opportunity. Ruling Qohor will keep him occupied."

Viserys nodded. "Indeed. With his own city to govern, he will be content. At least for now."

His eyes moved further down the page, and his smile widened when he read about his younger son. "Aemond... my little boy. Lord of Lorath. At such a young age, to bear such responsibility. I wonder if he understands the weight of it."

Harwin replied, "It is said that the master-at-arms of Stormrage, is guiding him. A good man. Disciplined and fierce. Aemond is learning from the best."

Viserys sighed. "It’s strange. In Westeros, second sons receive little. A title at most. A keep if they are lucky. I often wondered what I would do with Aemond when Rhaenyra and her line took precedence. But now... now he has a city to call his own."

The king’s voice lowered to a whisper. "Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. Daemon and Aemond—both lords of cities in the East. As long as they remain loyal to Stormrage, they will be far from the conflicts of Westeros."

Harwin added thoughtfully, "It also means that Stormrage, with two Targaryens holding power, is unlikely to move against the Iron Throne. Robert would not risk alienating his own trusted lords."

Viserys’s relief turned to contemplation. "Aemond is young. He will need guidance. Perhaps... if we send some of our men—advisors who understand Westerosi customs—they could help him navigate the responsibilities of ruling Lorath. It would also mean having our eyes and ears in the heart of Stormrage’s new territory."

Harwin’s eyes brightened. "An excellent plan, Your Grace. It would strengthen ties and ensure that Aemond is well-supported."

Viserys looked out the window toward the sea. "Send word to Lorath. Prepare a company of trusted men—scholars, knights, and diplomats. Tell Aemond they are sent in good faith, to assist him in ruling and to remind him that his family remains close at heart."

As Harwin bowed and left to make arrangements, Viserys leaned back in his chair, the tension finally lifting from his chest. The world beyond Westeros was changing. An empire had risen. Yet, for now, the lion hunted far from his borders. And as long as the Targaryens held influence in that distant empire, Westeros would be safe from the Stormrage tide.

Smiling softly, Viserys whispered, "Perhaps this storm will never reach our shores."