The Stronghammer - CH - 78

The black-and-gold banners of Stormrage flew high over the city of Qohor, flapping in the wind above the Tower of Black Marble. With the ruling council slain, loyalists silenced, and the people subdued beneath the watchful eyes of five dragons, the city was firmly under Daemon Targaryen’s rule. Streets once echoing with pride and rebellion now rang with quiet submission and the low hum of rebuilding under new governance.

From the battlements of the tower, Robert Stronghammer looked out one final time over the conquered city.

He turned to Daemon, who stood beside him, arms folded, armor polished and newly adorned with the sigil of Stormrage. Caraxes lounged in the distant courtyard, coiled like a resting beast, still dripping with the terror he inspired.

“You’ve done well,” Robert said simply.

Daemon inclined his head. “And you’ve kept your word. I’m Lord of Qohor, and I’ll keep it loyal to you.”

“You’ll do more than that,” Robert replied. “You’ll keep it honorable.” He stepped away from the edge, placing a hand briefly on Daemon’s shoulder. “There are eyes on us now. And we need not only strength—but example.”

Daemon gave a short nod, understanding the weight behind those words.

Later that morning, Robert gathered his commanders in the central square of Qohor. The people lined the sides of the street, watching in silence as the war-scarred king addressed his army.

“Stormrage does not conquer for the sake of gold or vengeance,” Robert announced. “We conquer to build peace. Order. Strength.” He looked out over his men, his voice rising. “I return now to Stormrage, to my children and to my throne. But my eyes will remain on the East. Qohor stands. And soon, Norvos will as well.”

He turned to his son, Eddard Stormrage—his heir, the crown prince, who now stood in polished black steel, tall and resolute. Beside him was Aemond Targaryen, his silver hair flowing like a banner in the wind, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

“You will take Norvos,” Robert said to them. “You will fly high and strike fast. With your dragons, your blades, and your judgment. Show them the justice of Stormrage.”

Eddard stepped forward. “We won’t fail you, Father.”

Aemond smirked. “We’ve got dragons. What could go wrong?”

Robert allowed himself a rare chuckle before giving one last nod of approval. “Take half the army. Burn nothing unless you must. Norvos is a proud city, but they’ve lost already—they just don’t know it yet.”

As Robert mounted Cannibal, the ground shook beneath the dragon’s weight. Soldiers formed ranks, horns sounded, and the King of Stormrage began his journey west—back to Regan, to his capital, to his family, and to the crown he had bled to protect.

Meanwhile, Eddard and Aemond turned west, with fire in the sky and steel at their sides.

But they would not ride alone.

From the southern passes, an allied force was on the move—soldiers from Nymeris, the Free City bound to Stormrage by an alliance and a new treaty of trade and brotherhood. Their dark-skinned warriors marched under silver banners, fierce and fast, their curved blades glinting in the sun. Their ships had already cut off Norvos’s escape by river.

Norvos would not stand a chance.

And as Arya, Vermithor, and the banners of Stormrage and Nymerish cut across the horizon, the war moved ever forward—toward the last city that had dared to challenge the Storm.


The golden gates of Zeagan, the proud capital of Stormrage, opened wide under the noonday sun. The city had not seen such anticipation in years. Banners bearing the sigil of Stormrage draped every tower and rooftop. The cobbled streets had been swept clean, flower petals scattered by children, and silver bells rang from the spires of the Great Keep.

The people waited, shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks toward the southern road. And then, like thunder rolling across the horizon, came the hooves.

King Robert Stronghammer had returned.

He rode at the head of the Stormrage army, mounted upon his great black warhorse draped in crimson barding. His warhammer rested across his back, his armor still marked with the blood of conquest. Behind him marched the battle-hardened soldiers of Stormrage—half their number, the rest left behind to guard Qohor and support Eddard's campaign in Norvos. Their faces were sun-worn, their armor scratched and dented, but they rode proud beneath the cheers of a grateful people.

Crowds roared. Women wept. Children shouted his name.

“Stronghammer! Stronghammer!”

Confetti and petals danced through the air. Lutes played, drums pounded, and trumpets blared. The scent of roasting boar and spiced wine filled the streets.

Atop the marble steps of the Palace, Robert’s children stood waiting. Behind them, Robert’s lovers and consorts stood arrayed in elegance and anticipation, dressed in finery that shimmered in the sunlight.

When Robert dismounted at the foot of the steps, Elira descended first, her arms flung around her father before he could even speak.

“You’re late,” she whispered, eyes shining.

“I had a kingdom to break first,” Robert said with a low chuckle, holding her tight.

Vaeron stepped forward next, offering the crown. “For the King who came home victorious.”

Robert took it, not to wear, but to lift high above his head. “For Stormrage!” he roared.

“For Stormrage!” the city answered in thunder.

Later that night, Zeagan became a city of firelight and laughter. The great square was filled with food and song. Dancers from Nymeris performed for the court. The Stormrage soldiers were treated like legends—taverns poured free ale, bakers handed out golden-crusted pies, and the nobility hosted grand feasts.

The King sat atop the High Table, his armor shed for royal black robes lined in wolf-fur, a goblet of deep red wine in his hand, surrounded by his children and companions.

One of his younger consorts leaned in, whispering, “Did Qohor kneel easily?”

Robert grinned. “Qohor didn’t kneel. It bled. Then it begged.”

Laughter erupted around the table.

But amid the joy, Robert’s eyes drifted southward—toward Norvos. Toward Eddard and Aemond. The war wasn’t finished. Not yet.

Still, for one night…
There was peace.
There was triumph.
There was home.

And the King of Stormrage was once again where he belonged.

The road to Norvos stretched before them like a river of dust and stone, winding through hills and over rivers, flanked by tall pines and scorched farmlands abandoned in the shadow of war. The Stormrage banners fluttered in the breeze, red and gold against the cold blue sky, as thousands of soldiers marched in tight formation—disciplined, silent, resolute.

At their head rode Prince Eddard Stormrage, the crown prince of the realm, and beside him, on a dark armored steed, rode Aemond Targaryen, the silver-haired dragonrider of Vermithor.

Above them, two massive shadows passed through the clouds—Arya and Vermithor, circling slowly, watchful and calm.

They could have flown ahead. Conquered Norvos in days. But this wasn’t a war to be won with speed. It was a campaign to be held. And for that, they needed men—not just dragons.

“I don’t like the waiting,” Aemond muttered, glancing at the long trail of troops behind them. “We could be in Norvos already. It’s not even two days’ flight.”

Eddard, eyes ahead, replied without turning. “And what then? Burn their gates down and sit in an empty city while our army lags a week behind?” He shifted in the saddle. “This isn’t about speed. It’s about order. When Norvos falls, it must fall with discipline. With the authority of Stormrage. Not chaos and ash.”

Aemond let out a small breath, clearly frustrated. “Still feels slow.”

Eddard gave him a sidelong glance. “It’s also for your sake.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “My sake?”

“You’re strong,” Eddard said. “You’re a fine rider, a natural with your blade. But you’re still young. You’ve never led a siege, never watched a man bleed out from a wound you gave him. You’re growing—but there’s more to war than flame and steel.”

Aemond looked down at the reins in his gloved hands, silent.

“And besides,” Eddard continued, “you’re learning fast. I’ve seen the way Holden Cross trains you. You’re more precise now. You don’t rush into every swing. That’s progress.”

The mention of Holden Cross brought a faint smirk to Aemond’s lips. “He doesn’t go easy on me.”

“Good,” Eddard said. “He shouldn’t.”

Holden Cross, the grizzled master-at-arms of Stormrage, had trained Eddard himself once. Now he had taken Aemond under his wing, and though the lessons were brutal, the progress was undeniable. Aemond’s strikes had gained weight. His footwork had grown sharper. His eyes were becoming a warrior’s eyes.

And most importantly—he listened.

As they rode through a shallow river crossing, the golden domes of Norvos shimmered faintly in the far distance, nestled between high cliffs and ancient walls. Eddard slowed his horse and raised a hand, signaling for a halt.

He turned to Aemond. “We’ll reach Norvos in three days. Between now and then, we train every morning and every night. Sword, formation drills, siege protocol. If we’re to lead this siege together, I need to trust you not just as a rider—but as a commander.”

Aemond nodded firmly. “Then I’ll give you no reason to doubt me.”

Eddard smirked. “Good. Let’s get to work.”

And as the two young dragonlords resumed their march beneath the circling wings of Arya and Vermithor, the road to Norvos narrowed. The city waited behind its high walls, unaware that its days of independence were already numbered.


The sun had barely risen over the jagged cliffs when the horns of Stormrage echoed across the valley. The crimson and black banners of Stormrage billowed in the cold wind as Eddard Stormrage and his army reached the gates of Norvos. From the battlements above, the city looked tired—aged walls cracked from old wars, towers dimmed by smoke and ash.

Behind those walls, fear ran deeper than the rivers surrounding the city.

The people of Norvos remembered the defeat—how their armies had been shattered in the east, their sellswords butchered by dragons, their pride broken by Robert Stronghammer. Now, before their gates stood his heir, Eddard Stormrage, flanked by thousands of disciplined soldiers and shadowed by Arya and Vermithor circling high above.

By the time the army had fully stationed in formation before the walls, a small group of robed men emerged under white banners of parley. They were not soldiers. Their voices trembled as they approached the crown prince, who waited atop his black warhorse, armored in shadowsteel, his sword resting at his hip.

One of the elder emissaries stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Prince Eddard… we seek peace.”

Eddard studied the man coldly. “Peace?” he echoed. “After Norvos marched on Stormrage, burned our lands, slaughtered our people?”

“We… we were deceived,” the man stammered. “Qohor promised victory. Lorath bought mercenaries. We believed their gold and their lies. But now… we are vulnerable. Most of our warriors are dead. We only want to preserve the city. Spare our people.”

Eddard dismounted slowly and stepped toward the envoys, his cape dragging over the stones.

“Then here is your peace,” he said with grim finality. “I enter Norvos today. As its Lord. There will be no negotiations. There will be no council. This city either kneels… or burns.”

The air chilled.

The emissaries exchanged nervous glances. One fell to his knees without hesitation. “Then we kneel.”

But word of Eddard’s terms sent waves of unrest through the city.

The common folk, weary of war and starvation, were willing to accept Eddard’s rule. They had no strength left to resist—and dragons flying above had erased all hope of rebellion.

But the nobility of Norvos—the great merchant lords, the swordmasters, and the last remnants of the war council—refused. They had ruled for generations, their wealth and pride woven into the city’s foundations. To bend the knee to a foreign prince was an insult too great.

Within hours, riots broke out in the streets—not against Eddard, but among Norvosi themselves.

And then the gates opened.

Not by command of the nobles—but by the people.

Old soldiers, shopkeepers, and weary guards threw open the gates of Norvos and welcomed the Stormrage army inside. The crowd cheered when Eddard rode through the city streets, flanked by Aemond Targaryen and a full battalion of his finest men. The bells of Norvos rang—not in alarm, but in surrender.

Those nobles who resisted were cut down by sword and fire. Aemond led a strike force through the noble district, rooting out traitors and loyalists to the old council. Their blood painted the marble halls and inner keeps. No mercy was given.

By nightfall, the city was silent.

And at the first light of dawn, Prince Eddard Stormrage stood upon the steps of the Tower of Swords, the seat of Norvosi rule, as trumpets echoed through the city.

He raised his sword high and spoke with a voice that rolled like thunder:

“I am Eddard of House Stormrage, Crown Prince of the East, and by right of conquest and surrender, I am the new Lord of Norvos. From this day forth, this city belongs to the House of Stormrage.”

The people bowed. The banners changed. And a new era for Norvos began.