The Stronghammer - CH - 76

The battlefield was silent now, save for the distant crackling of burning wreckage and the cries of the wounded. The stench of blood and death filled the air, a grim reminder of the carnage that had unfolded. But amidst the destruction, one man stood tall.

Robert Stronghammer raised his warhammer high, his body drenched from head to toe in the blood of his enemies. His armor was stained crimson, his face smeared with the remnants of those who had fallen before him. And beneath him, a mound of corpses—his slain foes—created a grotesque monument to his wrath. He stood atop them like a war-god, his presence undeniable, his dominance absolute.

His guards and soldiers, hardened warriors who had seen their fair share of battles, could do nothing but stare in awe. This was no ordinary victory. It was a massacre.

The armies sent by Qohor had been annihilated. The battlefield was littered with their broken bodies, their banners torn and trampled into the mud. Those who had not perished had fled, their morale shattered beyond repair. Stormrage had held firm, and Robert Stronghammer had led them to a victory so decisive that the very land itself seemed to tremble in its wake.

Yet, Robert wasted no time basking in triumph. His mind was already moving forward. He turned, his warhammer resting on his shoulder as he barked orders for his men to regroup. The battle was over, but the war was not. There was much to discuss, much to prepare for.

Across the battlefield, another warrior stood victorious.

Eddard Stormrage, the crown prince of Stormrage, was no less fearsome than Robert. Like his father, he too was bathed in the blood of his enemies. His massive sword, still dripping with the remnants of the fallen, had carved a path of destruction through enemy ranks. He had fought with the fury of a tempest, cleaving men apart with each swing, his presence on the battlefield like a force of nature.

Now, as the dust settled, he surveyed his surroundings. His warriors, still high on the rush of battle, cheered his name. The ground was soaked with blood, the dead lying in heaps around him, and yet, he barely seemed winded.

With victory secured on both fronts—land and sea—the Stormrage forces gathered once more. Robert and Eddard met at the heart of the battlefield, their armor caked in the filth of war, their weapons heavy with the blood they had spilled. Around them, their commanders assembled, their expressions a mix of triumph and grim determination.

The war was far from over.

As the sun began to set over the battlefield, casting long shadows over the fallen, Robert Stronghammer and Eddard Stormrage prepared for the next step. The enemy had been beaten today—but they would return.

As the fires of battle smoldered in the distance, the victors gathered amidst the battlefield for a war council. The bodies of the fallen were still being cleared, and the scent of blood and ash lingered in the air, but there was no time to waste. The war was not yet truly won.

At the heart of the gathered warriors stood Robert Stronghammer, his warhammer resting heavily at his side. His armor was still stained with the blood of his enemies, his presence as imposing as ever. Across from him stood his son, Eddard Stormrage, his expression dark with fury.

Eddard’s voice rang out, sharp with conviction. “We should take our dragons and burn Qohor and Norvos to the ground.” His eyes blazed as he looked around the gathered lords and commanders, seeking their agreement. “They dared to send armies to our shores, to march against Stormrage, and we have crushed them. Why should we stop now? Let’s wipe their cities from existence and show the Free Cities what happens when they move against us.”

Murmurs of agreement rose among some of the warriors, particularly those who had lost comrades in the battle. The idea of vengeance, of ensuring such an attack could never happen again, was an enticing one.

But Robert raised a hand, silencing them all.

“No.” His voice was firm, unyielding. “If we burn an entire city to the ground for an attack orchestrated by corrupt officials, we are no better than the butchers they fear us to be.” His piercing gaze settled on Eddard. “If we destroy everything, we will have the blood of innocent men, women, and children on our hands. And the reputation of Stormrage will be one of slaughter, not justice.”

Eddard scoffed, crossing his arms. “And what would you have us do, Father? Let them live? Let them regroup and return to wage war on us again?” His voice dripped with disdain. “The next time, it will be our soldiers who pay the price for your mercy. Have you no loyalty to your own kingdom?”

Robert’s expression did not waver. “My loyalty is to Stormrage. And that is why we will not become butchers. It was not the people of Qohor or Norvos who came to our shores—it was an army of sellswords, Unsullied, and Dothraki, paid in gold by their scheming masters. The common folk did not choose this war. The men who led them did.”

Eddard clenched his fists. “Then what do you propose? We do nothing?”

Robert’s lips curled into a grim smile. “No. We send assassins.”

A hush fell over the council.

Robert continued, his voice cold and deliberate. “We kill those who planned this war. Not just them, but their entire families. No sons left to avenge them, no daughters left to carry on their name. We will make an example of them—but we will not burn the innocent with them.”

Eddard’s eyes narrowed, but he saw the wisdom in his father’s words. He wanted to end this war permanently, to make sure no one ever dared to rise against Stormrage again. And perhaps, eliminating those who had conspired against them would be enough.

After a long silence, he exhaled sharply and nodded. “Fine. But I want to be the one to oversee it.”

Robert nodded in approval. “Then the task is yours. Make sure there are no loose ends.”

The decision had been made. The war had been won, but the real reckoning was just beginning.

The war council was tense, the decision to send assassins already casting a shadow over the room. But just as Robert was about to speak again, a piercing screech split the air, a sound so distinct, so hauntingly familiar, that his blood ran cold.

He knew that sound.

It was a dragon’s cry—but not just any dragon. It was Caraxes.

His mind flashed back to the past. He had heard that screech long ago, in another time, another place. And there was only one man who rode that beast—Daemon Targaryen.

Robert’s jaw clenched. What was Daemon doing here? Was he an ally? An enemy?

The war camp erupted into motion, soldiers instinctively reaching for their weapons, their eyes turning toward the distant treeline where the sound had come from. But Robert knew better. This was not a battle that his army could fight. If dragons were involved, the only ones who could face them were dragonriders.

Without hesitation, Robert turned and stormed out of the war camp, his steps quick and purposeful. His warriors called after him, but he ignored them. There was no time.

He reached Cannibal in moments, the massive black dragon already shifting restlessly, as if sensing the presence of another of his kind. Robert climbed onto the beast’s back, gripping the reins tightly as Cannibal let out a deep, guttural growl.

Not far behind, Eddard Stormrage had already reached Arya, his own dragon. Without waiting for orders, he leaped onto her back, his eyes burning with determination. He knew as well as Robert did—if this was a fight between dragons, it was a fight only they could win.

With a powerful thrust of their wings, Cannibal and Arya soared into the sky, cutting through the air as they flew toward the forest of Qohor.

As they neared the treeline, the sight that awaited them sent a jolt of adrenaline through Robert’s veins.

On the forest’s edge, two dragons waited.

Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, his long serpentine body coiled and ready, his piercing red eyes locked onto them. And beside him, another beast of legend—Vhagar, the massive she-dragon, her wings casting an imposing shadow over the land.

But it wasn’t just the dragons. Their riders were waiting, too.

Daemon Targaryen sat atop Caraxes, his silver hair unmistakable even from the sky. At his side, mounted upon Vhagar, was his wife, Laena Velaryon, her face unreadable as she watched their approach.

Robert and Eddard guided their dragons downward, landing at a careful distance. Cannibal and Arya growled low, their eyes locked onto Caraxes and Vhagar, both ready to strike if necessary.

Robert remained seated on Cannibal’s back, his grip firm. He had no idea if Daemon had come as a friend or foe—but he wasn’t about to let his army get caught in the crossfire of a battle between dragonlords.

Daemon smirked from his saddle, his eyes studying Robert and Eddard with something between amusement and curiosity. Then he spoke.

“We were expecting you to come to Qohor, to burn the city to the ground,” Daemon said, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable edge. “We were ready to ambush you when you arrived.”

Robert’s expression remained unreadable, but he said nothing, waiting for Daemon to continue.

“But,” Daemon went on, tilting his head slightly, “it turns out you had no intention of destroying Qohor. And even more surprising, we had no idea you had another dragon…” His gaze shifted to Arya for a moment before returning to Robert. “One that is bigger than Cannibal.”

Robert said nothing, his mind racing. Qohor’s confidence in attacking Stormrage suddenly made sense. They had dragonriders on their side.

Daemon had been waiting for them.

Had they gone through with Eddard’s plan, had they flown into Qohor to unleash fire and death, they would have been walking straight into a dragon’s trap.

Daemon Targaryen exhaled, his smirk barely hiding the tension in his eyes as he sat atop Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm shifting uneasily beneath him. He met Robert Stronghammer’s gaze and spoke with calculated ease.

“It’s nothing personal, Robert,” Daemon said, his voice carrying across the clearing. “You know who I am. I am the King’s brother. And the King has many heirs to choose from now—too many. So tell me, what shall I do? Do you think I want my children to be nothing more than cupbearers and lowly knights, thrown into war to die for a realm that does not value them?” His tone grew sharper, more resolute. “No. I want my children to have a future. When Qohor and Norvos approached me with their plan, I agreed.” He shrugged slightly. “It was nothing personal.”

Robert smiled. It was not a kind smile, nor was it one of amusement. It was the smile of a man who knew his enemy had already lost.

“Then,” Robert said, lifting his warhammer slightly, his grip steady, “are you ready to fight?”

Daemon stiffened. He was a warrior, one of the finest of his generation, and he had faced many battles. But he was not a fool. He knew Cannibal alone would be a formidable opponent—an ancient beast, savage beyond measure. Yet now, there was another dragon, Arya, who was even bigger than Cannibal. Two powerful dragons against his own Caraxes and Vhagar. The odds were no longer in his favor.

And then Robert spoke again, his voice laced with quiet menace.

“We have no enemies in Westeros,” he said, his gaze sharp as a blade. “But if you attack us here, and one of us survives, we will go to Westeros first. We will burn down King’s Landing, and we will hold your kin accountable, for you are still a prince of the realm. If a prince attacks a kingdom unprovoked, we can lawfully retaliate.”

Daemon’s smirk faltered just slightly.

He was still calculating, still considering his options, when a new sound split the air—a monstrous, earth-shaking screech that sent a ripple of unease through even the seasoned dragonriders.

Robert turned, his expression unreadable, as another massive dragon loomed in the sky, descending toward them with thunderous beats of its wings. The sheer presence of the beast commanded immediate attention.

It was Vermithor.

A massive dragon, nearly as large as Vhagar herself. The sight of him alone was enough to make even Daemon’s hardened face turn grim.

And then, to make matters worse, Eddard Stormrage spoke, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

“That is Vermithor,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Now it’s three against two, Daemon. And I have news for you—Vermithor is not going to fight for you. Its rider is my friend.”

Daemon barely had a moment to process those words before Vermithor landed, his great claws sinking into the earth. And atop him, clad in dark armor, sat Aemond Targaryen.

A slow, sinister smile curled on Aemond’s lips as he looked directly at Daemon, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement.

“Long time no see, uncle.”