The Stronghammer - CH - 75

The sky was ablaze with the golden hues of dawn as Robert Stormrage and Eddard Stormrage soared high above the landscape, their dragons cutting through the crisp morning air like black and red arrows of fire and fury. Below them stretched the lands of Essos, vast and endless, now a battleground where the fate of Stormrage would be decided.

Robert, atop Cannibal, the monstrous black dragon, surveyed the approaching Dothraki khalasar with narrowed eyes. Thousands of riders thundered across the plains, their war cries echoing through the valleys, dust rising in waves behind them. A great horde, a tide of blood and steel. And yet, they were merely the vanguard, the cannon fodder, for the real enemy—the Unsullied legions of Qohor.

Eddard, riding Arya, his wild and unpredictable dragon, flanked his father closely. He turned his head toward Robert, awaiting orders. The older warrior-king, his armor gleaming under the morning light, finally spoke, his voice steady yet commanding.

"Eddie, listen well," Robert called over the roar of the wind. "We can’t let them reach our soldiers before we strike. Once they clash, the battle will become chaos, and we won’t be able to tell friend from foe."

Eddard nodded, gripping the reins of Arya, who let out a low growl, sensing the battle ahead.

"What’s the plan?" Eddie asked, his voice filled with anticipation.

Robert pointed toward the distant formations of Norvos, a disciplined army marching in tight formations along the Velvet Hills. Their banners fluttered, a sea of blue and gold. Unlike the wild chaos of the Dothraki, Norvos had structure, command, and the backing of powerful sorcery.

"You take Arya towards Norvos," Robert instructed. "Break their formations, scatter them before they can set up defenses. If they get their scorpions in place, it’ll be harder to fly in close." He turned his dragon slightly. "I’ll deal with the Dothraki horde and make sure their charge never reaches our men."

Eddard hesitated, his jaw tightening. "You sure about this? The Dothraki are thousands strong. Even with Cannibal, it’s a lot."

Robert smirked. "A lot, yes. But we’re dragonlords, Eddie. And it’s about time these fools remembered what that means."

The two dragons veered apart, splitting the sky in two directions—Cannibal diving toward the Dothraki hordes, Arya banking left toward the Norvosi lines.

Robert gripped his saddle tight as Cannibal folded his wings and dove. The air howled around him, the force of the descent pressing against his chest. Below, the Dothraki khalasars rode with reckless abandon, their war cries filling the air, their horses kicking up a storm of dust.

Then Cannibal roared.

A monstrous, earth-shaking sound that sent horses screaming in terror, some throwing their riders before they could even react. The Dothraki chieftains, mounted at the head of their hordes, barely had time to look up before fire engulfed them.

A torrent of dragonflame bathed the battlefield. Horses and riders alike screamed as they burned, their flesh turning to ash in seconds. Khal after khal fell beneath the flames, their ranks collapsing as firestorms roared across the plains.

Yet, the Dothraki were fearless.

Even as the flames consumed them, some rode forward, trying to reach Cannibal with spears. Others threw arrows tipped with oil-soaked rags, attempting to set Cannibal alight. But the dragon was a beast of ancient rage and hunger, and arrows meant nothing to its thick, obsidian-like scales.

Robert grinned as Cannibal twisted midair, sweeping its tail and smashing dozens of charging riders. Then, he spotted the war tents of the Dothraki khals—where their leaders commanded from.

"Burn them all," Robert growled.

Cannibal obeyed.

A second wave of dragonfire cascaded over the war tents, erasing the leadership of the khalasar in an instant. Without their khals, without their vision, the Dothraki’s charge broke apart. Their famed discipline dissolved into survival, warriors scattering in all directions, some fleeing, others fighting among themselves.

The battlefield belonged to the dragonlord.

Eddard, meanwhile, descended upon Norvos.

The disciplined Norvosi army saw him coming, and unlike the Dothraki, they did not scatter in fear. They prepared.

Lines of scorpions were being assembled, massive ballistae meant to pierce through dragon scales. Shield walls formed, spears angled upward, their commanders shouting orders.

Eddard smirked.

"Arya, let’s give them something to fear."

With a mighty flap, Arya surged forward, her wings sending gusts of wind across the battlefield. Then, she opened her jaws, and from them spewed a torrent of blue fire.

The flames struck the Norvosi scorpion crews first, turning the massive siege engines into molten slag. Soldiers screamed as their armor melted to their flesh, warriors dropping like flies as fire licked across their ranks.

Arya dove into the heart of the battlefield, her claws tearing through siege towers, sending them toppling onto fleeing soldiers. Norvos' famed discipline shattered as warriors broke ranks, running from the dragon's wrath.

Eddard grinned as Arya roared, the sound shaking the earth beneath them.

Victory was near.

From his vantage point high above, Robert Stormrage looked toward his son’s battlefield and saw Arya wreaking havoc upon Norvos. The flames of two dragons painted the sky, and for the first time in history, Stormrage had come to the battlefield as true dragonlords.

Below, their armies rallied.

Robert observed the battlefield below as Stormrage’s army clashed with his enimies. The sky was thick with smoke, the scent of burnt flesh mingling with the metallic tang of blood. His dragon, Cannibal, roared above, its massive wings stirring the air, but he knew even dragonfire had its limits. The combined armies of Norvos and Qohor were vast, and even with the devastation he and Eddie had wrought from the skies, the enemy still surged forward, relentless and disciplined.

Stormrage’s warriors fought in tight formations, their shields locking together as they met the enemy charge head-on. Their spears thrust forward in perfect synchronization, piercing armor and flesh alike, but the enemy’s numbers still threatened to overwhelm.

Robert gripped his warhammer tightly, his knuckles white as he surveyed the battle. He had faith in his men. Stormrage’s army had survived worse odds, and his own bannermen fought with a fury unmatched. Yet, it was the Unsullied that gave him pause.

They were coming.

Through the chaos of the battlefield, their disciplined march was unmistakable. The Unsullied, unwavering in their advance, their spears glinting under the dull light of the sun. They didn’t break formation even as their allies screamed, burned alive by dragonflame. They didn’t hesitate as Stormrage’s warriors cut through the ranks of their foes.

They did not fear death.

And that made them dangerous.

Robert spat to the side and turned his gaze toward Eddie, who was circling above on his own dragon. They had already broken the enemy’s front lines, carving through them like a smith’s hammer against molten steel, but the tide of battle was shifting. The Unsullied weren’t mere sellswords who would flee at the sight of fire. They were trained for this—to march into the jaws of death without blinking.

Robert exhaled, gripping the reins of Cannibal. If the Unsullied would not break before dragonflame, then they would have to be shattered the old way—by steel and blood, by hammer and sword.

He lifted his weapon high, the signal for his men to prepare for the true fight ahead.

“Come then,” he growled, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. “Let’s see if you bastards are as fearless as they say.”

With the battlefield now a chaotic mess of steel, blood, and bodies, fighting from the skies had become nearly impossible. Both armies had crashed into each other with full force, intermingling in a way that left little room for dragonfire without the risk of friendly casualties.

Robert Stronghammer knew this battle would be won on the ground.

Gripping his warhammer tight, he leaped off Cannibal's back, landing heavily amidst the Stormrage warriors. His boots sank into the blood-soaked mud as he took his first step into the front lines, his presence like a storm breaking over the battlefield. The moment he swung his warhammer, the tide of battle shifted.

A single blow sent a Norvosi warrior flying, his body crushed like a ragdoll. Another swing shattered the ribs of a Qohorik mercenary, sending him sprawling to the ground, choking on blood. Robert fought like a demon possessed, roaring as he tore through enemy ranks with sheer brute force. His armor was slick with blood, his warhammer a blur of destruction as he carved a path through the enemy.

To the north, Eddie had done the same. Leaving the safety of his dragon’s back, he waded into battle with his massive sword, cleaving through men like a butcher through cattle. He moved with terrifying precision, each strike powerful enough to cut through multiple opponents in a single swing. His enemies tried to overwhelm him, to bring him down with sheer numbers, but they failed. Wherever Eddie's blade fell, bodies followed.

Above them, Cannibal and Arya circled the battlefield, watching their riders with unwavering focus. Through their mind-link, they remained connected, feeling every movement, sensing every danger. They would not engage unless summoned, but if the situation turned dire, they would descend like wrathful gods upon the battlefield.

But for now, Robert and Eddie fought on, two forces of nature tearing through the enemy ranks, their war cries echoing through the carnage.

The battle had truly begun.

While Robert and Eddie waged war on the battlefield against the armies of Qohor and Norvos, their minds remained alert to another looming threat—an expected naval assault from Lorath. Stormrage spies had already confirmed Lorath's intentions to strike while the land battle raged on. Intelligence reports had detailed the number of ships Lorath possessed and the planned attack routes.

Robert, always prepared for war on multiple fronts, had devised a battle plan to counter this. He had stationed 100 warships and troops along the port of Stormrage, with defensive positions spread across the banks and beaches, ready to repel the anticipated attack. The defenses were solid, the formations set, and the soldiers prepared for a naval clash.

But what came upon them was far worse than they had ever imagined.

Lorath had not come alone.

Stormrage’s scouts and spies had underestimated the enemy’s true strength. Instead of the 100 ships they had expected, a monstrous fleet of 500 warships filled with soldiers came bearing down upon Stormrage’s shores. The intelligence had failed to account for the mercenaries from Braavos—elite sellsail crews, hardened warriors, and skilled corsairs who had been hired to bolster Lorath’s naval might.

As the horizon darkened with sails, horns blared across the Stormrage port, signaling the alarm. The men stationed at the banks and beaches rushed into their positions, scrambling to prepare for an invasion they were vastly outnumbered in.

Robert’s war plans had anticipated an equal fight at sea—but now, it was clear they were facing a naval onslaught of overwhelming force.

The battle at sea quickly turned into a disaster for Stormrage. Despite their preparations, Robert's fleet was no match for the overwhelming might of Lorath's navy. One by one, Stormrage ships were torn apart by enemy fire, sinking beneath the waves as the enemy pressed their advantage. The sea was littered with wreckage, bodies, and the shattered remains of ships that had once been their strongest defense.

The men on the shore watched in horror as their defenses crumbled. Fear gripped them like an iron chain, and whispers of defeat spread among the ranks. Stormrage’s warriors, hardened as they were, could see the battle slipping away. Their morale plummeted. They were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and on the verge of losing everything.

Then, like a storm breaking through the clouds, salvation came from above.

A mighty roar echoed through the sky, shaking the battlefield below. Before long, a massive shadow loomed over the wreckage-strewn sea, and the very air seemed to tremble as Vermithor descended. Aemond Targaryen had arrived.

It took him only moments to grasp the situation. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t wait for orders—he acted.

With a single command, Vermithor unleashed his fury. A torrent of dragonfire erupted from his maw, sweeping across the Lorathi fleet like a divine punishment. The wooden hulls of the enemy ships ignited instantly, the flames spreading uncontrollably as men screamed and leaped overboard in sheer desperation.

The warriors on the shore, who moments ago had feared utter defeat, erupted into cheers as the once-dominant Lorathi navy turned into an inferno. They watched in awe as Vermithor circled above, unleashing wave after wave of fire, reducing hundreds of enemy ships to smoldering ruin.

Though many of the Lorath ships had been equipped with scorpions to counter dragons, their weapons failed to make a difference. The sheer speed and precision of Vermithor rendered them ineffective. Every bolt fired was either too slow, too imprecise, or deflected by the dragon’s armored scales.

Panic consumed the Lorathi soldiers. With their ships turning into blazing coffins, many had no choice but to abandon them, diving into the sea in a desperate bid to survive. But they had only exchanged one death for another.

The moment they reached the shore, the waiting Stormrage warriors cut them down mercilessly. Exhausted, drenched, and weaponless, the enemy soldiers stood no chance against the disciplined ranks of Stormrage’s forces.

Within minutes, the once-feared Lorath navy was no more.

Burning ships sank beneath the waves, the last remnants of the invaders disappearing into the depths. The sea, once teeming with enemy vessels, now bore only wreckage, corpses, and the victorious cries of Stormrage warriors.

Aemond Targaryen had turned the tide of battle in a single, decisive strike.