The Stronghammer - CH - 74

The winds howled fiercely as Aemond Targaryen soared through the skies of Essos, his dragon, Vermithor, gliding majestically beneath him. The journey was long, but for Aemond, it was one of the few moments in his life where he felt truly at peace. Up in the air, with Vermithor beneath him, he was untouchable. No one could reach him, no one could harm him. For a moment, he was free from the weight of expectations, free from the pressure of being the spare prince, and free from the constant comparison to his older brother, Aegon.

The vast landscape of Essos stretched out below him—endless deserts, rolling plains, and vibrant cities that seemed like small specks from the sky. He had never seen the world like this before. Flying on a dragon had granted him a new perspective on the world, and for the first time, he felt a sense of power, of control, that he had never experienced before.

But as much as Aemond enjoyed the thrill of flight, there was a grim reality beneath the freedom. Stormrage was in danger, and he knew he had to make it back before things escalated further. The war was upon them, and even though Aemond was not originally part of this fight, he knew that he could not stand by and do nothing.

Aemond had decided to keep his journey a secret. He had taken nothing but the bare essentials with him—a small pouch of gold coins, enough to buy what he needed, but not so much as to make him stand out. He didn’t want to take anyone with him. His journey was personal, a decision to fight for his newfound family, the people of Stormrage.

But as they flew, Aemond realized the massive responsibility of being a dragon rider. Vermithor was always hungry. Aemond had to stop regularly to feed the dragon, offering up camels, goats, and cattle to appease his dragon's hunger. Every time they came upon a village or a town, Aemond would purchase the animals, paying the farmers and traders generously. Despite his royal status, Aemond made sure that he treated the people with respect, never forcing anyone to give up their livestock. He paid fairly, knowing that dragons were a source of fear and awe, and he didn’t want to abuse his power.

The locals, when they saw the dragon in the sky, didn’t hesitate to offer up what was needed, knowing full well that a dragon rider would not be easily turned away. They feared Vermithor, but also recognized the opportunity that came with a dragon rider. Aemond always made sure to pay them fairly for the livestock, making his journey a somewhat smoother one, though the burden of feeding a dragon was not light.

As they continued on their path, Aemond’s mind wandered. He thought about the people of Stormrage, about Eddard, who had become a sort of friend and mentor to him. He thought about how Eddie had treated him like an equal, how Eddie had shown him compassion when others might have written him off as a spare prince, and how his actions had inspired Aemond in ways that nothing else had.

The journey was not just physical for Aemond; it was also mental. He was realizing that being a dragon rider was not just about the power and prestige it granted. It was about responsibility, duty, and the trust that the people placed in him.

Stormrage was not just a kingdom; it was a family, a community that Aemond was beginning to feel connected to. He knew that when he arrived, he would not only be helping Eddie and the kingdom but proving to himself that he was more than just a spare prince.

As the sun began to set and the sky turned a brilliant orange, Aemond could see Stormrage’s coast on the horizon, the dark cliffs looming ahead. He urged Vermithor onward, his dragon’s wings cutting through the air like a knife.

King Robert Stormrage stood at the highest tower of Zeagan, his capital, watching the distant horizon. The banners of Stormrage fluttered in the fierce winds, a symbol of the rising power in Essos. Yet, despite his growing kingdom, war loomed on the horizon. His enemies—Norvos, Lorath, and Qohor—were not foolish, and their confidence puzzled him.

They knew what they were up against: dragonlords. And yet, they moved with unwavering certainty, preparing for war.

Robert clenched his fists.

“What are they planning?” he muttered, his voice laced with suspicion.

At his side stood Holden Cross, his oldest and most trusted warrior, watching the horizon with a grim expression.

“They’re building massive scorpions,” Holden stated. “Weapons meant to kill dragons. I’ve seen them being forged in Qohor, designed to pierce even the toughest dragonhide.”

Robert scowled. “Scorpions will mean little if they never get the chance to fire.”

Holden nodded. “But still, they wouldn’t go to war unless they believed they had a chance.”

Robert exhaled through his nose, frustration burning in his chest. Stormrage was powerful—two great dragons, his elite Blackstone Legion, and an army hardened by constant battle. And yet, the enemy moved like they had a secret weapon.

The existence of Arya, his son Eddard's dragon, was a closely guarded secret outside their homeland. Only a few beyond Stormrage’s borders knew that Eddard Stormrage had bonded with Cannibal’s mate, a dragon as fearsome as the great beast himself. The people of Stormrage, loyal and disciplined, never spoke of it. It was their hidden blade, a weapon meant to be unleashed at the right moment.

Even fewer knew about the four dragon hatchlings that had recently hatched deep in the Spine Mountains, where Robert’s younger children had bonded with them. They were still too young to fly into battle, but their mere existence meant that the next generation of Stormrage would rule with fire and blood.

Yet, despite all this, Norvos, Qohor, and Lorath were braver than they should have been.

Why?

Robert turned to Holden. “If they were just foolish, I’d understand. But this—this feels different. Someone is backing them.”

Holden crossed his arms, his steel-gray eyes narrowing. “Aye, I’ve been thinking the same. They wouldn’t be so bold unless they had something—someone—pushing them forward.”

Robert’s mind raced.

Was it a hidden ally? A powerful mercenary force? A traitor within Stormrage?

It didn’t matter. If war was coming, he would meet it head-on.

“They think their scorpions will save them,” Robert said coldly. “But we won’t give them the chance to fire.”

Holden grinned, his hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword. “That’s the Robert I know.”

Just then, the doors to the war room burst open.

Eddard Stormrage entered, dressed in black and gold armor, his father's colors. His face was set in determination.

“I just got back from Tyrosh,” he announced. “And I bring troubling news.”

Robert motioned for him to continue.

“Aemond Targaryen is on his way.”

Holden's eyes widened slightly. “On his dragon?”

“Yes,” Eddard confirmed. “He’s coming to fight.”

Robert raised an eyebrow. “And he swore to fight for Stormrage?”

Eddard smirked. “He’s not here for Stormrage. He’s here for me. I told him that this war is worth fighting.”

Robert chuckled. “A Targaryen prince, fighting alongside Stormrage… Westeros will love that.”

Holden snorted. “They won’t love it when they realize that their exiled bastard’s house is about to become the greatest dragonlords in the world.”

Robert turned back to the horizon, his eyes burning with the fire of war.

“Then let them come,” he growled. “We’ll show them what it means to fight against the Stormrage.”

As he spoke, in the distant mountains, Arya stretched her massive wings—and the world would soon learn the true power of the dragons of Stormrage.


The grand halls of Zeagan, the capital of Stormrage, were unusually quiet. The looming war had placed an air of tension over the city, and the royal palace, which once echoed with laughter and the hum of music, now carried only the whispers of war preparations. King Robert Stormrage sat upon his throne, the weight of responsibility pressing upon him like never before. He had always been a warrior first, a king second. Yet now, as he prepared to march into battle once more, he realized that it was not just a kingdom he was leaving behind—it was his family.

The spymaster had brought urgent news from the east. The Unsullied of Qohor had finished their preparations. They were marching in formation, a disciplined force of iron and blood. But more alarming than them were the two massive Dothraki khalasars, moving like a storm across the plains, their riders eager to spill blood. Robert Stormrage knew that the Dothraki would be used as cannon fodder, charging wildly and weakening his defenses, while the real enemy, the Unsullied, would move in to deliver the killing blow.

For the first time in a long time, Robert found himself feeling something unfamiliar—concern. It wasn’t fear for himself, nor was it fear for his army. It was fear for his children.

Before the final war council, Robert called for his children. His daughters, Nymeria and Nymella, and his sons, Steffon and Stannis, were still young, innocent of the bloodshed that would soon stain the lands beyond their home. When they entered his chambers, they were giggling, playing with their dragon hatchlings, the four small dragons that had hatched in the Spine Mountains.

Robert knelt down, his strong arms embracing all of them at once.

“My little wolves,” he murmured, running a hand through Nymeria’s thick black hair, so much like his own. “I have to leave for a while. I have a battle to win.”

Nymella, the softer of the two sisters, clutched his sleeve, her violet-blue eyes—so rare, so unique—shining with concern. “Will you come back soon, Papa?” she asked.

Robert smiled, though he knew it might be a lie. “Of course, little one. The Dothraki are just a bunch of savages. It won’t take long.”

Steffon, who was still only eight, puffed out his chest. “When I grow up, I’ll fight beside you, father!” he declared, earning a laugh from Robert.

“Not yet, my boy,” Robert said, ruffling his son’s dark hair. “You still need to train more before you swing a sword at a Dothraki.”

Stannis, the quieter of the two boys, watched Robert with deep, calculating eyes. He was always the more serious one, the one who spent his time reading maps and listening to war stories rather than chasing after his sisters. Robert saw a future commander in Stannis—one who would hold the kingdom together when the time came.

“Do we have to fight?” Stannis asked, his voice steady.

Robert sighed. Children should never have to ask such questions. “Sometimes, we don’t have a choice,” he said. “But I promise you, when this is over, I’ll take all of you flying with Cannibal.”

That got them excited. The hatchlings, sensing their riders' emotions, flapped their small wings, chirping. Nymeria's dragon, a fierce black-and-gold beast she named "Vayros," nipped playfully at her fingers. Nymella's dragon, a sleek silver-blue female called "Seren," curled around her feet protectively.

“You must stay here, protect your mother, and keep an eye on these little beasts,” Robert told them. “When I come back, I expect all of you to be strong enough to fly with me.”

They hugged him tightly, reluctant to let go.

Robert left his chambers feeling both heavy-hearted and determined. He strode through the war camp outside the palace, where his generals and commanders were making their final preparations. Eddard Stormrage, his eldest son, had already arrived from his long journey across Essos, ready to fight.

At his side stood Holden Cross, the unbreakable warrior of the Blackstone Legion, and Varkas, his trusted naval commander, who had just returned from scouting the seas.

“We march at dawn,” Robert said, looking at his commanders. “No mercy. No prisoners.”

Eddard, standing tall beside him, placed his hand over the hilt of his sword. “They came for our lands. We’ll send them back to the dirt.”

Holden Cross cracked a smile. “We’ve beaten worse, my king.”

Robert turned his eyes to the Spine Mountains, where Cannibal and Arya rested. Their dragons would soon take flight, and when they did, fire would rain upon the enemy.

It was time for Stormrage to remind the world that dragons still ruled the skies.