The Stronghammer - CH - 67

Vermithor's massive wings beat against the salty air as the dragon soared high over the Narrow Sea. Below, the endless stretch of dark waters churned restlessly beneath the moonlight, reflecting silver streaks on the rolling waves. Seven hours had passed since they had left Dragonstone, and even Eddie, who had flown on dragons before, felt the ache of the long journey.

For Aemond, however, the experience was entirely different. Though he was a natural dragonrider, he had never flown this far before, nor carried so many passengers. His hands gripped tightly onto the reins, his knuckles pale as he fought the ever-present fear gnawing at his thoughts.

"What if he tires?" Aemond had asked midway through the flight, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.

Eddie, sitting behind him with a relaxed grip, had chuckled. "Dragons are stronger than you think. He won’t drop us, I promise."

But even so, Aemond remained tense, stealing worried glances at Vermithor’s great wings as they sliced through the night sky.

Behind them, the ten guards from Stormrage clung desperately to the saddle straps, their faces etched with a mixture of exhilaration and sheer terror. Most had never flown on a dragon before, let alone one as large as Vermithor. Some had tried to hide their fear at first, but after the first few hours of constant wind and motion, they held on for dear life.

Even Holden Cross, seasoned warrior that he was, had to admit that riding a dragon over the open sea was far different from flying over land. Though his face remained calm, his grip on the saddle was unyielding.

"I’d rather fight five Dothraki screamers at once than fly over the sea again," one of the guards muttered under his breath.

Another grunted. "If the beast decides he’s tired and drops us, we won’t even have a fight—we’ll just sink."

Holden shot them both a look. "Stop whining. You’re riding a dragon, not a bloody fishing boat."

That silenced them—for a while, at least.

Hours later, just as the first hints of dawn stretched across the horizon, Aemond pointed forward. "There. Land."

Eddie leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes. A stretch of rugged coastline emerged from the morning mist. The Disputed Lands. A chaotic battleground fought over by Free Cities, mercenary companies, and slavers alike. A land of blood, greed, and lawlessness.

"Where do we land?" Aemond asked. "I don’t see much civilization."

Holden shifted slightly, adjusting his grip. "We aim for the high ground, away from the main roads. We don’t know who controls this part of the land right now, and we don’t want to be seen too soon."

Eddie scanned the terrain. There—a rocky ridge overlooking a dense forest, not far from the shore. It was the perfect place to land. Hidden, but with a clear view of the surrounding area.

"There," Eddie pointed. "Take us down gently."

Aemond gritted his teeth as he guided Vermithor into a slow descent. The dragon’s wings stretched wide, catching the air as he circled lower and lower, kicking up dust and debris as he neared the ground.

The landing wasn’t perfect—the ground shook violently as Vermithor’s massive weight settled, sending some of the men tumbling off his back. One of them hit the dirt hard and groaned.

Eddie swung down gracefully and patted the dragon’s bronze scales. "Good boy."

Vermithor let out a low rumble, his massive golden eyes watching Eddie as if expecting praise.

Aemond slid off as well, his legs shaky but his expression proud. "Told you we’d make it."

Holden Cross landed lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders. "Flying was the easy part. Now the real work begins."

Eddie turned to his men. "Get your weapons. We’re going to find Cassandra Baratheon."

Eddie ran a hand through his dark hair, cursing himself for not thinking of this sooner. They had brought Aemond along for transportation, but he is too young to join them in battle.

Turning to the young prince, Eddie sighed. "You know you can’t come with us, right?"

Aemond, still adjusting his gloves after the rough flight, raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because this isn't your fight," Eddie explained. "And you’ve already done your part. Besides, Vermithor flew for seven hours straight. He needs rest before another long flight back to Dragonstone."

Holden Cross, arms crossed, nodded in agreement. "The boy's right. Dragons aren't unstoppable. They get tired just like we do."

Aemond scowled. "So what do you expect me to do? Sit here in the dirt while you all go off and fight?"

Eddie smirked. "That’s exactly what I expect."

Aemond huffed in frustration, pacing back and forth. He hated the idea of being left behind. He had just claimed a dragon, one of the mightiest in the realm, and yet Eddie was treating him like a child.

"I’m not going back to Dragonstone," Aemond finally said, his voice filled with stubborn resolve.

Holden sighed. "Aemond, you need to think about—"

"No." Aemond cut him off sharply. He turned to Eddie, fire burning in his violet eyes. "Do you know what will happen if I return now? The moment I set foot on Dragonstone with Vermithor, everything will change. My father, who never once looked at me with pride, will suddenly see me as valuable. My cousins, who laughed at me, will suddenly pretend they respect me. Even my own brother will change the way he treats me."

He clenched his fists. "I don’t want that. I want to be surrounded by people who treated me well before I had a dragon. People like you."

Eddie studied Aemond for a long moment. The boy had changed. He was no longer just a neglected prince desperately seeking validation—he was becoming something more.

"Fine," Eddie finally said. "You stay. But you stay out of the fight. Agreed?"

Aemond hesitated, then nodded. "Agreed."

Eddie smirked. "Good. Now help set up the damn tent. We have a long night ahead of us."

Eddie adjusted the rough Essosi tunic, pulling it over his head as he glanced at the others. Their Westerosi attire had been cast aside, replaced with worn and tattered garments that made them look like common mercenaries or traders.

Holden Cross was already dressed, his face shadowed by a hood, his sword strapped securely to his back. He tightened the leather bracers on his forearms, his experienced hands making quick work of the straps. “Now you look like you belong,” Holden said, giving Eddie an approving nod.

Aemond, however, was still standing to the side, arms crossed. His usual Targaryen confidence had been dimmed by the realization that Vermithor wouldn’t leave him. The dragon, ever loyal, had refused to return to Dragonstone.

"I tried," Aemond grumbled. "He won’t leave."

Eddie sighed, rubbing his temples. "We can’t have a dragon following us around, Aemond. We’re supposed to be moving in secret."

Holden, ever the strategist, stepped forward. “There are places in the Disputed Lands where a dragon can go unnoticed—deep mountain caves, abandoned ruins, and stretches of land so desolate no one dares venture near.”

Aemond hesitated, still unsure, but Eddie clapped him on the shoulder. “Trust Holden. He’s been here more times than we can count. If he says there’s a place for Vermithor, there is.”

Aemond exhaled sharply, then turned toward his dragon. The massive bronze beast lowered its head, its molten gold eyes locking onto its rider. Aemond placed a hand on Vermithor’s snout, whispering softly in High Valyrian.

"Go. Wait for me."

Vermithor let out a deep rumble, a reluctant growl of protest, but after another moment, the great dragon spread its wings and took off, vanishing into the darkening sky.

Eddie watched it disappear before turning to Holden. “Alright. Now that we won’t have a massive target flying over our heads, where do we start?”

Holden smirked. “We start by looking like we belong. No one fears lone travelers in the Disputed Lands. But armed men moving with a purpose? That’ll get us noticed real fast.”

Eddie nodded. “Then let’s move out. We have a Baratheon to rescue.”

With that, they began their journey on foot, blending into the chaotic and lawless land where only the strong survived.


The sun hung low in the sky as Eddie, Holden Cross, and their men approached the village near the mouth of the river. The scent of salt and rotting fish filled the air, mixing with the dampness of the shore. Fishing vessels bobbed in the water, their sails tattered, their hulls worn from years of use.

Despite the size of the village, there was little noise. The people moved cautiously, eyes darting toward the newcomers with suspicion and fear. Women gathered fish in baskets, their hands moving quickly, their heads kept low. A group of children peeked out from behind wooden huts, their small faces smeared with dirt, their curiosity overshadowed by wariness.

"This place is miserable," one of Eddie’s guards muttered.

"It’s more than that," Holden said, his sharp eyes scanning the village. "They’re scared of something. Or someone."

Eddie nodded, understanding immediately. This wasn’t just a poor fishing village—it was a place under someone’s control.

As they walked deeper into the village, an old man sitting by the docks pretended not to notice them. His skin was leathery from years in the sun, his white hair tied back in a knot. Eddie exchanged glances with Holden before stepping forward.

"We’re looking for a place to drink," Eddie said, his voice calm but firm. "A tavern or an inn where a traveler can find good ale and news."

The old man glanced up, his watery blue eyes narrowing. "Ain’t got much ale here. Ain’t got much of anything." His voice was raspy, tired. "If you’re looking for something more, you best turn around."

Holden stepped forward, his presence looming. "We’re not looking for trouble. Just information. Maybe someone who can tell us about the ships that come and go from here."

The old man spat into the sand, shaking his head. "There ain’t no ships here. Just poor folk trying to survive."

Eddie leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "If there were no ships, these people wouldn’t look so afraid."

The old man stiffened but didn’t reply. His hands trembled slightly as he rubbed them together.

Holden sighed. "Listen, we know the Sons of the Kraken are in these waters. And we know they’ve taken captives. We’re looking for one of them."

At that, the old man’s eyes darted around, checking to see if anyone was listening. He exhaled heavily. "The Kraken’s men come here sometimes. Take fish, take coin. Sometimes take people. Few weeks ago, they brought in a big catch. A ship with Westerosi colors."

Eddie felt his pulse quicken. "Did you see them take prisoners?"

The old man hesitated, then nodded. "Aye. Few of ‘em. Women mostly. I kept my head down, but I heard them talking. Said they were taking them south, to the cove. The pirate stronghold."

Holden frowned. "You know where this cove is?"

The old man shook his head. "No one finds the Kraken’s lair unless they want you to. But there’s a man in the village who might know. Calls himself 'Turo.' He’s a smuggler, knows these waters better than anyone. But if you want his help, you best come with something worth his time."

Eddie nodded. "Then we’ll find Turo. And we’ll make it worth his while."


The halls of Dragonstone were rarely ever quiet, but today, a deafening silence filled the castle. Servants whispered in hushed tones, guards exchanged uneasy glances, and the royal family was in disarray. Prince Aemond Targaryen was missing.

At first, no one had noticed. The boy was known for his solitude, often wandering the castle or spending time away from his family. But by midday, when he failed to appear for his scheduled lessons, the alarm was raised. The entire castle was turned upside down in search of the young prince. His chambers were inspected, the training yard checked, even the dragon caves examined, but he was nowhere to be found.

"He must still be on the island," Ser Criston Cole said, standing before the Queen Alicent Hightower and King Viserys in the council chamber. "No ship has left Dragonstone in the last two days. We have patrols watching the docks. There is no way for him to leave unless..."

The sentence hung in the air, unfinished. The only alternative was unthinkable.

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Unless he flew."

Alicent gasped, her hand covering her mouth. "No... no, that's impossible. Aemond doesn’t have a dragon."

A maester hurried into the room, clutching a small parchment. "Your Grace, my Lords," he announced breathlessly. "We found this in Prince Aemond’s chamber."

Queen Alicent snatched the parchment from the maester’s hand, her fingers trembling as she unfolded it. She read it once, then twice, her face draining of color.

" Do not worry about me. I am going to rescue Cassandra Baratheon. I will return soon.
—Aemond"

The room erupted into chaos.

"This is madness!" Otto Hightower slammed his fist on the table. "Aemond is a boy! He cannot just leave the royal family to go on some foolish rescue mission!"

King Viserys groaned, rubbing his forehead. "The boy has always been ambitious, but this... this is reckless."

Ser Criston turned to the Hand. "Lord Hightower, what are your orders?"

"Find him." Otto's voice was sharp, his face like stone. "Find Aemond Targaryen and bring him back to Dragonstone. If he is harmed or—Seven forbid—dead, it will be the greatest disgrace upon our House."

Alicent turned to the maester. "Has he spoken to anyone about this? Does anyone know where he went?"

The maester hesitated. "There is... one possibility. He was seen speaking with the knight, Ser Holden Cross, and his squire, Eddie."

At the mention of their names, Otto Hightower's face darkened. "Holden Cross," he muttered. "That damned sellsword. And the squire... We never even knew his true name."

Ser Criston frowned. "You think they had a hand in this?"

"Do I?" Otto scoffed. "They vanished the same night Aemond did. We must assume the worst—they have kidnapped the prince and taken him to gods know where."

Alicent gripped the edge of the table, her nails digging into the wood. "Then put a bounty on their heads. If they have taken my son, I want them found."

King Viserys, who had remained silent through much of the discussion, finally spoke. His voice was heavy with exhaustion. "If they have taken him, they will answer for it. If Aemond has gone willingly, he will be disciplined."

Otto turned to Ser Criston. "Send riders to every major port. Check every ship that has left Dragonstone in the last two days. Search the Kingswood. Search the Riverlands. If they are in Westeros, we will find them."

Ser Criston nodded and left the chamber with urgency.

Alicent clenched her jaw. "We must find Aemond before something terrible happens. He is my son, and I will not lose him."

With that, the council adjourned, and the hunt for Aemond Targaryen—and his supposed captors—began.