The Stronghammer - CH - 65

Eddie stood in the center of the grand hall of Dragonstone, his hands casually resting on his belt as he faced the assembled nobility. The air was thick with tension, and he could see the satisfied smirks on the faces of the lords who had long been waiting for an opportunity to put him in his place.

King Viserys sat upon the high seat, looking weary and frustrated, his patience with the rogue squire wearing thin. Rhaenyra was there as well, watching with mild interest, while Prince Aegon, looked half-drunk and unconcerned. But it was Prince Aemond who met his gaze with a flicker of worry. Eddie had gained an ally in the young prince, but that wouldn’t help him here.

"You are accused of attacking and brutally beating four noble squires without provocation," Lord Staunton, the presiding noble over the case, declared, his voice echoing in the chamber.

Eddie smirked, tilting his head. "Without provocation? I was lying on my back enjoying the scenery of your lovely island when four well-bred idiots decided to stomp their boots on me."

A few chuckles rippled through the hall, but they were quickly silenced by glares from the more influential lords.

"You claim self-defense?" Serion Velaryon's uncle, Lord Corlys Velaryon, asked, raising an eyebrow. His grandson was among those beaten, and the Sea Snake did not look amused.

Eddie spread his arms. "Yes, my lords. I was defending myself against four armed squires who thought they could teach a lesson to the lowborn."

Serion, his face still swollen from the beating, stepped forward. "He provoked us! He insulted us, called us cowards, and then attacked before we could even react!"

Eddie sighed. "And yet, here I am, standing, and all four of you were eating dirt last I checked."

The laughter was louder this time, and even some of the knights present couldn't help but smirk at the jab.

Lord Staunton cleared his throat. "Enough. The accusations are clear, and since it is your word against theirs, we shall let the court decide. The punishment for attacking noble squires unprovoked is either exile or wall."

Eddie grinned. "Trial by combat. I’ll settle this with steel."

A murmur spread through the hall. A trial by combat was not an uncommon way to settle disputes, but Eddie was a squire, and a lowborn one at that—his chances against a noble champion were slim.

Lord Staunton exchanged glances with Corlys Velaryon and the other noble lords. "Very well. The Velaryon house will choose a champion to face you."

Serion straightened, his lips curling into a smirk. "I shall be the one to fight him."

Eddie nearly laughed. "Again? You didn’t learn the first time?"

Serion flushed with anger. "This time, I will have a sword in hand, and we shall see if you are still as arrogant."

Eddie rolled his shoulders. "Fine by me. Just don’t cry when you lose again."

The trial was set for the next morning. Eddie was given a small chamber to rest in, but he spent the evening in the training yard, going over forms with Holden Cross.

"They won’t play fair," Holden warned as Eddie parried a strike. "Serion will come armed with the best armor his family can buy, and they’ll find ways to rig the fight in his favor."

Eddie smirked, deflecting Holden’s blade and stepping back. "Good. That just makes it more fun."

Holden sighed. "You should be careful, lad. Even a fool can get lucky with a blade."

Eddie twirled his practice sword in his hand, grinning. "Then I’ll just make sure he doesn’t get lucky."

The next morning, the fighting pit was prepared. The courtyard of Dragonstone was filled with lords, knights, and commoners eager to witness the fight. At the high balcony, King Viserys watched with an unreadable expression, while Aegon looked mildly entertained. Aemond was leaning forward in his seat, his fingers clenched around the railing.

Eddie stepped onto the sand-covered arena, dressed in simple leather armor. Across from him, Serion Velaryon stood clad in fine steel, his armor glinting in the sunlight. He held a finely crafted longsword in his hands, and his smirk was one of absolute confidence.

"Last chance, street rat," Serion sneered. "Kneel now, beg for mercy, and I might let you walk away with just a scar."

Eddie chuckled. "You’ve got a good imagination. Shame it won’t help you when you’re on your back again."

A knight stepped forward. "This is a trial by combat, sanctioned by the royal court of Dragonstone. By the will of the gods, let justice be determined!" He raised his hand. "Begin!"

Serion lunged forward, swinging his blade in a wide arc, hoping to end the fight quickly. But Eddie sidestepped effortlessly, pivoting on his heel and slamming the flat of his sword against Serion’s side. The armored noble staggered but quickly recovered.

He came again, more cautious this time, thrusting forward. Eddie parried, deflected, and stepped inside Serion’s reach, delivering a sharp elbow to his jaw. The crowd gasped as Serion stumbled back.

Eddie smirked. "You’re wearing all that fancy armor, and yet you still move like a pig."

Serion growled and attacked with renewed fury, but Eddie danced around him, his speed making a mockery of Serion’s heavy armor. He landed strike after strike—nothing lethal, just humiliating. A cut across the thigh, a slap of the flat of the blade against Serion’s back, a sharp jab to his armored stomach.

The noble audience began to murmur.

Serion, frustrated and panting, raised his blade and swung wildly. Eddie ducked, stepped in, and delivered a devastating kick to Serion’s knee. The Velaryon heir crumpled to the ground with a scream.

Eddie placed his sword against Serion’s throat.

"Yield," Eddie commanded, his voice firm.

Serion’s face was pale with fury, but he knew he had lost. With the eyes of the court upon him, he had no choice.

"I… I yield," he spat bitterly.

The trial was over. The crowd erupted in murmurs as Eddie stepped back, wiping his blade clean.

The knight overseeing the trial raised his voice. "The gods have spoken. The accused is innocent!"

King Viserys sighed heavily. "Enough of these petty disputes. This matter is settled. Eddie, you are free to go."

Eddie bowed dramatically. "Thank you, Your Grace. Always a pleasure to be at your court."

As he walked past the noble lords who had plotted against him, Eddie smirked, knowing full well that he had just made himself even more of a problem for them.

Holden Cross was waiting for him at the gate. "Well done, lad. You’re making more enemies by the day."

Eddie grinned. "Good. I was getting bored."

And with that, he walked out of the courtyard, leaving Serion Velaryon humiliated before the entire court of Dragonstone.

The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the walls of Eddie’s small chamber in the inn at Dragonstone. The night was silent, save for the occasional howl of the wind from the cliffs below. Eddie was resting, though not fully asleep—years of rigorous training and battle instincts never allowed him to be completely vulnerable.

Then, in the darkness, he heard it.

The subtle scrape of a blade against leather.

Eddie’s eyes snapped open, and his body reacted before his mind could even process the danger. He rolled to the side just as a dagger plunged into his pillow, missing his neck by inches.

Four shadowy figures had slipped into his room, their movements silent as death itself. Their weapons gleamed in the dim candlelight, and their faces were masked beneath dark hoods.

Assassins.

Without hesitation, Eddie kicked out, sending the assassin closest to him stumbling backward. At the same moment, he reached for the dagger beneath his pillow—one of the many weapons he always kept within reach.

The first assassin lunged again, but Eddie was already in motion. He ducked under the thrust and drove his own dagger into the man's side. The assassin gasped, staggering as Eddie wrenched the blade free, blood spilling onto the wooden floor.

The second assassin came at him from behind. Eddie twisted, catching the glint of steel aimed at his ribs. He sidestepped, grabbed the man’s wrist, and slammed his knee into his stomach. The assassin crumpled, and Eddie finished him off with a quick thrust to the throat.

The other two assassins, seeing their companions fall so quickly, hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Before they could retreat, the door to Eddie’s chamber burst open, and two of his guards, who had been stationed nearby, stormed inside. The assassins barely had time to react before they were forced into a desperate retreat, slipping out the window into the night.

Eddie, breathing heavily, wiped his blade clean. His eyes narrowed as he turned to his men. "After them."

The guards nodded and disappeared into the dark streets of Dragonstone, pursuing the fleeing assassins.

The two remaining assassins hadn’t gotten far.

One was caught near the harbor, cornered like a rat in an alleyway. The other was found trying to blend in with the night watch patrols, but he was recognized and quickly subdued.

By dawn, they were tied to chairs in the underground chambers of an abandoned storehouse that the Blackstone Legion still held in Dragonstone. Eddie stood before them, arms crossed, his face a mask of cold fury. Holden Cross loomed beside him, his presence alone enough to strike fear into weaker men.

The first assassin, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, spat on the floor. "You might as well kill me. I won’t talk."

Holden stepped forward and backhanded the man so hard that his chair nearly toppled over. "Wrong answer."

The second assassin, younger and more fearful, flinched. His hands trembled against the bindings. "P-please… I don’t want to die."

Eddie crouched in front of him, his voice low and dangerous. "Then tell me what I want to know."

The young assassin swallowed hard. "We were hired… by someone in the court. A nobleman. We weren’t told his name—only that he wanted you dead before you became a bigger problem."

Eddie's expression darkened. "What else?"

"They said you humiliated the wrong people. That your presence here is… unwelcome. That it would be best if you disappeared."

Holden scoffed. "Cowards. Instead of facing you in the open, they send knives in the dark."

Eddie nodded slowly. "I expected as much." He glanced at Holden. "We need to send a message."

Holden grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Gladly."

The first assassin, still defiant, sneered. "You think killing us will stop them? More will come. The lords of Westeros don’t like unknown threats."

Eddie smirked. "That’s fine. I’ll just keep killing them until they get the message."

Holden’s blade flashed, and the interrogation chamber was silent once more.

By midday, two bodies were found outside the gates of Dragonstone, their tongues cut out and their hands bound with their own belts. A simple note was pinned to one of their chests with a dagger:

"Send another, and I will return the favor personally. – E."

The message was clear. Eddie wasn’t an easy target. He wasn’t some foolish squire or lowborn bastard to be disposed of in the night. He was trained in the ways of war, forged in the fires of battle, and he would not go down without taking his enemies with him.

The nobles of Dragonstone had underestimated him once. They wouldn’t make that mistake again.

As he stood on the cliffs, watching the waves crash below, Holden Cross joined him. "They’ll be more careful now, but they won’t stop. You’ve made too many enemies here."

Eddie exhaled slowly. "Then maybe it’s time to leave Dragonstone. I think I’ve overstayed my welcome."

Holden nodded. "Where to next?"

Eddie smirked. "Let’s pay a visit to King’s Landing. I hear there’s always trouble to be found there."

Holden Cross sat on a wooden bench, sharpening his longsword with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scraping of steel against whetstone was the only sound in the room until two figures emerged from the tunnel entrance. Garreth and Davos—two of his most trusted men, seasoned warriors of Stormrage—approached him in silence.

They stood before him, tense, waiting for his acknowledgment. Holden didn’t look up from his sword, but his voice was sharp as a blade. “Have you found out who sent the assassins?”

Garreth exchanged a glance with Davos before answering. “Yes, Captain. It was House Sunglass.”

Holden’s sharpening stone paused mid-stroke. His gaze flicked up, cold and calculating. “Sunglass?”

Davos nodded. “Sirion Velaryon’s mother is a Sunglass. The Velaryons didn’t retaliate after Eddie humiliated Sirion in the training yard, but the Sunglasses took it upon themselves to avenge their kin. They saw the Velaryons’ inaction as weakness.”

Holden sheathed his sword and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His expression was unreadable. “And you’re certain?”

Garreth swallowed hard. " Yes.”

Holden let out a slow breath, rubbing his temple. Eddie would want to show mercy. He was his father’s son—a conqueror by nature, but a man who believed in redemption, in giving people a second chance. If Holden told him the truth, Eddie might attempt diplomacy.

Diplomacy wouldn’t work.

Not with noble houses that valued their pride more than their lives. House Sunglass had already shown their hand, and there was only one way to deal with such threats.

Davos cleared his throat. “What do you want us to do, Captain?”

Holden’s voice was quiet, almost too calm. “Two of you will stay behind when Eddie and I leave Dragonstone.”

Garreth shifted uneasily. “And?”

Holden’s gaze locked onto them with chilling finality. “You will burn their castle to the ground.”

The room fell silent. Garreth blinked, glancing at Davos, who remained expressionless.

“Use anything,” Holden continued. “Explosives, fire, whatever you need. Leave nothing behind.”

Garreth hesitated. “What if there are—”

Holden cut him off with a cold glare. “If you hesitate, you’ll die. Do you think they hesitated when they sent assassins to butcher our prince in his sleep?”

Garreth exhaled through his nose, tension visible in his shoulders. “No, sir.”

“Then do as I say.” Holden’s voice was steel. “No one’s life is more valuable than our prince. Make sure they understand that.”

Davos nodded once. “It will be done.”

Holden leaned back, picking up his sharpening stone again. He resumed his work with the same slow, methodical strokes, his expression unreadable.