The Stronghammer - CH - 77

The forest clearing, once heavy with the threat of dragonfire, now settled into a tense stillness. The wind shifted between the wings of five dragons, each one a living force of power and destruction—but no fire was breathed. No blood spilled.

Daemon Targaryen, still atop Caraxes, knew the truth now.

The battle was already lost.

With Cannibal, Arya, and Vermithor arrayed against him and Vhagar, the odds were not merely uneven—they were impossible. Daemon was a warrior, but he was not suicidal. A fight here would not only cost him his life, but his wife’s as well, and likely the lives of both their dragons.

He exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly in defeat. “So be it,” Daemon said grimly. “I admit defeat.”

Robert watched him carefully, his warhammer resting across his lap as he sat atop Cannibal. He gave a small nod. “Good. Then let’s speak like men of reason.”

The dragons remained still, looming shadows of death above their riders as Robert continued.

“Tell me, Daemon,” Robert said, voice sharp, “who planned this war? Who pulled the strings?”

Daemon hesitated for only a moment before answering. “It wasn’t one man—it was nearly all of them. The ruling councils of Norvos, Qohor, and Lorath were all in agreement. They feared Stormrage’s rise. Feared you. The wealth. The dragons. The discipline. They saw a kingdom being forged that could challenge their hold over the trade routes, their influence over Essos itself.” He paused. “And they were right to be afraid.”

Robert’s expression darkened. He had already committed to wiping out the conspirators through assassination—but a new thought now took shape in his mind. Without leadership, these cities would fall into chaos. Blood would spill in the streets. Innocents would suffer.

Stormrage was forged from order and strength, not pointless ruin.

And now, an opportunity had presented itself.

“If we remove the heads, we must put new ones in their place,” Robert said quietly, more to himself than to the others. Then louder, he turned to Daemon. “If you are willing to abandon your ambitions for Westeros—if you are willing to swear fealty to Stormrage—I will give you Qohor. You will rule it as lord, under my authority.”

Daemon blinked, surprised. Laena turned slightly toward her husband but said nothing.

“You’re offering me a city?” Daemon asked, voice low.

“I’m offering you a future,” Robert replied. “A city, a seat, power, and protection. But not independence. You will answer to Stormrage. Swear your loyalty, and Qohor is yours.”

Daemon looked at Laena, then back to Robert. He saw the logic. He saw the opportunity. And above all, he saw survival.

He gave a short nod. “I’ll swear it. Qohor will fly your banner.”

Robert turned then to Aemond Targaryen, still seated atop Vermithor. “And you, Aemond—Lorath is yours, if you’ll take it. Rule it wisely, and it will prosper under Stormrage’s protection.”

Aemond grinned, pleased. “I’ll take it. I was growing tired of Westeros anyway.”

Finally, Robert looked at his son. “Eddard, Norvos will be yours to rule until my death. After that, your heirs—your sons, your daughters—will take your place. Let Norvos be your test. Rule it well.”

Eddard bowed his head, understanding the weight of what had just been placed upon him. “I will not fail you.”

And so, amidst the trees and beneath the wings of dragons, a new order was forged.

The Free Cities of Qohor, Norvos, and Lorath would no longer be sovereign powers plotting in shadow. They would become vassal states under the banner of Stormrage, ruled by dragonlords who bent the knee to a higher king.


The war council of dragonlords convened once more, this time under the shadow of trees instead of banners. The five dragons loomed over the clearing—Cannibal, Arya, Vermithor, Caraxes, and Vhagar—their presence alone casting a heavy silence over the meeting. What had begun as a threat of war had now become the forging of a new alliance.

Their first target: Qohor.

But they all understood—an all-out siege on Qohor would be a mistake. The city was ancient, its walls high and strong, and its people proud. Even with dragons, the siege would take time. And worse, the people inside would resist, believing they were under foreign attack. Panic would spread. Blood would run in the streets.

“We could break their walls,” Robert said, standing with arms crossed, Cannibal resting behind him like a mountain of black steel. “But what good is conquest if we burn the city to the ground in the process?”

Eddard Stormrage stepped forward, his mind already set. “We do it quietly,” he said. “We do it my way.”

Daemon, still adjusting to his role as a new vassal of Stormrage, turned to Eddard. “Explain.”

“We use the same plan we had for the conspirators,” Eddard replied. “Assassinate them. One by one. Every member of the council, every noble who supported the war against Stormrage—they vanish. And once they’re gone, you step in. As the new Lord of Qohor.”

Daemon considered it for only a moment before nodding. “It’s clean. It’s fast. And it saves the city.”

“Exactly,” Robert said. “No open war. No innocent blood spilled.”

Once the council members and corrupt leaders were eliminated, Damon would be installed as the Lord of Qohor. The people would see a Targaryen on the throne—one riding the blood-wyrm Caraxes—and they would understand this was not chaos, but order. A new rule under Stormrage’s banner.

“And once I’m seated in Qohor,” Daemon said, his confidence returning, “I’ll open the gates. Let your soldiers walk in, not to conquer—but to keep the peace. Show the people we come not as tyrants, but as protectors.”

Laena, quiet until now, added, “And with five dragons flying above their city walls, any talk of rebellion will vanish like smoke.”

Eddard gave a rare smile. “Exactly.”

Robert looked around the circle of warriors—his son, his allies, and even former enemies—and gave a solemn nod.

“Then it’s settled. Qohor falls without war. We take it from the inside, and when the city wakes, it will already belong to Stormrage.”

And so, the plan was set in motion.

Not with fire.
Not with blood.
But with silence, precision, and dragons watching from the sky.


The city of Qohor slept beneath the stars, unaware that its fate was being rewritten in the shadows.

Within the deep woods outside the city, Daemon Targaryen stood alongside Robert Stronghammer beneath the looming forms of Cannibal and Caraxes. The firelight flickered across their armor as the final preparations were made. The path forward was not one of fire and fury, but of silence and steel.

“To strike them all at once,” Daemon had said, “I’ll need more than sharp words and a dragon.”

“You’ll have more,” Robert replied. “I’m giving you the best of the Blackstone Legion.”

From the heart of Stormrage’s elite, one hundred of the most formidable soldiers were chosen. Not just brutal warriors, but assassins—men and women who thrived in the dark, trained in stealth, infiltration, and precise killing. Clad in shadow-colored armor and wielding silent blades, they were the Stormrage ghosts—the whisperers of death.

With the cover of night and the wings of dragons, Cannibal, Arya, and Vermithor flew high and slow above the city, their presence muffled by cloud cover and silence spells cast by Stormrage's mages. One by one, the Blackstone Legion assassins were lowered into hidden parts of Qohor—through rooftops, garden walls, and forgotten tunnels known only to Daemon through his months of quiet observation.

Daemon, now deep inside the city, played a role he had long prepared for. He watched the corrupt ruling council from the shadows, learning their schedules, routines, secret dealings, and hidden vices. He fed information to the Blackstone Legion, housed them in abandoned manors, hidden cellars, and secret passages beneath Qohor’s ancient stone. He fed them, clothed them, kept them hidden. All while gaining the trust of the men and women he would soon help kill.

The council had grown suspicious.

Whispers circulated—why hadn’t Daemon attacked Stormrage as planned? Why had he retreated from the border? Why had no flames touched Stormrage soil?

To ease their doubts and maintain his cover, Daemon agreed to attend a special meeting—one summoned in secrecy, behind locked doors in the Tower of Black Marble. All the ruling members of Qohor’s inner circle would be present. The traitors who had plotted against Stormrage. The ones whose hands were stained with blood before a blade had ever been drawn.

They wanted answers. They wanted loyalty confirmed.

And they would receive none of it.

The Blackstone Legion was already in place—hidden behind walls, beneath floorboards, above the vaulted ceilings. Poised like wolves, waiting for the command.

The trap had been set.


The Tower of Black Marble, seat of power in Qohor, had never known such fury. The ruling council of Qohor sat in a ring of obsidian chairs, their faces twisted with anger and humiliation. Gold-plated goblets shook in trembling hands, voices rose in accusation, and eyes burned with distrust.

“Our armies shattered, our fleets drowned, our gold wasted!” roared Councilor Belonos, his fist slamming the stone table. “Thousands dead, coffers emptied—for what? What did we gain but ash and shame?”

“Stormrage humiliated us!” barked another. “And where were you, Prince Daemon? You vanished into the trees like a ghost!”

Daemon Targaryen stood calmly at the edge of the chamber, draped in fine black silks, his silver hair falling past his shoulders. Though surrounded by the howls of men who once praised him, he looked entirely at ease.

“I was where I needed to be,” Daemon said, voice steady, measured. “Hidden in the Forest of Qohor. Watching. Waiting.”

“Waiting?” another councilor spat. “For what? For defeat?”

Daemon’s gaze hardened. “I waited to see Robert Stronghammer's hand. And what I saw made the truth clear—Stormrage has more than one dragon. Two massive beasts: Cannibal and Arya.”

The room fell into a tense hush.

“And that’s not all,” Daemon continued. “My nephew, Aemond Targaryen, was with them. With Vermithor. That made three.”

The council stirred, looks of disbelief flashing across their faces.

“If I had attacked, I would have died. My wife would have died. Our dragons would have been slaughtered,” Daemon said coldly. “And all for what? A council seat? Empty promises from scheming cowards?”

That struck a nerve. Voices rose again—some defending their position, others cursing Daemon. The room descended into a fresh storm of argument.

And that was when Daemon raised his hand.

A subtle motion. Barely noticeable.

But the shadows of the chamber shifted.

In an instant, the council’s fate was sealed.

From behind columns, through secret doors, and even the high rafters, the Blackstone Legion emerged. Dressed in black, faces hidden, blades gleaming in the low torchlight—they moved like spirits of death.

The screams began as the first throat was slit.

Daemon drew the knife hidden behind the folds of his robe and plunged it into Councilor Belonos’ chest. Blood sprayed across the stone table as the man gasped and fell back, gurgling.

The rest barely had time to react.

One by one, the ruling council was cut down. Their guards tried to fight but were outmatched by Stormrage’s elite assassins. Steel met flesh. Cries of pain echoed down the hall. It was not a battle—it was a slaughter.

Within minutes, the tower was slick with blood.

But it did not stop there.

As dawn approached, Blackstone Legion soldiers raided every home tied to the ruling council. Loyalists were executed. Houses were looted. Guards were slain in their sleep. The women of the treacherous houses were taken into custody—alive but under watch.

By morning, Qohor had no ruling elite.

Only Daemon Targaryen.

He stood at the top of the Tower of Black Marble, looking out across the city as its terrified citizens emerged into the bloodstained streets.

And then came the dragons.

Cannibal. Arya. Vermithor. Caraxes. Vhagar.

Five dragons circled above the Free City of Qohor like harbingers of divine judgment. Their shadows fell across the plazas, the temples, the markets. The people wept. Some knelt. Some fainted. All understood.

Qohor was no longer free.

But it was alive.

And the people, seeing Daemon atop Caraxes, and the banner of Stormrage now flying from the tower’s highest point, knew the truth:

They had been conquered.

And they would now serve under Lord Daemon Targaryen, vassal to King Robert Stronghammer, ruler of Stormrage.