Robert Stronghammer stood on the high cliffs overlooking the fertile lands of his kingdom, his expression pensive. The dragon's mere presence ensured the safety of Stormrage from external threats, but Robert knew that even the mightiest beast could not sustain a kingdom forever. His people needed more than security; they needed sustenance.
In the early days of his reign, Robert had relied heavily on the sea. The waters around Stormrage were abundant with fish, and the surrounding lands provided game for hunting. Yet, as the population grew, he quickly realized that this would not be enough. Fishing and hunting could only support so many mouths. If Stormrage was to thrive, it needed to produce its own food on a much larger scale.
The soil in Stormrage was not particularly rich, but Robert saw potential in it. He had learned from his time in Westeros that even the harshest lands could yield crops with the right effort and care. He gathered his council, a mix of experienced warriors and local leaders who had pledged their loyalty to him.
"We will not thrive on fish and meat alone," Robert declared, his voice firm. "Our survival depends on the land. We must turn these fields into the lifeblood of our kingdom."
His council exchanged uncertain glances. They were warriors and sheepherders, not farmers. One of them, a seasoned commander named Horik Kovas, spoke up. "My king, we know how to wield swords and shields, not plows. How will we teach our people to farm?"
Robert smiled, his confidence unwavering. "We will bring in those who know. There are skilled farmers in Essos, men and women who have cultivated harsher lands than these. We will offer them safety and a place within our kingdom in exchange for their knowledge."
The council nodded, slowly warming to the idea. Robert continued, "Once the fields are prepared, we will encourage every family to contribute. Those who farm will be rewarded generously. We will build granaries to store surplus grain, ensuring that we have enough even in times of drought or siege."
However, Robert was no fool. He knew that establishing a robust agricultural system would make Stormrage a target for the Dothraki, who often raided settlements for their crops and livestock. The Dothraki feared no army, but they respected power, and nothing in Essos was more powerful than a dragon.
"Cannibal will ensure that no Dothraki khal burns our fields," Robert said, his voice darkening. "But we will not rely on him alone. We will train our soldiers to defend the farmlands. Every patrol will know the land like the back of their hand. And when the Dothraki come, they will find not easy prey but warriors ready to protect what is ours."
The Blackstone Legion, the elite enforcers of Stormrage, took up the task with fervor. They drilled tirelessly, not only in open combat but also in ambush tactics and defensive strategies designed to protect the farmlands. Watchtowers were erected along the kingdom's borders, and scouts were dispatched to keep an eye on Dothraki movements.
Robert personally oversaw the training, often joining the soldiers in their drills. His presence inspired loyalty and determination. The farmers, too, found courage in their king's dedication. They worked the fields with renewed vigor, knowing that their king would stand beside them in times of need.
Within months, the transformation began. Fields of wheat, barley, and corn stretched across the plains. Orchards of fruit trees were planted, and vineyards began to take root on the rolling hills. Stormrage's markets, once filled with fish and game, now overflowed with fresh produce. The kingdom's granaries began to fill, and for the first time, its people knew the security of a stable food supply.
The Dothraki did not remain idle. Word of the thriving kingdom reached the ears of several khals, who saw the lush fields as ripe for the taking. One fateful day, a raiding party appeared on the horizon, their banners flying high. They rode fast and fierce, their intent clear.
But Robert was ready. He mounted the Cannibal and took to the skies, the dragon's roar echoing across the plains. The Dothraki had heard tales of the black dragon, but seeing it in flight was a different matter. As Cannibal descended upon them, flames erupting from its maw, the Dothraki scattered in terror.
Those who dared to stand and fight were met by the Blackstone Legion. The soldiers of Stormrage fought with a ferocity born of purpose, defending their homes and families. The Dothraki were driven back, their raid a complete failure.
Robert landed the Cannibal in the midst of his people, his armor scorched but his spirit unbroken. He raised his axe high, his voice ringing out. "This land is ours, and no one will take it from us! Together, we will build a kingdom that will endure for generations!"
The flames danced in the night sky as Robert Stronghammer stood atop the walls of Stormrage, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. The flickering light from the torches illuminated his scarred face, a testament to years of battle. Cannibal rested on a nearby peak, its massive black form blending with the night, only its glowing red eyes visible.
A scout approached, breathless and dust-covered. "Your Grace, another khalasar has been spotted. They've torched the outer fields and are moving toward the villages near the southern border."
Robert's jaw tightened, but he didn't flinch. "How many?"
"Three hundred riders, perhaps more," the scout replied, bowing his head. "They're moving quickly."
Robert nodded. "Summon the Legion. We ride at dawn."
The scout hurried away, and moments later, the courtyard below filled with the sound of armor being strapped on and weapons prepared. The Blackstone Legion, a force of disciplined warriors, assembled quickly. Robert descended the wall, meeting his commander, Captain Darius, at the gate.
"Dothraki again," Robert said, his tone grim.
Darius grinned, his sword resting on his shoulder. "They never learn, do they?"
"They will tonight," Robert replied. He turned to address the gathered soldiers. "These raiders think they can take from us, burn our fields, and enslave our people. Let's remind them why Stormrage is a name they fear. We'll hit their camp and leave no doubt that this land is protected."
A cheer erupted from the Legion, and within moments, they were mounted and ready. Robert climbed onto Cannibal's back, the dragon letting out a low growl as it spread its wings.
"Darius, you lead the ground forces," Robert commanded. "I'll take Cannibal ahead and sow chaos in their ranks. We'll meet at the enemy camp."
"With pleasure, Your Grace," Darius said, mounting his horse. "Let's give them a night to remember."
As the first light of dawn broke, the Dothraki camp came into view. Smoke from their campfires mingled with the morning mist. Cannibal soared above, his shadow casting an ominous presence over the land.
Robert guided the dragon lower, his voice calm but commanding. "Now, Cannibal. Show them your fury."
With a deafening roar, Cannibal unleashed a torrent of flame, engulfing the central part of the camp. The Dothraki scattered in panic, their horses rearing and screaming. Robert watched as chaos unfolded below, his heart steady. This was the price of attacking his kingdom.
Moments later, the Blackstone Legion stormed the camp. Darius led the charge, his sword cutting down the first Dothraki warrior who dared to stand against him. "For Stormrage!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the battlefield.
The Legion moved like a well-oiled machine. Groups of three to five soldiers worked together, their shields forming an unbreakable wall as they advanced. The Dothraki, unprepared for such organized resistance, fell quickly.
Robert leaped from Cannibal's back, his hammer in hand. He landed amidst a group of warriors, his weapon crushing the first man's chest in a single swing. "You wanted a fight? You have one!" he roared, his voice carrying over the din of battle.
A khal, his long braid swaying as he charged, aimed his arakh at Robert. But the king was faster, deflecting the blow with his hammer before delivering a crushing strike to the khal's side. The man crumpled, and the remaining Dothraki hesitated, their confidence faltering.
"Yield, or face the dragon's wrath!" Robert shouted, pointing to Cannibal, who circled above, ready to strike again.
Many of the Dothraki dropped their weapons, their hands raised in surrender. The few who continued to fight were quickly subdued by the Legion.
As the battle wound down, Robert turned his attention to the captives. Among them were dozens of slaves, their faces weary and broken. He addressed them, his voice firm but compassionate.
"You are free now," he said, scanning the crowd. "No one will own you again. You have a choice: you can leave, find your own path, or you can stay in Stormrage, where you will have a home and a purpose."
A murmur spread through the crowd. One man, an older farmer with a hardened face, stepped forward. "We have nowhere else to go, Your Grace. If you'll have us, we'll stay."
Robert nodded. "You are welcome here. In Stormrage, everyone earns their place. Work the land, learn to fight, and you will find a family among us."
The former slaves knelt in gratitude, tears streaming down some of their faces. Robert turned to the Dothraki who had surrendered. "And you," he said, his voice cold. "You attacked my people, burned my fields. But I see warriors who could be more than just raiders."
He walked among them, meeting their eyes. "If you wish to live, you'll serve me. Join the Blackstone Legion. Prove your loyalty, and you will have a future here. Betray me, and you will meet the same fate as your khal."
One by one, the Dothraki nodded, their faces grim but resolved. Robert knew it would take time to earn their trust, but he also knew the value of turning enemies into allies.
By the time the sun fully rose, the camp was secured. The freed slaves and Dothraki defectors were escorted back to Stormrage, where they were integrated into the kingdom. The fields were replanted, the villages rebuilt, and the people of Stormrage continued to thrive.
In his hall that evening, Robert addressed his council. "We've won another battle, but this is only the beginning. The Dothraki will return, and so will others. We must be ready."
Darius nodded. "The Legion grows stronger with every fight, Your Grace. And the people believe in you."
Robert looked out at the faces around him—loyal soldiers, freedmen, and former enemies who now called Stormrage home. "Together, we will build a kingdom that can withstand anything. This is our land, and we will defend it."
The tension in Stormrage's training yard was palpable. The usual sounds of clashing steel and shouted orders were absent, replaced by murmurs and the heavy breathing of warriors gathered to witness a pivotal moment. The Dothraki, newly assimilated into the kingdom, stood in a semi-circle, their proud faces set with doubt and curiosity. These fierce riders, who lived and died by the strength of their arms, had begun to question their new king.
Robert Stronghammer stood in the center of the yard, his hammer resting casually against his shoulder. His eyes were sharp, calculating, as they swept over the gathered warriors. Beside him, Darius leaned in, speaking quietly.
"They doubt, Your Grace," Darius said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "They respect the Legion, but they follow strength. They've yet to see yours up close."
Robert smirked. "Then let them see."
A Dothraki warrior, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped forward. His name was Khal Dorn, a former lieutenant of a khalasar now under Stormrage's banner. He crossed his arms and spoke in guttural Valyrian, his voice loud enough for all to hear.
"We have followed the strong all our lives," Dorn declared. "Your dragon is mighty, and your soldiers are skilled, but strength lies in the hand that wields the blade. You ask us to follow you, King. Show us why."
Robert nodded, his expression calm. "A fair request," he said, handing his hammer to Darius. "You wish to test my strength. Very well. Any man who doubts may face me. If you defeat me, you may take your leave—or my throne if you dare."
The yard buzzed with murmurs. Dorn grinned, confident in his abilities. He unsheathed his arakh and gestured to the sparring ring. "I will be the first."
The crowd gathered tighter as Robert stepped into the ring, barehanded. Dorn raised an eyebrow. "You face me without a weapon?"
"I won't need one," Robert replied, his tone matter-of-fact.
Dorn's grin faltered, replaced by a scowl. He lunged, his arakh flashing in the sunlight. Robert moved swiftly, sidestepping the strike and delivering a powerful blow to Dorn's ribs with his fist. The Dothraki warrior staggered but recovered quickly, circling Robert.
"Again," Robert said, motioning for Dorn to attack.
This time, Dorn came in with a flurry of strikes, but Robert parried each blow with calculated movements, his hands deflecting the arakh's edge. With a sudden burst of speed, Robert closed the distance, grabbing Dorn by the wrist and twisting. The arakh clattered to the ground as Dorn was forced to his knees.
Robert released him and stepped back. "Strength is more than brute force. It's knowing when and how to strike."
Dorn picked up his weapon, his pride bruised but his respect evident. He bowed his head. "You are strong, King. I will follow."
Another Dothraki, younger and more brash, stepped forward. "Let me test you, King," he said, gripping his spear tightly.
Robert gestured for him to enter the ring. "Come then."
The young warrior charged, his spear thrusting forward. Robert sidestepped again, this time grabbing the shaft and snapping it in half with a single motion. Before the Dothraki could react, Robert delivered a sweeping kick that sent him sprawling.
"Next," Robert called, his voice echoing across the yard.
enough, but one more stepped forward—a seasoned veteran with scars crisscrossing his arms and chest. He carried a greatsword, its edge gleaming in the light.
"I will fight you, King," he said, his voice steady.
Robert nodded, picking up a training sword from the rack. The two circled each other, the air between them tense. The veteran struck first, his greatsword coming down with tremendous force. Robert met the blow with his training sword, the clash of metal ringing out.
They exchanged blows, the veteran testing Robert's defenses. But it was clear Robert was holding back, his movements precise and deliberate. Finally, Robert saw an opening. With a swift maneuver, he disarmed the veteran and pressed the tip of the training sword against his throat.
"You fight well," Robert said, lowering the sword. "But not well enough."
The veteran nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips. "You are worthy, King."
Robert turned to the gathered Dothraki, his voice carrying authority. "I don't ask for blind loyalty. I ask for respect earned in the field, proven in battle. If you doubt me, I will meet you here, in this yard, as many times as it takes."
The Dothraki warriors, one by one, bowed their heads. Their doubts erased, they accepted Robert not just as a king but as a warrior worthy of their allegiance.
Darius stepped forward, clapping Robert on the shoulder. "You've shown them what they needed to see."
Robert nodded. "Let's hope they remember it when the time comes to defend our kingdom."
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