Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 118

The Riverlands smelled of rain and pine. The air was thick with the scent of wet soil as Tormund Giantsbane and his company of peacekeepers rode through the narrow trails, the hooves of their mounts thudding against the sodden earth. Tormund rode at the front, his great red beard damp from mist, eyes squinting ahead.

"We’re getting close," muttered Halrik, a lean man with a scar across his nose. He pointed toward a broken tree branch and tracks that veered into a thick copse. "Fresh horses. Big ones. Like those stolen from the farm."

Tormund grunted. "Then the bastards didn’t get far."

They pressed on until the trees opened into a clearing. Smoke curled lazily from a small campfire at the center of the clearing, and a handful of figures lounged around it. Horses grazed nearby—strong, Westerosi breeds, unmistakably the same as those taken from the farm. The moment they stepped into view, Tormund raised a fist. His company fanned out quietly, encircling the camp.

One of the men at the fire stood up and sneered. He wore the faded remnants of an Ironborn captain’s coat. His face was hard, eyes wild, and he stood with an arrogance that clung to him like armor.

"So," he drawled, spreading his arms. "Come to bow before your lord, have you?"

Tormund dismounted. "Didn’t come to bow. Came to take back what’s not yours. And maybe your heads."

The man grinned. "I am Euron Greyjoy, rightful Lord of the Iron Islands. You’ll treat me with—"

"Shut your damn mouth," Tormund interrupted, stepping closer. "You're a murderer and a thief. You slaughtered farmers. You butchered women and children. You think calling yourself a lord means you get to escape the noose?"

Euron narrowed his eyes. "You’re just a savage who fucked goats north of the Wall. Who are you to judge a prince of the sea?"

Tormund’s smile was slow, grim. "I’m the man who brings justice. Doesn’t matter what crown you wore. Doesn’t matter who you say you are. The law’s the law."

From behind the trees, Tormund’s warriors stepped into the clearing. Blades drawn. Bows ready.

Euron’s men scrambled to stand. One drew a blade, but the others hesitated.

"We’ll fight," Euron spat. "To the last man."

"You had your chance," Tormund said. "Could’ve come quiet. Now you’ll die screaming."

And with that, the peacekeepers charged. Steel clashed against steel, arrows flew. The clearing exploded in battle. Tormund waded into the fight with a two-handed axe, roaring as he drove it into the chest of the nearest Ironborn. He spun, parried a blow, and elbowed another man to the ground.

The skirmish didn’t last long. The Ironborn fought with desperation but little coordination. One by one, they fell. Tormund’s warriors were seasoned, fast, and furious.

Only Euron remained, breathless and bloodied, a gash over his eye, and his sword knocked away.

He fell to his knees, grinning through bloodstained teeth. "Go on then. Drag me to your king. I’ll stand trial. Let’s see if your precious Jon Snow dares execute a lord."

Tormund loomed over him, axe in hand.

"Three of my men are dead because you chose to fight. You had your chance. You spat on it. I don’t need a king’s order for this. I’ve buried better men today because of you."

Euron laughed, bitter and broken. "You’ll regret this."

Tormund’s axe rose and fell.

The clearing grew quiet.

Later, they built a pyre and burned the bodies—both the fallen Ironborn and their own comrades.

Tormund stood before the flames, arms crossed.

"Let the sea have no claim on them," he said quietly. "Not the drowned god, not their banners. Only the fire will remember them now."

The fire crackled. The wind howled low. And Tormund turned, mounting his horse again.

"Let’s ride. Justice waits for no one. And there's always more work to be done."

And with that, the company rode out of the clearing, leaving behind only ashes and silence.


The sea was calm when Theon Greyjoy’s ship glided into Blackwater Bay, the kraken of House Greyjoy flapping proudly on its sail—though now it flew beside the silver dragon of House Targaryen. The deck was quiet, the wind steady, and Theon stood tall at the prow. His armor gleamed under the sun, and though his eyes bore the weight of what he’d done and what he had yet to do, he looked ahead with clarity. He was no longer the boy who hold grudge against the King. He was Lord of the Iron Islands now—and it was time to bend the knee.

At the Red Keep, King Jon Targaryen stood in his solar overlooking the city. A raven had brought the news—Theon’s ship was in port. He nodded, a sense of peace blooming quietly inside him. With this, it was done. All seven kingdoms were his. There had been war, yes, but less bloodshed than he ever expected. Much of the realm had come willingly, drawn by justice, prosperity, or the sheer power he and his allies wielded.

Jon turned to Samwell, who stood beside the throne holding a sealed parchment. “Send this to Essos,” Jon said. “Let my uncle know.”

Sam smiled. “The conquest is complete.”

The parchment bore the royal seal and Jon’s own hand:

To Prince Viserys Targaryen,
From Jon, King of the Seven Kingdoms,
I write to tell you that the last lord has come. Theon Greyjoy of Pyke has arrived in King’s Landing to swear his fealty.
The Seven Kingdoms are whole again, united not by fire and blood—but by perseverance, loyalty, and vision.
May this letter find you in health and strength. Your nephew awaits you in peace and honor.

Viserys's reply came a few days later, carried by a swift Lyseni ship:

To His Grace, King Jon Targaryen,
It brings me great joy to know that our House has reclaimed what is rightfully ours. You have done what many could not: not just take the throne, but command the respect of Westeros.
You are your father’s son and more.
My blessings to you and your realm.
Your uncle,
Viserys of Freedom Bay

Later that day, Theon stood in the grand throne room, the Iron Throne looming high, surrounded by lords, knights, and nobles. Ghost and Shadow, Jon’s direwolves, lounged by the dais like silent white and black sentinels. Arya, Val, Hilda, and the entire royal court watched in silence as Theon Greyjoy knelt.

“I, Theon of House Greyjoy,” he said, voice steady, “swear fealty to Jon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. My sword is yours. My ships are yours. The Iron Islands are yours.”

Jon stepped forward and placed a hand on Theon’s shoulder. “Rise, Lord Theon. You return to us not just as a Greyjoy, but as a Stark as well.”

The crowd erupted into applause. And with that, the last piece of the realm fell into place.

Jon Targaryen—once the Snow of Winterfell—now truly ruled all Seven Kingdoms.




Eight months had passed since King Jon Targaryen united the Seven Kingdoms under his rule. The realm, once fractured and stained with the blood of rebellion, now breathed the air of peace and prosperity. The banners of the Direwolf and the Dragon flew side by side from the highest towers of the Red Keep, fluttering proudly above a city reborn.

King’s Landing, no longer cloaked in the shadow of filth and chaos, had transformed. The slums were cleared and rebuilt with wide avenues, brick-laid streets, and fountains that poured fresh water. Public bathhouses dotted the districts, and a canal system inspired by the designs of Old Volantis carried away waste, bringing sanitation to a people long denied it. Where once the smell of rot lingered in every breath, now the scent of jasmine and rose filled the air.

In the heart of the city, the tourney grounds outside the newly widened city walls bustled with life. Nobles and smallfolk alike gathered from across Westeros to witness the greatest spectacle since Aegon the Conqueror’s coronation. This was no ordinary feast or tournament—it was the celebration of the birth of a prince, the firstborn son of King Jon Targaryen and Queen Hilda of Skagos.

The child, named Prince Edmund Targaryen, bore a crown of pale silver hair and sharp grey eyes that reminded many of Lord Eddard Stark, yet shimmered with the flame of the dragon. A babe barely strong enough to lift his own hand had already brought the nobility of the realm to one place, pledging gifts, oaths, and laughter to his name.

The stands were filled to the brim. Lord Robb Stark sat beside Queen Val, now heavy with child herself, while Arya Stark stood at her brother's side, a ruler in her own right from Moat Cailin. The Reachmen brought golden cradle, Dornishmen brought wine sweet as honey, and from the Iron Islands, Theon Greyjoy offered a finely wrought iron crown and a letter of loyalty, signed in salt and blood.

At the center of the lords stood Samwell Tarly, Hand of the King, who had overseen the organization of the grand event. He watched from the royal pavilion, quill in hand, ensuring that the names of every champion were recorded and the proceedings flowed without error.

King Jon Targaryen sat beside Queen Hilda, cradling his son as trumpets roared. The King wore no crown of gold that day, but a circlet of silver and steel, inscribed with the words: "By Fire and Frost, We Endure."

“It’s time,” Samwell whispered.

Jon rose, carrying Edmund in his arms. As he stepped out into the balcony above the grounds, silence fell upon the arena. Even the knights below lowered their lances and looked up.

“My lords and ladies,” Jon began, his voice strong, carried across the tourney field by the wind, “you have come from all corners of this great realm not merely to honor a prince, but to witness the dawn of an age.”

He held Edmund high, and a cheer erupted from every voice.

“This child is born not only of fire and ice—but of peace and strength. For him, I have built a realm without chains. And for his sister, unborn yet already beloved, I shall make a garden of this war-scarred world.”

Cheers turned into thunder.

A knight from the Vale rode out, bearing a silver lance. “For the honor of Prince Edmund!” he shouted.

“For Prince Edmund!” echoed men from the North, the Reach, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, Dorne, and the Riverlands. The Seven Kingdoms had bent the knee, and now they raised their blades for the future.

Jon smiled—not as a conqueror, not as a king, but as a father.

And in the moment when the sun bathed the crowd in gold, and a great white falcon circled above the sky, Arya turned to Samwell and whispered, “Do you think he’ll keep it all together?”

Samwell smiled faintly. “If anyone can, it’s Jon.”

Jon looked down upon the tourney grounds, the laughter of children ringing in the distance, and the thunder of hooves beginning the first tilt. He held his son closer, his voice low.

“You’ll have a better world, my boy.