Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 113

In the golden light of early morning, the Red Keep shimmered like a crown above the heart of King’s Landing. The air was crisp, laced with the distant scent of the Blackwater Bay, and within the stone walls of the Tower of the Hand, Jon Targaryen stood by the window, his gaze fixed far to the west. Beyond the waters, beyond the reach of any raven’s wing, lay the final kingdom that had yet to bend the knee: the Iron Islands.

A soft knock sounded against the carved oak doors. Samwell Tarly entered with parchment in hand and a wary expression on his round face.

“They’re ready, Your Grace,” Sam said, bowing slightly. “The council is assembled.”

Jon turned from the window, nodding once. “It’s time.”

Inside the newly reformed Small Council chamber, the lords and commanders who had shaped the war and held the realm together now sat in quiet attention. Robb Stark stood near the fire, arms folded, with Howland Reed beside him. Lord Tarly, stoic as ever, gave Jon a respectful incline of the head. Queen Val remained nearby, watching with her sharp Northern eyes. Hilda, though with child, had chosen to remain in her tower under maester supervision—but her presence loomed large over Jon’s thoughts.

Jon entered and took his seat at the head of the long stone table. His voice was calm but firm as he began.

“We have reclaimed the throne. Six of the Seven Kingdoms have bent the knee. We’ve ended the tyranny of Lannisters. We’ve brought peace, rebuilt cities, and restored dignity to the smallfolk.”

He let that linger, letting the weight of their work be felt. Then his tone shifted, harder now.

“But one kingdom remains free. Not because they value independence, but because they are ruled by chaos. The Iron Islands.”

There was a murmur among the lords.

“The Ironborn have not sent envoys, nor have they replied to our summons,” Jon continued. “Euron Greyjoy sits on a throne of blood and madness. He will not come. He will not bend.”

“Then we will distroy them,” Robb growled. “Like we did with the Lannisters.”

“No,” Jon said, raising a hand. “We won’t send the full might of the realm. We will send a claim. A rightful one.”

Jon’s eyes were fixed on the Raven’s parchment in his hand. Theon Greyjoy’s letter, written in haste and with care, had arrived days ago. It was short—Theon had no time for poetry now—but every word rang with weight.

“Theon is already there,” Jon said aloud, placing the parchment gently on the table before him.

Robb Stark, seated across from him, leaned forward. “In the Iron Islands?”

Jon nodded. “He made landfall under a false identity, posing as a sailor. He’s made contact with his uncle, Rodrik Harlaw, and gained his support. But he’s cautious—Euron’s spies are everywhere, and Theon’s claim, if revealed too soon, could get him killed before he lifts a sword.”

Howland Reed frowned. “A bold move, but dangerous. Euron Greyjoy is not one to suffer threats quietly.”

Samwell Tarly adjusted the records he was scribbling and looked up. “What does Theon ask of us?”

“Not a declaration of war. Not yet,” Jon replied. “He asks for soldiers—quietly delivered. Enough to tip the balance, to show the Ironborn that he is not alone. That the crown recognizes his claim.”

“Do you trust him?” asked Lord Tarly with narrowed eyes.

“I do,” Jon said without hesitation. “He’s may be cocky and rude but he is all we have. He knows the way of mainland, and more importantly, he knows the value of order. He is the best choice we have for peace in the Iron Islands.”

Robb glanced at the sealed scroll still resting near Jon’s wine cup. “And Euron?”

Jon’s voice turned cold. “He hasn’t responded to my letter. As expected. I made sure to insult everything he holds sacred. The Drowned God. His lineage. His cowardice. He won’t bend the knee. I made sure of that.”

“And the messenger?” Howland asked carefully.

“Still no word,” Jon replied grimly. “He was one of the Lannister prisoners. I doubt he made it off the island.”

Sam cleared his throat. “So we’re preparing for war.”

“We’re preparing for reclamation,” Jon corrected. “I’ll not have the Iron Islands in the hands of a madman. And I won’t conquer them with banners and fire unless I must. Theon will return peace to those isles, or he will die trying.”

He turned toward the map table and pointed toward Pyke.

“They are the last,” Jon said quietly, voice low but firm. “The last kingdom to bring under the banner of Westeros united.”

Howland Reed leaned forward, his reed-thin fingers brushing the edges of the map. “The Ironborn are proud. Even prouder in silence, Your Grace. They do not send ravens. They send axes.”

Jon nodded. “That’s why we must not only answer with swords, but with familiarity. With blood that speaks their tongue, walks their shores.”

Howland looked up at him, eyes sharp beneath the green-grey fringe of his hair. “I know where to find them. After the Greyjoy Rebellion, dozens of Ironborn abandoned their way of life. With piracy outlawed and their longships burned or seized, many fled the islands. Some went to Oldtown, some to the Fingers, but many found haven in the boglands of the Neck, on the salt marshes and crannogs. They married greenlanders, took up plows in place of oars.”

“How many can you gather?” Jon asked.

“Enough to blend in,” Howland answered. “Not soldiers, perhaps, but men who can pass for Ironborn in dress and speech. And with proper training, they’ll serve Theon well. They know the islands, the customs, the tides.”

“Good,” Jon said. “Recruit them quietly. No banners. No gold, not yet. Let them come for purpose.”

At the far end of the room, Robb Stark stood with arms folded. He had listened to everything without speaking, his face unreadable.

“I’ll lead them,” he said finally.

Jon turned to him, pausing before he spoke. “No.”

“No?” Robb’s brow furrowed.

“You’ve led enough, Robb,” Jon said gently. “You’ve done more than anyone could ask. The Riverlands are safe because of you. The Westerlands are silent because of you. But Iron Island is not your war.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Theon was my brother, once. You know that. I won’t let him fight alone.”

“You won’t,” Jon agreed. “But he won’t be alone. He’ll have my soldiers. Our fleet. My seal on every order. But you…”

Jon stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“…you’ve changed, Robb. The war—this war—it’s made you sharp. Too sharp. I saw it at Casterly Rock. You speak of fire more than peace. You hunger for battle more than justice.”

Robb’s mouth opened, then shut again.

“I need the Robb who smiled in the snow,” Jon continued. “The Robb who protected Bran, who played with Rickon, who led with his father’s steadiness. That Robb, I need in the North.”

“And what would you have me do?” Robb asked, voice low.

“Go home,” Jon said simply. “To Winterfell. You’ve been married nearly two years now. It’s time you build your family, your house. The Starks must have a future, not just a past soaked in war.”

Silence hung in the chamber like a winter fog. Robb looked between the men—Howland, Samwell, Lord Tarly—then gave a slow nod.

“As you command, Your Grace.”

Jon’s hand found his brother’s shoulder. “You’re not dismissed out of shame. You’ve earned rest.”

As Robb left the room, his crimson cloak trailing behind him, Jon turned back to Howland.

“Send word to the men in the Neck. Find me those with Ironborn blood, who still remember salt in their veins.”

“And if they refuse?” Howland asked.

“They won’t,” Jon said. “They know what lies across that water. And they know the Iron Islands deserve better than Euron Greyjoy.”

Howland smiled thinly. “And what of the others who hear we’re recruiting for Pyke? Will they not think war is coming?”

“Let them,” Jon answered. “It is.”


The wind howled over the craggy hills of Harlaw, sharp and wet with sea spray. Inside the dimly lit hall of Lord Botley, three men sat in a triangle, hunched over a wide, weathered table. The stone walls were thick, muffling the storm outside, but the tension inside the hall crackled like lightning.

Lord Roderick Harlaw, the Reaper of Harlaw, sat at the head of the table, his eyes as calm and unreadable as still water. Across from him sat Lord Dunstan Botley—grey-bearded, heavy-set, and weary-eyed, his cloak still damp from the ride. Between them stood a young man in plain woolen clothes, head lowered respectfully. He had not yet been acknowledged.

"So, Roderick," grumbled Lord Botley, sipping warm mead from a carved horn, "you bring me all the way out here to speak of your fears about Euron? I won’t pretend I’m pleased with his madness, but what other option is there?"

Roderick gave a slow nod. "Euron is a storm we cannot ride. He brings blood, but never bread. He rules with madness, and madness does not sustain an island of salt and iron. You know it as well as I do."

Lord Botley’s hand tightened around his drinking horn. "Aye, but he is Greyjoy. The banner flies, and the men fear him more than they love him."

Roderick leaned forward, his tone quiet but sharp. "What if we had another Greyjoy?"

Lord Botley scoffed. "Who? Victarion lies rotting beneath the sea. Asha vanished. Who else remains?"

The young man stepped forward. Slowly, he pulled back the cowl covering his face. Salt-black hair, trimmed short. His eyes were dark, but familiar—full of fire and regret.

"Theon Greyjoy," he said.

Botley stood at once, eyes widening in disbelief. "Gods be good... It can’t be."

"It is," Theon said. "I lived. I returned. I want my home back."

Botley’s face twisted with memory, with disbelief, with the sting of old wounds. "You were... in Winterfell. We heard nothing. And then came the rumors of your death."

"It is just rumors that I created to escape Euron's spies," Theon said, his voice low but steady. " And now I return, not just to reclaim my name... but to redeem it. The Iron Islands can be more than raiders and reavers. I offer you alliance, Botley, not by blood or plunder—but with promise."

Botley narrowed his eyes. "What promise?"

Theon reached into his cloak and drew forth a sealed letter. He slid it across the table to Botley, who broke the wax with careful fingers. It bore the sigil of House Targaryen—but it was three-headed dragon on red.

"Jon Targaryen," Theon said, "is the true King of Westeros. And he is my friend."

Botley scanned the parchment. The writing was strong, direct, and undeniably royal. It pledged the support of the Iron Throne for Theon Greyjoy’s claim as Lord of the Iron Islands.

"He supports you?" Botley asked, incredulous.

"He trusts me," Theon said, locking eyes with him. "He knows I am not the Ironborn boy I once was. I have walked with the king and his wolves. And I have learned. I know what it takes to build a kingdom. Not just with ships and spears—but with alliances, trade, and laws."

"And you think this king will let Ironborn plunder the seas?"

"No," Theon said. "He will not. And I will not. But we will thrive in a new way. Our shipwrights will build for the world. Our sailors will carry goods, not corpses. Our pride can remain—but our shame will end."

There was silence. Botley looked between Theon and Roderick Harlaw.

"You came here posing as a servant," Botley muttered. "Yet you speak like a lord."

"I served too long not to learn humility," Theon replied. "But now I am ready to lead."

Roderick stood. "We have waited too long in shadow. It is time we act. Will you stand with us, Dunstan Botley?"

Botley’s eyes went back to the letter. He ran his thumb over the black seal. Slowly, he gave a grim smile.

"Aye," he said. "Let the tide turn."