Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 110

Theon Greyjoy moved cautiously through the winding streets of Harlaw, his eyes constantly darting to the shadows. He had been on the island for a few days now, blending in as a common sailor, keeping his true identity hidden. It was difficult to suppress the proud swagger of a Greyjoy, but Theon knew one misstep could mean his death.

He finally approached the grand hall of Ten Towers, where his uncle, Lord Rodrik Harlaw, the Reaper of Harlaw, resided. The keep loomed like a great stone behemoth against the darkening sky. Two guards flanked the entrance, their faces hard as iron.

Taking a deep breath, Theon approached, keeping his hood low. One of the guards blocked his path with a spear.

"Who goes there?" the guard demanded.

Theon pulled down his hood, revealing his familiar face, roughened by travel. "Theon Greyjoy. I seek an audience with Lord Rodrik Harlaw."

The guards exchanged uncertain glances. One of them nodded slowly. "Stay here." He disappeared inside.

Theon stood in tense silence, his hand twitching near his belt. Moments later, the doors creaked open, and Rodrik Harlaw himself appeared—a tall, weathered man with a stern face and piercing grey eyes.

Rodrik studied him for a moment, then his lips curled into a faint smile. "Theon... You've returned."

Theon inclined his head. "Uncle Rodrik."

Rodrik motioned for him to follow inside, and Theon stepped past the threshold, his heart pounding. Inside, the hall was adorned with battle banners and trophies from seafaring raids, but it felt quieter than he remembered.

As they walked, Rodrik spoke in a low voice. "I heard rumors of a lone sailor sneaking around the islands. I never suspected it might be you. Your father spoke of you often before he died."

Theon swallowed hard. "How did he die?"

Rodrik sighed. "Euron returned from his years of exile, claiming to have seen the world and become something greater. Balon didn’t trust him, but before anyone knew what was happening, Balon was dead—thrown from a bridge during a storm. Euron claimed the sea chose him, and now he rules from Pyke."

Theon clenched his fists. "And Asha? What happened to her?"

Rodrik glanced at him sideways. "Disappeared. She opposed Euron’s rule openly, and after a failed challenge during the Kingsmoot, she fled. We suspect she’s either hiding on another island or sailed away. We’re still looking."

They entered a side chamber where a woman sat by the fire, her hands clasped, eyes distant. Theon froze, his heart seizing in his chest.

"Mother?" he whispered.

The woman turned her head slowly, eyes glazed with madness. She squinted, then shook her head. "No... no, my boy is just a lad. Ten years old, playing in the yard. You’re not him... no, no..."

Theon approached cautiously. "Mother, it’s me. It’s Theon. I’ve come back."

She shook her head violently, curling into herself. "No! You’re not my boy... He’s just a lad. Just a lad..."

Rodrik placed a hand on Theon’s shoulder, his voice low. "She’s been like this ever since Balon died and Asha vanished. She lost her two brothers in the rebellion and Balon to Euron. She’s... not herself anymore."

Theon took a shuddering breath. "I should have been here. I could have protected her."

Rodrik squeezed his shoulder. "You can’t change the past, Theon. Only the future."

Theon turned away, trying to control the flood of emotions. "Euron must be dealt with. I’ll claim the Seastone Chair as my birthright."

Rodrik nodded, his face set in determination. "You may have the blood of Greyjoy, but Euron’s grip on the Ironborn is strong. Many fear him, and those who don’t are in awe of him. You’ll need more than just your name to reclaim Pyke."

Theon took a deep breath. "Then we must kill him. No open challenge—he’s too dangerous for that. We’ll have to make it look like an accident. An assassination."

Rodrik raised an eyebrow. "Euron has eyes everywhere. If he suspects even a hint of a plot, he’ll kill us both. We’ll need to be cautious. And you’ll need support."

Theon looked at him, eyes hard. "Will you support me, Uncle?"

Rodrik met his gaze. "I will. But it must be done wisely. Euron’s men are loyal to him, or they’re too afraid to oppose him. We must win the favor of the other lords of the isles. Start with those who hate Euron—there are more than you think. Your sister Asha would have been the natural choice, but without her... you are our best chance."

Theon’s jaw tightened. "I’ll find her. If she’s alive, she’ll help us."

Rodrik nodded. "Good. But in the meantime, we’ll begin preparing. Euron won’t expect a move from Harlaw—not yet."

Theon glanced back at his mother, still mumbling incoherently by the fire. A flash of guilt seared through him, but he hardened his heart. He had to focus on the task ahead.

Rodrik lowered his voice. "If we succeed in taking down Euron, you’ll still have to win the Kingsmoot. You’ll need something more than just blood. You’ll need to prove that you can lead the Ironborn better than he can."

Theon smiled grimly. "I’ve learned from the best—Eddard Stark taught me leadership, and my time in the North made me stronger. I’ll show them that the Iron Islands can be more than just raiders and thieves."

Rodrik’s lips twitched into a rare smile. "If you succeed, Theon, the Iron Islands will remember your name for centuries. But fail, and your body will feed the crabs."

Theon nodded. "I know the risk. But I won’t let that madman keep my birthright. He took my father and my sister—he won’t take the islands too."

Rodrik poured them both a cup of ale, raising his in a toast. "To victory, then. And to the return of House Greyjoy."

Theon clinked his cup against his uncle’s. "To victory."


The sun was setting over the Water Gardens, casting long shadows across the orange groves and glistening pools. Prince Oberyn Martell stood at the edge of a balcony, the desert breeze tugging at his robes. His daughters, the Sand Snakes, gathered around him, each one with a fire in their eyes that matched their father’s spirit.

Arianne Martell, with her dark, flowing hair and piercing eyes, approached, her chin held high. “Are you sure this is the right course, Uncle?” she asked, her voice calm but curious.

Oberyn turned, his expression fierce but contemplative. “We are Martells. We bow to no one.”

“But Lord Doran says we must,” Tyene interjected, her voice soft but determined. “He claims Jon Targaryen’s power is undeniable.”

Oberyn scoffed. “Doran has always been too cautious. We are warriors, not politicians. Bending the knee to the son of Lyanna Stark? It’s an insult.”

Arianne frowned, crossing her arms. “Yet, if Dorne is left isolated, we’ll starve. You know as well as I that our strength lies in trade. King Jon has the support of the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and even the Reach. He can blockade our ports without lifting a sword.”

Oberyn gritted his teeth. “I’d rather die fighting than surrender our pride.”

Doran Martell entered, leaning heavily on his cane, his calm gaze piercing through the room. “Pride is a costly luxury, brother. You forget what it means to rule wisely.”

Oberyn turned to face him, his eyes blazing. “You’d have us grovel to a Targaryen bastard?”

Doran raised an eyebrow. “A bastard who has conquered five kingdoms. A bastard who rebuilt the North from the ashes, turned it into the richest region in Westeros. A bastard who wiped the Lannisters from existence. And if we defy him, he won’t have to fight us. He’ll starve us out. Our people will die—not from steel, but from hunger. The North is no longer the barren wasteland it once was. They’ve found ways to thrive. We, however, still depend on trade. One blockade, and Dorne crumbles.”

Oberyn’s expression softened just a fraction. “You’re saying it’s better to bend the knee willingly than after defeat?”

Doran nodded. “We have a chance to preserve our dignity by going to him. He respects strength and loyalty. If we resist, he will crush us. But if we present ourselves as allies, we may retain some power.”

Arianne approached her father, her confidence unwavering. “If that’s our path, then let me be the one to secure his favor. I know how to sway men to Dorne’s cause.”

Obara sneered, gripping her spear. “You plan to seduce the man who killed the Lannisters? You think he’ll be so easily swayed?”

Arianne smirked. “Men are men, no matter how powerful. He’s conquered kingdoms, but he’s still a man. And if he’s anything like his father, Rhaegar, he’ll be tempted.”

Doran looked thoughtful. “Be careful. Jon Targaryen is not just a warrior; he’s a strategist. If you play this game, make sure you’re the one in control.”

Oberyn reluctantly nodded. “Fine. We go to King’s Landing. But if he tries to dishonor Dorne, I’ll kill him myself.”

The next morning, the sun glinted off the sails of the Dornish fleet as they set out from the Water Gardens. The ship’s deck was bustling with sailors preparing for the journey. Arianne stood at the prow, the wind tugging at her dark hair.

Nymeria Sand joined her, a sly grin on her lips. “You think you can really charm him?”

Arianne glanced at her cousin. “I don’t think. I know. A man like him, with the weight of the crown on his shoulders—he’ll be looking for distractions. He’s used to women throwing themselves at him, but I’ll be different.”

Tyene leaned over the railing, her voice soft. “We should also consider his advisors. If the King himself cannot be swayed, we can win over those close to him. Influence can be spread like a web.”

Obara snorted. “If he’s half as cunning as they say, he’ll see right through your schemes.”

Arianne smiled. “Perhaps. But even a wise man can be tempted.”

As the ship sailed through the placid waters, Oberyn approached his daughter, a warning in his gaze. “Don’t underestimate him, Arianne. He may have Stark blood, but he’s proven himself ruthless when provoked. Use your wits, not just your charm.”

She tilted her head, giving her father a confident smile. “Wits and charm go hand in hand. I know how to handle a king.”

Oberyn gave her a stern look. “Just remember, if he disrespects Dorne, we will not submit. I’ll make him bleed before I let that happen.”

Arianne’s expression softened. “Father, I know you desire revenge for Elia, but that battle is over. The Lannisters are gone. If we focus on our past, we’ll be left behind. This is about securing our future.”

Oberyn exhaled slowly. “You’re right. But I won’t forgive so easily. Not after what we lost.”

As the ship cut through the waves, Doran remained below deck, deep in thought. He knew that Jon Targaryen’s rise was inevitable, but he still wondered if bending the knee too easily would damage Dorne’s pride. The North had changed, evolved into something more than anyone expected. Dorne, however, remained stagnant.

His advisor, Maester Caleon, approached cautiously. “My lord, are you certain this is wise?”

Doran looked out the small window, watching the coastline recede. “Wisdom is not about choosing the path you desire, but the path that ensures survival. We’ve been isolated for too long. If Jon Targaryen is anything like his Stark uncle, he will value loyalty. If we approach as allies, we may gain more than we lose.”

Maester Caleon nodded. “And if he proves hostile?”

Doran’s gaze hardened. “Then we’ll show him that Dorne doesn’t bend without consequence.”

The journey to King’s Landing would take time, but with every mile, Doran prepared himself to meet the man who had conquered Westeros—a man who bore the name Targaryen, but carried the spirit of a Stark.