Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 108

Viserys sat upon the high seat of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, not with arrogance, but with an air of weariness, a crown of bronze resting lightly on his silver-blonde hair. His robe was simple—far simpler than the silken tunics of the slavers before him—yet the sigil of House Targaryen was now sewn in crimson threads across his chest, a silent reminder of his heritage.

The city had changed. The markets bustled again, not with slaves in chains, but with free men and women exchanging goods and stories. The streets, though still scarred from the rebellion, were filled with a different kind of energy—hope. Yet inside the pyramid, Viserys was restless.

Each day he signed decrees, addressed disputes, and met with former slaves who were now his guards, generals, and trusted advisors. He treated them like brothers and sisters in arms, for they had fought beside him in the fire and blood that freed Meereen.

But at night, his dreams returned to Daenerys.

He remembered her as she once was—a frightened girl with silver hair and wide lilac eyes, clinging to his hand as they begged in the streets of Braavos. He had failed her. He had let ambition drown his affection, driven her away with his rage and hunger for crowns.

“I should have protected you,” he whispered one night, alone in his chamber, the warm wind blowing in through the wide archways that overlooked the city.

A knock at the door stirred him from his thoughts. One of his commanders—Shakarr, a former pit fighter from the Summer Isles—stepped in, his dark skin glistening with sweat from training.

“We’ve received a message,” Shakarr said. “From a trader who came from the West Dothraki. He saw a woman with silver hair. Said she walked among the Dothraki not as a slave… but as their Khaleesi.”

Viserys stood slowly, gripping the arms of his chair. “She lives.”

Shakarr nodded. “The man swore it.”

Viserys felt the air shift. A strange mix of joy and pain swelled in his chest. She was alive. His sister. The last true Targaryen—besides himself. But she had carved her own path… one that had nothing to do with him.

“I want to find her,” Viserys said. “But not as the man I was.”

Shakarr tilted his head. “Then what man will she find?”

Viserys turned toward the open archway and looked down at Meereen’s glittering rooftops. “Not a beggar. Not a slaver’s pet. Not a mad, grasping fool with gold in his eyes. She will find a king. A king of freedmen. A king who has earned his crown.”

Shakarr smiled faintly. “Then we must begin preparing for the West.”

Viserys nodded. “Yes. But not yet. Let Meereen stand strong first. Let my people know peace—real peace. And then… I will go to her.”

The sun was high over the pyramid of Meereen when the merchant galley dropped anchor. From the terrace, Viserys watched the black sails billow and snap in the salty breeze. The crest painted on the sail was foreign, unfamiliar—no city-state colors, no known sigils of Essos. Viserys narrowed his eyes.

“Westerosi,” one of his guards muttered behind him. “Southern make.”

Viserys turned from the view. “Bring the captain to me.”

The merchant, a wiry man with a wind-worn face and bright eyes, stood before him within the hour. He wore a simple cloak of blue and gray, worn from sea travel, and bowed low.

“I’m told you are from Westeros,” Viserys said.

The merchant nodded. “Aye, Your Grace. From Gulltown. Been on the seas the better part of ten years. But I bring news from the realm.”

Viserys rose slowly from his seat, one hand resting on the hilt of his curved, eastern-forged blade. “Go on.”

The merchant took a breath. “Westeros is changed. The war that burned the lion and scattered the stag is over. A dragon sits on the Iron Throne.”

Viserys tilted his head, golden hair catching the sunlight like a crown. “Then Westeros has come to its senses.”

The merchant hesitated. “Not you, Your Grace. It is Jon Targaryen… formerly Jon Snow, the so-called bastard of Eddard Stark. But he is Rhaegar’s son. Lyanna’s son.”

Viserys blinked slowly. A long silence stretched. He stepped back, lips tightening. “That is not possible.”

“It’s true. It’s known now. Lord Stark protected him. He revealed the truth before his death. Jon Snow… Jon Targaryen… rallied the North, Riverlands, and Vale. He destroyed the Lannisters. Even Storm’s End bends the knee.”

The words struck like hammer-blows.

Viserys sat again, not out of weakness, but to center his racing thoughts. He had spent years nurturing the fire of vengeance, building his strength in secret, preparing to return to Westeros and claim what was his. And now… someone else sat on the Iron Throne. Not just anyone, but his brother’s son.

He should have felt rage. Jealousy. The old Viserys—the one who screamed about crowns for fire and blood—would have. But this new Viserys, forged in the chains of slavery and tempered by rebellion, only felt… silence.

“He’s strong, they say,” the merchant continued. “Wise. The common folk love him. The Free Folk follow him. Even Essosi merchants speak his name with respect. Some say he’s richer than the Lannisters ever were. Built his wealth not by gold mines, but trade.”

Viserys rose again, walking to the edge of the terrace, looking out at the city he now ruled. His city. His people. Freed by his hand, fed by his will. He thought of the slaves who chanted his name, the children who no longer bore brands, the old who slept with full stomachs for the first time in decades.

He had carved a kingdom from nothing. He had suffered, bled, and triumphed. And now, another Targaryen ruled the realm he had once dreamt of.

“It was always meant to be a Targaryen,” Viserys said finally. “The three-headed dragon. My brother’s son is of my blood. Fire and blood runs in his veins as it does in mine.”

The merchant waited silently.

Viserys turned, his violet eyes burning not with envy, but clarity.

“I will not sail for Westeros. Not yet. Meereen is mine. My war is here, my people are here. Let the realm see two dragons rise. One from the ashes of the old world… and one from the flame of the new.”

The merchant bowed again. “Shall I carry a message to the West, Your Grace?”

Viserys considered, then gave a small smile. “Yes. Tell King Jon Targaryen… his uncle watches, and one day… we will meet.”

He had heard the name Jon Snow countless times during his enslavement under Mero. The sellsword lord had a fondness for taunting Viserys with stories of powerful men, particularly those who descended from the North.

“Snow,” Mero used to sneer while sipping wine. “The bastard wolf. Eddard Stark’s whelp. Raised with nothing, made himself everything. Not like you, golden boy. Born with a crown in your mouth and still can’t keep a collar off your neck.”

At the time, Viserys seethed in silence, hiding his fury behind a blank mask. He had taken those words like stabs to the belly. The son of the man who betrayed his house—who killed his father and stole his sister—now lived in wealth and fame, while Viserys was shackled and whipped like a common mutt.

And now… he knew the truth. Jon Snow was no bastard. He was not the son of a traitor.

He was a Targaryen.

The merchant’s words echoed in his mind like a distant thunder: Jon Targaryen, the Dragon of the North. Ruler of Westeros. Destroyer of the Lannisters. The king who conquered without dragons.

Viserys had always imagined the Iron Throne as his birthright. The vision had carried him through hunger, humiliation, and horror. He remembered huddling with Daenerys in the alleys of Braavos, whispering to her about the Red Keep and the high walls of King’s Landing. The memory of the throne’s sharp blades had lit his veins like fire.

But now… now another sat upon it. Another dragon. One who had not begged in the gutters of foreign cities or worn chains in the pit. One who had carved his power with cunning and coin, not with empty words and old glories.

Jon Snow—Jon Frost—had built a fleet of ships that roamed from White Harbor to Volantis, selling northern honey, rare herbs, crafted goods, and even black northern coffee that the Essosi aristocrats were beginning to crave more than their spiced wines. His trade banners flew high in the harbors of Lys, Qarth, and Myr. Even Meereenese merchants whispered of “Stark steel” and “Frost lumber” like holy relics.

And that wealth had bought him armies. Had bought him power.

Viserys gripped the arms of his throne, carved from the ruins of a slave master's opulence, and stood. His gold-stitched tunic rustled as he stepped toward the high balcony, the wind tugging at his hair.

Was it jealousy? Rage? Pride?

No. It was something stranger. Something sharper.

Regret.

He had spent so long hating the son of Stark. Believing Jon was the offspring of a man who stole everything from him. But now he knew the truth—that Jon Snow was the last piece of Rhaegar left in the world.

My nephew, he whispered to himself.

The sound was almost foreign on his tongue.

And he… he sits where I dreamed of sitting.

Viserys leaned on the railing of the balcony, looking over Meereen—the city that had become his. He had bathed it in blood and crowned it with fire, but it was his. Freedmen bustled in the markets. Builders sang as they raised new stone. Children laughed in the alleys where chains once dragged across cobblestones.

He had done this.

And Jon? He had done the same, in his own way.

Viserys smiled. Not with bitterness. But with something close to understanding.

Perhaps the gods had a cruel sense of humor. Or perhaps, finally, the blood of the dragon had been split along two roads—both leading to thrones.

He whispered into the wind, knowing the sea carried words like secrets.

"One day, Jon… we will meet. And when we do, you will know me not as a beggar or a broken slave. But as your blood. As a dragon."


The throne room of the Great Pyramid stood silent, the air thick with incense and heat. Viserys Targaryen sat upon his high seat, carved from the remnants of Mero’s luxury, draped now in crimson banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Before him stood Captain Hadzor, one of his more trusted lieutenants, a former slave who once labored in the counting houses of Meereen and now oversaw the city’s internal administration. Sweat dotted the man’s brow as he waited for Viserys to speak.

"You’re telling me a religion has started in my name?” Viserys asked slowly, his voice calm but tight.

“No, Your Grace,” Hadzor corrected gently. “It’s not a religion of you. It is a belief in a god they call the Allfather. But they say…” He paused, carefully choosing his words. “They say you are His chosen. His blade in the world. The one who broke the chains, fulfilled a divine command. To them, you are not merely king. You are the hand of heaven.”

Viserys leaned back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Allfather,” he repeated, tasting the name. “And where did this… faith begin?”

“No one knows, Your Grace. The first whispers came from the market squares. From the mouths of freed children, they say. It spread in the worker camps, the granaries, the taverns. And now… now it’s everywhere. They pray before work. They invoke the Allfather’s justice when they punish thieves. They say your sword is blessed. They’ve even stopped calling this city Meereen. Among themselves, they call it First Flame.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow. “First Flame?”

“They believe it is the first city to be cleansed by fire, to be made holy by freedom.”

A long silence followed. Viserys’s eyes drifted to the open balcony, where the banners fluttered in the sea breeze. Below, the city of Meereen—or First Flame, as it was now whispered—bustled with energy. Rebuilt markets, slave barracks converted to schools, shipyards preparing new vessels under the dragon banner.

He should have felt pride. Power. Triumph.

Instead, he felt... pressure.

“They don’t just see you as their king anymore, Your Grace,” Hadzor added, quieter now. “They see you as the Herald of the Allfather. They say freedom must spread until no chains remain in this world. That slavery must burn, city by city, until the Allfather smiles on mankind again.”

Viserys stood slowly, walking across the patterned marble floor. “They want me to go to war.”

“To Yunkai and Astapor, Your Grace. Even further. Volantis. Lys. Slaver’s Bay still thrives, just not here. They say the Allfather’s work is unfinished as long as chains are forged somewhere in the world.”

Viserys stopped at the window, gripping the stone ledge tightly.

“And what do you say, Captain?”

Hadzor swallowed. “I say… this movement gives us unity, loyalty, and purpose. But it’s also a fire, Your Grace. Fires are useful when tamed. But when they burn out of control…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Viserys nodded slowly.

He remembered being dragged in chains through the bloody dust of the fighting pits. He remembered the jeers, the beatings, the shame. He remembered the faces of the children who wept in the slaver’s pens. He had seen what slavery did. He had lived it.

And now they saw him not just as a man, but a symbol.

“I am not a god,” he said at last.

“No, Your Grace,” Hadzor replied. “But they don’t care.”

Another silence passed.

“I will not become another tyrant,” Viserys said softly, more to himself than to Hadzor. “I will not become a dragon that burns because he can. I will bring justice, not conquest.”

Hadzor nodded respectfully.

“But,” Viserys continued, turning back toward his captain, “if justice leads to war… so be it.”

He stepped down from the throne dais, his boots echoing in the quiet chamber.

“Summon the council. Prepare the messengers. Yunkai and Astapor will have their chance to answer for the chains they still keep. If they do not bend, then they will burn.”

Hadzor bowed low. “It will be done, Your Grace.”

As the captain departed, Viserys remained, staring at the flame that danced in the golden brazier. It cast flickering shadows on the walls—shadows of a crown, a sword… and something else. Something higher.

He didn’t ask to be a prophet.

But if they wanted him to be the fire of the Allfather…

Then they would see flames.