Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 106

King’s Landing had transformed.

What was once a city of filth and suffering was now reborn, its streets widened and cleaned, its homes repaired, and its people fed.

The North, Vale, and Riverlands had poured their men, resources, and labor into the reconstruction, and in record time, the capital of Westeros stood renewed.

The new King’s Landing bore no resemblance to the rotting husk it had been under Lannister rule.

The slums of Flea Bottom had been cleared, its people given new homes and fair wages.

The Red Keep stood stronger than ever, its walls reinforced, its banners changed, and at its heart, a throne awaited its King.

A Targaryen King.

From every corner of Westeros, the banners of noble houses gathered.

The Tyrells were gone, replaced by House Tarly, now the Wardens of the Reach.

The Lannisters had been erased, their former allies scrambling to find new allegiances.

The Vale, the North, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and Westerlands had all bent the knee.

Thousands gathered in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, where the throne of Aegon the Conqueror awaited its true heir.

At the head of the hall stood Robb Stark, Warden of the North, beside Edmure Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.

To their left, Harrold Hardyng, the new Lord of the Vale, stood with his knights and bannermen.

Lord Samwell Tarly, now Hand of the King, stood at the base of the steps, beside Howland Reed, the King’s most trusted advisor.

The hall fell silent as Jon Targaryen entered.

Jon walked through the hall of gathered lords, dressed in black and red, the colors of his house, the colors of the dragons of old.

Unlike other Kings before him, he wore no golden crown, no jewels.

Instead, his crown was simple—forged from the steel of his enemies, a circular band of Valyrian steel, with small black gems embedded along its surface, reminiscent of dragon scales.

His golden eyes swept the room, taking in the faces of those who had come to witness his rule.

Then, he knelt.

Before him stood Maester Luwin, the oldest and wisest of the remaining Maesters, chosen to officiate the coronation.

Luwin’s voice rang clear through the silent hall.

“Before the Lords and Ladies of Westeros, before the Gods old and new, before the people of this realm, do you, Jon of House Targaryen, swear to rule justly and fairly, to protect the realm and its people, and to uphold the honor of the crown?”

Jon did not hesitate.

“I swear it.”

Luwin turned to the gathered lords.

“Do the Lords of Westeros accept Jon Targaryen as their King?”

A moment of silence followed.

Then Robb Stark knelt first, his voice booming across the hall.

“The North bends the knee.”

One by one, the other lords followed.

Edmure Tully.

Harrold Hardyng.

Samwell Tarly.

Howland Reed.

And then, like a wave crashing upon the shores, every lord in the hall knelt before the new King.

Luwin raised the Valyrian steel crown, placing it upon Jon’s head.

“All hail Jon Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

The hall erupted in cheers, the sound of thousands of voices rising as the Dragon King ascended his throne.

And as Jon sat upon the Iron Throne, he knew—

His reign had begun.

The sun had barely begun its descent when the gates of King’s Landing trembled under the weight of approaching hooves. From the ramparts, Jon’s soldiers watched with cautious eyes, their hands gripping their weapons.

The banners of House Baratheon—the crowned stag on a golden field—waved proudly in the wind as Stannis Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End, arrived at the gates, his army stretching as far as the eye could see.

For a brief, tense moment, the city held its breath.

Was this war?

Had Stannis come to challenge King Aemon Targaryen’s reign before it had even begun?

The gates remained shut. Jon’s commanders gathered, ready to respond, when a lone rider approached the walls.

He bore no weapons, no sigil—only a letter, sealed in black wax, the Baratheon stag imprinted upon it.

A message from Stannis himself.

The guards hesitated, but soon, the letter found its way to the new King’s hands.

Jon Targaryen broke the seal, scanning the parchment swiftly before speaking.

“Open the gates.”

His lords tensed. Robb Stark, who stood at his side, frowned.

“Are you certain?” Robb asked. “Lord Stannis is proud. He may have changed his mind since sending that letter.”

Jon smirked. “He’s a man of his word. If he swore to bend the knee, he will.”

The gates groaned open, revealing Stannis Baratheon on his great warhorse, sword strapped to his side, his face as hard as stone.

Behind him, his soldiers stood at attention, their expressions grim and disciplined. Men who had fought wars.

Stannis dismounted, his boots heavy on the stone as he strode forward.

Jon remained on the steps of the Red Keep, the Iron Throne looming behind him, the weight of his new crown resting upon his brow.

For a long moment, they stood in silence, two men who had fought to claim a kingdom, staring each other down.

Finally, Stannis spoke.

“I should be the one sitting there.” His voice was as unyielding as ever. “It was my birthright. By law, I was Robert’s heir.”

Jon did not look away. “Then why aren’t you?”

Stannis’s jaw tightened. “Because the world is unjust.”

Jon let out a breath, then gestured to the city behind him.

“I did not take the throne because of my name, Lord Stannis. You know that. I took it the same way King Robert took it before me—by conquest.” His golden eyes narrowed. “If you wanted this throne, you should have fought for it. You should have marched before I did.”

Stannis exhaled sharply, but his pride kept him from outright agreeing.

Instead, he did what he had come here to do.

He stepped forward, moving with the certainty of a man who had never once bent the knee to anyone in his entire life.

Then, with great reluctance, he knelt.

The last Baratheon bowed before the last Targaryen.

A hushed silence fell over the gathered lords. Even Robb Stark, Brynden Tully, and Howland Reed watched with expressions of intrigue.

The Stormlands had been a wild card in the war, a potential enemy or ally, but now, with this act of submission, the Seven Kingdoms were one step closer to unity.

Stannis did not raise his head as he spoke.

“You have won the throne, Jon Targaryen.” His voice was clipped, unwilling. “The Stormlands swear fealty to their King.”

Jon watched him for a moment before stepping forward. He placed a hand on Stannis’s shoulder.

“Rise, Lord of Storm’s End.”

Stannis did so, his face unreadable.

“What now?” he asked.

Jon’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “That’s up to you.”

Stannis’s eyes flickered with something unreadable.

Without another word, he turned sharply and strode toward his men.

He would not stay in King’s Landing. He would not sit at court.

His duty was done.

The last Baratheon had sworn his oath.

And just like that, he left, his army departing with him, disappearing down the Kingsroad.


Jon sat upon the Iron Throne, but there was no time to revel in victory. The war had ended, but the task of ruling had only just begun.

For the past two moons, he had been locked in council meetings, signing decrees, redistributing lands, and ensuring that the lords who had fought for him were properly rewarded.

His Hand of the King, Samwell Tarly, was a blessing in these matters, tirelessly working through documents, taxations, and negotiations with the diligence of a man who once dreamed of being a maester.

Meanwhile, Robb Stark, his cousin and closest ally, had taken a more active role in ensuring that the realm remained stable, overseeing military placements and reinforcing the hold of the crown’s rule across Westeros.

Despite all their efforts, there was still unfinished business.

Dorne.

The Martells had not yet bent the knee.

Of all the regions, they had remained silent, not declaring war but not pledging fealty either.

Jon knew why.

The Martells had never forgiven the Lannisters for the brutal murder of Elia Martell and her children. They had harbored a deep resentment toward the Iron Throne ever since Robert's Rebellion, and Jon’s claim as a Targaryen heir complicated things further.

Doran Martell, the current ruler of Dorne, was a patient and careful man. If he was waiting to see how things unfolded, he had waited long enough.

Jon turned to Samwell and Robb, who sat at his council table.

“Send a raven to Sunspear,” Jon ordered. “Inform Prince Doran that I wish to speak with him directly. No emissaries, no middlemen. If he wants peace, we will find it. If he wants war…” He let the words hang in the air.

Robb, ever the warrior, grinned slightly. “Then we give him one.”

Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Dorne has never been conquered, Your Grace. Even Aegon the Conqueror failed.”

Jon met his gaze. “Aegon failed because he tried to take it with fire. I’ll take it with words first. If that fails… I will not make the same mistakes.”

Samwell still looked uneasy, but he nodded.

The Iron Islands.

Unlike Dorne, the Ironborn did not wait in silence.

The news of Balon Greyjoy’s death had reached King’s Landing.

Jon knew that Euron Greyjoy had returned to claim the Seastone Chair.

The man was dangerous. Unpredictable, ambitious, and above all—ruthless.

Robb frowned as he studied the reports from his scouts. “Euron is a madman. If he gains control of the Ironborn, there will be no peace.”

Jon agreed. “Which is why I will not give him time.”

Samwell looked alarmed. “You don’t mean to start another war?”

Jon exhaled, his golden eyes flickering with thought. “If the Ironborn swear fealty, I will allow them to rule their lands under my banner. If they resist, I will break them.”

Robb leaned forward. “What of Theon? Do you think he still has a claim?”

Theon Greyjoy had been raised in Winterfell, and despite his past betrayals, he was the only Greyjoy Jon could potentially trust.

Jon tapped the table thoughtfully. “If Theon can gain the support of his people, I will back his claim.”

Samwell looked concerned. “The Ironborn only respect strength. They won’t follow a man who cannot command them.”

Jon nodded. “Then Theon will have to prove himself. One way or another, the Ironborn will kneel.”

For now, the Seven Kingdoms were almost united under the Targaryen banner, but Dorne and the Iron Islands still stood apart.

Jon knew that before he could rule in peace, he had to finish what he started.

Dorne would need to be negotiated with. The Iron Islands would need to be subdued.

His conquest was not yet complete.


The sun blazed high above Sunspear, casting its golden light over the palatial towers and domed roofs of the Martell stronghold. The air within the council chamber was thick with tension, as though the desert winds themselves carried the weight of the argument between Prince Doran Martell and his younger brother, Oberyn Martell.

The chamber, decorated with vibrant Dornish tapestries and intricate mosaics, was empty except for the two men and a few trusted guards who stood at the entrance. Doran sat in his cushioned chair, his body weakened by years of illness, but his mind as sharp as ever. Oberyn, pacing like a caged lion, radiated fury.

The Red Viper of Dorne had always been an impatient man, a man of passion and fire. And now, that fire threatened to burn everything in its path.

"They are gone!" Oberyn snapped, slamming a goblet onto the table, the wine spilling over like blood. "All of them. The Lannisters are dead, their house wiped from history. And what did we do, brother? Nothing. Not a gods-damned thing!"

Doran, ever the patient tactician, watched his brother's outburst with a calm expression. His hands, aged but steady, rested atop the polished wood of the table.

"You think war is so simple, Oberyn?" Doran asked in his usual measured tone. "You wanted vengeance, but what would it have cost us? How many Dornish sons would have died for a revenge that has now been taken care of without a drop of our blood spilled?"

Oberyn turned sharply, his eyes burning with rage.

"It was never just about revenge, Doran! It was about justice! Elia, our sweet sister, was butchered like an animal. Her children murdered in their beds!" He clenched his fists. "And you sat here, playing your quiet little games, waiting for the perfect moment. Now that moment is gone! Our enemies have been slain by another hand!"

Doran let out a deep sigh, his fingers tightening slightly. "And yet, you are still alive to see it."

Oberyn's jaw tightened. "Do you think Elia would have cared for caution? For waiting? She would have wanted her killers to suffer!"

"Her killers are dead," Doran replied simply. "Whether by our hands or another’s, it matters not. Justice has been served."

Oberyn let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Justice? That was not justice. That was convenience! You let others fight our battles, and now you expect me to be grateful?"

Doran’s eyes narrowed. "I expect you to see reason."

The words hung between them, an unspoken challenge.

For a long moment, Oberyn said nothing. He simply stared at his brother, his fists still clenched, his breathing heavy.

Then, slowly, he exhaled, shaking his head. "You are a coward, Doran."

Doran did not flinch. He had been called worse. "And yet, Dorne remains standing, unbroken, stronger than ever."

Oberyn ran a hand through his dark, sweat-slicked hair, his fury still evident but simmering beneath the surface. He wanted blood, but there was none left to spill.

"So tell me, brother," Oberyn finally said, voice softer now but still edged with frustration. "What now? Do we bow to this new Targaryen king? Bend the knee to the son of Rhaegar?"

Doran leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.

"Perhaps."

Oberyn scowled. "You would submit Dorne to another dragon?"

Doran smirked. "I would see Dorne thrive, Oberyn. Unlike the Lannisters, Jon Targaryen has no enmity with us. He is the blood of our blood...." He let the words trail off, watching his brother carefully.

Oberyn was silent for a long moment, staring at his brother. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

"Fine," he said. "Send your letters. But if this dragon shows even the slightest sign of turning on us, I will kill him myself."

Doran chuckled softly. "I would expect nothing less from you, dear brother."

And with that, the fate of Dorne was sealed.