Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 105

The massive gates of King’s Landing stood tall and imposing before the Targaryen army, yet they were no longer the barrier they once were. From the other side, the city was alive with chaos, filled with the sounds of battle, screams, and destruction.

From his warhorse, King Jon Targaryen sat calm and collected, listening to the carnage unfold within the walls. Around him, his commanders gathered, their expressions ranging from awe to concern.

The walls of King’s Landing trembled with the weight of the people’s fury, but Jon had expected nothing less. The power of his words had taken root, and he knew that once the fire of revolution was lit, it would burn away the Lannister rot from within.

Not with swords.

Not with an army.

But with the vengeance of the oppressed.

And to aid the rising fury, Jon had ordered a most unusual tactic—instead of using their wall-breaking machinery to hurl boulders at the city, they were sending weapons.

Massive bundles of swords, spears, and axes were wrapped in cloth and bound tightly with rope, stacked neatly beside the siege equipment. The engineers of Moat Cailin and Frostmore, under Jon’s command, had made hundreds of them.

A commander from House Mormont, his face scarred from past battles, approached Jon with hesitation.

“Your Grace, are you certain?” he asked, his voice heavy with disbelief.

Jon didn’t take his eyes off the roaring city, his expression unreadable.

“The smallfolk have only had farm tools, kitchen knives, and clubs,” Jon said, his voice steady. “If they are to fight for their freedom, they deserve proper weapons.”

The siege engineers adjusted the massive trebuchets, aiming for the plazas, main streets, and markets—where the largest groups of rebels were gathering.

“Fire.”

With a heavy groan, the first trebuchet released its payload, sending a massive bundle of weapons hurtling through the air.

It crashed beyond the walls, disappearing into the chaos.

Then another.

And another.

Inside King’s Landing, the people looked up as bundles of weapons crashed down in the streets. At first, panic filled the air—was this another Lannister attack? But then, someone ripped open a bundle, and within seconds, the truth spread like wildfire.

Real weapons. Castle-forged steel.

The oppressed masses grabbed blades, spears, and shields with fierce determination, and with them, their rage found direction.

The Lannister men—now facing a true rebellion—realized too late what had happened.

Back outside the gates, Robb Stark rode up to Jon, his expression wary. Behind him, Brynden Tully and Howland Reed approached as well.

“Are you sure the Lannisters are the ones dying in there?” Robb asked. “The smallfolk have no training, Jon. What if they’re just killing each other in the chaos?”

Jon finally turned his gaze to his cousin, his golden eyes burning with certainty.

“Robb,” he said, his voice unwavering, “if we had stormed the city, how many would have died?”

Robb hesitated but didn’t answer.

Jon continued, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“A battle is a slaughter when the weak are left defenseless. The people of this city have suffered under the Lannisters’ cruelty for too long. And now, they are repaying them in kind.”

Howland Reed frowned, his sharp green eyes watching Jon carefully.

“But what if this turns into an uncontrollable massacre?” the Lord of Greywater Watch asked. “Once the smallfolk have had their taste of vengeance, what will stop them from burning the city itself?”

Jon’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I will,” he said simply. “When the time is right.”

The Lords fell silent.

A bloodcurdling scream echoed from within the walls.

Then another.

And another.

It was clear who the victims were.

From their vantage point, Jon and his commanders could see flames rising over the city, but not wildfire—this was the fire of torches held by furious hands.

The people were hunting the Lannisters.

Jon’s eyes flickered with satisfaction.

He had given them an enemy to blame, a target for their rage, a purpose for their suffering. And now, they were carving justice into the streets of King’s Landing.

The walls trembled once more as the chaos reached its peak.

The Lannisters were falling.

And soon, the gates of King’s Landing would open from within.


As twilight settled over the battlefield, the great gates of King’s Landing groaned open, revealing the city beyond. The air reeked of blood, smoke, and sweat, the scent of revolution lingering thickly over the streets. The roars of battle had faded into exhausted cheers, but the city’s walls bore the scars of war—streaks of crimson, shattered stone, and the remnants of shattered banners that once carried the Lannister sigil.

Jon Targaryen watched in silence, his eyes reflecting the fire-lit sky, as the first wave of survivors rushed out.

They were not fleeing.

They were charging.

They came stumbling forward, covered in blood from head to toe, their hands gripping stolen weapons, their eyes wild with the madness of vengeance.

The Targaryen army tensed, hands hovering over their swords and spears, shields raised in readiness for battle. Brynden Tully, standing beside Jon, muttered under his breath, “They’re rabid.”

Robb Stark and Howland Reed exchanged a wary glance.

“Should we intercept them?” Robb asked, hand on his sword’s pommel. “If they charge us, we—”

“No.”

Jon’s voice cut through the growing tension. He urged his horse forward, breaking from the front lines of his army.

“Stand down.”

He did not wait for protests.

Jon rode directly toward the frenzied mob, his dark cloak billowing, Ghost and Shadow trotting at his side.

The people of King’s Landing roared, and for a moment, it seemed as if they would descend upon their King like crazed wolves.

But then—one by one, they dropped to their knees.

The charge faltered, bodies crashing to the bloodied dirt, heads bowing in reverence.

Silence spread like wildfire.

The entire army watched, stunned, as thousands of exhausted, battered smallfolk knelt before Jon Targaryen, their faces turned toward their King like pilgrims before a god.

From among the kneeling masses, four figures pushed forward, carrying spears—and on those spears, their trophies.

Four severed heads.

Tywin Lannister.

Cersei Lannister.

Tyrion Lannister.

Joffrey Lannister.

The crowd murmured, shifting uneasily, but Jon remained unmoved.

The men bearing the gruesome display dropped to one knee before Jon, lowering their spears in an offering.

One of them, a grizzled man in torn rags, lifted his voice.

“The lions are dead, Your Grace.”

A hush fell over the battlefield.

Jon’s expression remained unreadable, his golden gaze locked on the grim spectacle before him. He had expected this—had planned for this—but seeing the heads of House Lannister’s most powerful figures impaled before him felt…

Final.

He dismounted from his horse and walked forward.

His boots crunched against the blood-soaked earth as he reached out and grasped Joffrey’s severed head by the golden curls. The boy’s glassy eyes stared up at him in frozen horror.

Jon turned it in his grip and tossed it toward the gates of King’s Landing.

“Place them before the city walls.”

The men scrambled to obey, planting the spears deep into the ground before the gaping entrance to the conquered city.

Jon turned back toward the kneeling masses. They were still staring at him in awe, in fear, in hope.

His voice rang out, calm but absolute.

“You have fought well.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“You have done what no army has done before. You have overthrown your oppressors.”

A rousing cheer rose from the smallfolk.

Jon raised a hand, and the noise died instantly.

“But war is over. You no longer need weapons.”

Some in the crowd hesitated, gripping their stolen swords, hesitant to part with the power they had just gained.

Jon understood.

“You fought for your freedom.” He gestured to the city. “And now, I will fight for your future.”

The murmurs shifted to whispers.

Jon turned to his soldiers. “Disarm them gently. Do not harm them.”

The army moved forward, retrieving the weapons from willing hands. Some of the smallfolk clutched their blades one last time, staring at the blood still fresh on the steel, before handing them over.

Others clung to them stubbornly—but when Jon locked eyes with them, they relented.

Soon, the rebellion was officially over.

Jon turned to his men once more.

“Now, feed them.”

A second cheer rose, but this time, it was one of relief.

Jon had already prepared for this moment. Wagons of food, taken from the Lannister storehouses, rolled forward, pulled by oxen. Barrels of water were uncorked, and within moments, hot bread, stew, and fresh fruit were being handed out to the starving people.

The war was won.

As Jon Targaryen and his army entered King’s Landing, the stench of death and blood hung thick in the air. The streets were littered with corpses, the remnants of a rebellion so brutal that even battle-hardened soldiers turned their eyes away from the carnage.

The smallfolk had turned on their oppressors, and the manner of their revenge was carved into the broken bodies of Lannister soldiers, Gold Cloaks, and nobles alike.

Jon rode slowly through the ruined streets, his silver-white hair unbound, his golden eyes surveying the destruction with cold calculation.

Dead men lay in heaps, their bodies shredded, their faces barely recognizable. Some were stabbed dozens of times, others ripped apart by mobs.

Women, children, and elderly folk stood among the dead, faces smeared with sweat and dirt, their expressions ranging from relief to horror at what they had done.

Some clutched bloody daggers, others held looted treasures from noble houses, but all of them watched him in silence, their King, as he passed.

His soldiers rode behind him, their horses stepping over blood-soaked cobblestones, their expressions unreadable.

It was Howland Reed who spoke first, his voice grim.

“It’s worse than I imagined.”

Jon said nothing.

Robb Stark gritted his teeth, shaking his head. “They went mad with vengeance.”

Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, snorted. “Can you blame them?” His sharp eyes swept the carnage. “They suffered for years under the Lannisters. And when they finally had the chance to strike back, they took it.”

Jon finally broke his silence. “What’s done is done.”

He lifted his gaze to the Red Keep, standing unscathed atop Aegon’s Hill.

"The city will be rebuilt."

The Targaryen banners flew high over the Red Keep as Jon and his army rode through its gates, the Lannister sigil torn down, trampled beneath boots.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was eerily silent when Jon entered. The Iron Throne, the seat of kings for centuries, loomed before him, a monstrous thing of jagged swords and twisted steel, forged in the fires of Balerion the Black Dread.

Jon approached it slowly, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of the throne, feeling the weight of history beneath his touch.

Then, with deliberate certainty, he sat upon it.

The hall stood still.

The rumors had spread, the Lannisters were dead, their legacy shattered, and now, the Dragon King sat on the throne of his ancestors.

But Jon did not celebrate.

Instead, he looked upon his gathered commanders and issued his first decree as King.

“The city will not remain in ruin.” His voice carried across the vast hall, unwavering, filled with authority.

“Gather the bodies. Burn them outside the city walls. The stench of rot will not linger in my capital.”

His men bowed and obeyed.

“The streets will be cleaned. Every man, woman, and child who can work will help rebuild the city they have taken.”

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his commands.

“Until every street is clean, until every home is repaired, until every belly is full and every back is clothed—” he leaned forward on the throne, his golden eyes blazing “—there will be no coronation.”

Silence met his decree, then murmurs of understanding and approval.

Robb smirked, crossing his arms. “You’re delaying the moment, aren’t you?”

Jon smiled slightly, his gaze turning to the great hall around him.

"A King does not celebrate his victory when his people still starve."

And with that, the true reign of Jon Targaryen began.