Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 104

The day began as any other for Jon Targaryen, the man now known as the Dragon-King, the Unconquered.

As he stepped outside of his massive war tent, the crisp morning air greeted him, carrying with it the smell of smoke and damp earth. The war camp around him was a city of tents, stretching for miles, an army of over a hundred thousand soldiers camped outside the walls of King’s Landing, waiting for their moment to strike.

The Targaryen banners fluttered in the wind, a sea of red and black, the three-headed dragon looming over the battlefield like an omen.

Jon’s King’s Guard stood at full attention, surrounding his tent like statues of obsidian, their armor polished and gleaming under the morning sun. Their watchful eyes never wavered, scanning the area for any sign of treachery or danger.

Beyond them, he could see the tents of his most trusted lords—

House Arryn, the Vale’s forces, stationed just north of his camp, their silver falcon banners standing tall in the wind.

House Stark, led by his cousin Robb, the Young Wolf, now a legendary warrior in his own right. His direwolf Grey Wind was always seen prowling outside the Stark camp.

House Tully, with Lord Brynden Blackfish ensuring that the Riverlands remained loyal and ready for war.

House Tarly, the new rulers of the Reach, with Samwell Tarly as his trusted Hand of the King.

House Velaryon, the mighty naval force of Westeros, their ships blockading the Blackwater Bay.

The great lords camped closest to him, while the minor lords and their bannermen were stationed farther away.

Beyond the noble encampments lay the vast sea of tents—the homes of the common soldiers, stretching beyond sight. The crackling of campfires, the clang of blacksmiths forging weapons, and the murmurs of thousands of men preparing for battle filled the air.

From the distance, Jon saw the night patrol returning.

Their faces were weary, their armor stained with dirt and sweat. Some of them had been stationed at the front lines, near the massive gates of King’s Landing, watching for movement within the city. They filed back into camp, passing their replacements, the fresh troops who had slept through the night and were now marching toward their positions.

Jon knew the siege was progressing slowly.

King’s Landing was well-fortified, its walls high and thick. Even with his massive army, taking the city by force would lead to unnecessary bloodshed, and Jon preferred to let the enemy come to him.

His war council had debated their strategy for weeks.

A direct assault would cost tens of thousands of men, even with siege engines and dragonfire.

A prolonged siege could starve the city out, but it might take months before they surrendered.


As Jon watched his men prepare for another long day, his mind raced with the possibilities.

Before Jon could return to his tent, a rider approached his camp, his horse covered in dust and sweat.

The Targaryen banners on his chest signaled he was one of Jon’s spies or messengers, and his urgency was clear.

The soldiers parted as the rider dismounted, falling to one knee before Jon.

“Your Grace,” he panted, still catching his breath. “I bring urgent news.”

Jon’s golden eyes sharpened as he stepped forward.

“Speak.”

The messenger swallowed hard, his face pale.

“There is movement within King’s Landing. The Lannisters are preparing for something.”

Jon’s expression darkened.

“Preparing for what?”

The messenger hesitated. “We’re not sure. But they are mobilizing their forces inside the Red Keep. The Gold Cloaks have doubled their numbers at the gates, and the city’s defenses have been reinforced. We suspect that they are planning something—perhaps a desperate counterattack, or…”

He trailed off.

Jon narrowed his gaze. “Or?”

The messenger took a deep breath. “Or they might be trying to flee the city.”

The war council was called immediately.

Within minutes, the great lords gathered inside Jon’s tent, the air tense with anticipation.

Robb Stark, Howland Reed, Brynden Tully, Samwell Tarly, Harold Hardyng, and other great lords sat around the massive war table, which had a large map of King’s Landing sprawled over it. Small wooden figures represented their armies, while red markers showed Lannister positions.

“They know they can’t win,” Robb said, arms crossed. “This is their last move.”

Howland Reed tapped his fingers against the table. “If they are trying to flee, we must cut them off.”

Samwell Tarly nodded in agreement. “If Queen Cersei and Joffrey escape, they will regroup elsewhere. The war will continue. We must end this now.”

Jon leaned forward, his eyes scanning the map.

“We have the city surrounded from land,” he said. “But if they escape by sea, they could reach Dragonstone or even flee to Essos.”

Lord Velaryon spoke next.

“We control the Blackwater Bay. Our ships are blockading the harbor. If they try to leave by sea, they will not get far.”

Jon nodded.

“Then we focus on the land. If they plan to escape, they will try to break through the gates. We will reinforce our positions there. I want scouts watching the movements inside the city. If they attempt a sally, I want to know before they even reach the gates.”

The lords agreed, and plans were set in motion.

As the war council dispersed, Jon walked out of his tent, gazing toward the distant walls of King’s Landing.

He could feel it in his bones—

The final days of the siege were approaching.

The Lannisters were running out of options, and soon, they would have no choice but to face him.

Whether they fought to the bitter end or surrendered in disgrace, Jon Targaryen would claim his throne.

For weeks, the golden walls of the capital had remained shut, refusing to surrender. The Lannisters within the Red Keep still believed they could hold against Jon’s forces. They had hoped for reinforcements, but none came.

Jaime Lannister was dead.

House Lannister’s stronghold, Casterly Rock, was destroyed beyond recognition, burned with wildfire and reduced to rubble. The name Lannister carried neither fear nor power now, and the nobles who once flocked to their wealth now turned against them for survival.

The northern soldiers, hardened from years of war, moved with discipline, ensuring their blades were sharp and their armor was battle-ready. The Riverlands' forces, seeking vengeance for the devastation caused by the Lannisters, were eager for battle. The Knights of the Vale, under Lord Harrold Hardying, patrolled the outskirts, keeping order within the camp.

Within Jon’s massive command tent, the highest lords gathered around a large war table, where a detailed map of King’s Landing was laid out.

Lord Robb Stark was seated at the table, his icy blue eyes sharp and unwavering. He had arrived after ensuring Westerlands were properly subdued, stationing his forces near the ruins of Casterly Rock and the wreckage of Lannisport.

Beside him, Lord Brynden ‘Blackfish’ Tully studied the map, his weathered face full of contemplation.

Across from them, Lord Harrold Hardying, the new Lord of the Vale, stood with stoic patience, his knights ready to strike.

Lord Samwell Tarly, now Hand of the King, was going through logistics and supply reports, ensuring that Jon’s army remained well-fed and provisioned during the siege.

Jon entered the tent, and the room immediately fell silent.

All eyes turned to their King.

Jon stepped toward the center of the table, his golden eyes scanning the lords before speaking.

“How much longer do the Lannisters think they can hold out?” Jon asked, his voice steady but filled with underlying impatience.

“They have stores of food in the Red Keep,” Samwell replied, tapping his fingers on a parchment. “But it will not last them forever. The people of the city are starving.”

Robb leaned forward, his jaw tight with controlled anger.

“Starving people do desperate things,” he muttered. “They will turn on the Lannisters soon enough.”

Blackfish nodded in agreement.

“The Red Keep might withstand an assault, but the city itself is not built to endure a prolonged siege. If the people rise against them, the Lannisters will have nowhere left to hide.”

Jon considered this, his fingers tracing over the map. He had learned long ago that a battle was not always won by brute force. He had seen the value of strategy, of knowing when to hold back and when to strike.

“Cersei will not surrender,” Jon stated, his voice carrying absolute certainty. “She would rather burn the city than let me take it.”

Harrold Hardying spoke, his expression grim.

“A cornered lion is the most dangerous".

Jon’s fingers tightened on the edge of the map as he recalled what his skinchanging abilities had revealed. Through the crows, he had seen and heard the plans being whispered behind the Red Keep’s walls.

Cersei Lannister was planning to flee.

She and her remaining children—Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella—were preparing for a secret escape through the underground tunnels beneath the castle.

Jon’s jaw clenched. He had spent years preparing for this war. He had come too far to let the Lannisters slip away at the last moment.

His golden eyes flickered toward Robb.

“They have a plan to escape.”

Robb’s brows furrowed deeply.

“Escape?” he repeated. “How?”

Jon exhaled sharply.

“Through the tunnels beneath the Red Keep. They will stage a diversion—send out a desperate attack on the front lines while they slip away through the tunnels.”

Blackfish’s expression darkened.

“And once they escape, they will rally any remaining forces to counterattack.”

Jon nodded.

“Exactly. That is why we must stop them before they even have a chance.”

Jon turned to Lord Harrold Hardying.

“You and your knights will move immediately to the entrance of the tunnels and seal them off. I want those tunnels blocked, burned, collapsed—whatever it takes to ensure that Cersei Lannister has no way out.”

Harrold gave a curt nod.

“Consider it done, Your Grace.”

Jon then turned to Lord Samwell Tarly.

“Send word to our forces near the bay. If Cersei attempts to flee by ship, I want those vessels destroyed before they ever leave the docks.”

Samwell scribbled down the orders on a parchment, passing it to a waiting courier.

Robb folded his arms and looked toward his brother.

“And what of the city?” he asked. “The people are starving, but they still fear us. They won’t open the gates for us unless we give them a reason to turn on the Lannisters.”

Jon’s gaze hardened.

“Then it’s time I speak to them myself.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

The lords exchanged glances, uncertain of what Jon meant.

But Robb Stark was the first to understand. A slow, knowing smirk crossed his face.

“You mean to make them turn against Joffrey themselves,” Robb murmured. “Without lifting a single sword.”

Jon nodded.

“The people of King’s Landing have suffered enough. The Lannisters believe they can hold the city through fear alone, but fear is a fragile thing when people are desperate.”

He turned back toward the entrance of the command tent.

“It’s time they heard the truth. It’s time they heard it from me.”

As Jon Targaryen stepped out of the tent, the sun was high, casting a fiery glow over the banners of the Targaryen dragon, the Stark direwolf, and the banners of all the houses that had sworn fealty to him.

Before him, the massive walls of King’s Landing loomed, its gates still shut, but inside, the city was on the brink of collapse.

Jon took a deep breath, preparing himself for the moment that would change everything.


Beyond the towering golden walls of King’s Landing, an entire city cowered in fear. The people of King’s Landing—merchants, bakers, cobblers, smiths, and beggars—had lived under siege for weeks. Food was scarce, the wells were drying up, and the stench of death hung over the streets. The goldcloaks, sworn to protect the city, were beating, killing, and stealing from the people without hesitation.

It was time for change.

Standing atop a raised platform, just beyond the city gates, King Jon Targaryen took a deep breath. His grey eyes scanned the defensive walls, knowing that thousands of desperate smallfolk stood beyond them, listening.

Before him stood a massive war horn-like device, a Northerner invention, designed to carry voices across great distances.

Jon stepped forward, placing his hands behind his back, his voice calm and steady.

Then, his voice boomed across King’s Landing.

“People of King’s Landing.”

The sound echoed through the air, rolling over the battlements, through the slums and marketplaces, through the crowded streets and broken homes. The people paused, looking up in confusion, their ears straining to listen.

Jon’s words carried with power, with certainty, with the weight of truth.

“Do you know who suffers the most when kings and lords go to war?”

His voice rippled through the capital, reaching the ears of the starving, the wounded, the forgotten.

“It is not the Kings. It is not the Lords. It is you—the smallfolk—who suffer the most.”

A murmur spread through the city. Mothers held their hungry children closer. Fathers clenched their fists. Sons and daughters who had watched their families starve listened with wide eyes.

“When nobles fight, they ransom each other back with gold. They return to their castles, to their families, to their luxuries. But you? You are the ones left behind to burn, to starve, to die. When armies march, it is your homes that are destroyed. It is your fields that are set aflame. It is your daughters who are raped, your sons who are slaughtered in the streets.”

The murmuring grew louder. The rage that had been boiling beneath the surface of the city for weeks now had a voice.

Jon’s golden eyes burned with intensity as he continued.

“I know you remember. You remember what happened the last time the Lannisters entered this city.”

A hush fell over the crowd beyond the walls.

The Sack of King’s Landing—a scar on the city’s history.

Jon’s voice grew sharper, colder, cutting like a blade.

“The Lannisters swore loyalty to the Mad King, yet when Robert’s army approached, they opened the gates through treachery. But what did they do?”

He let the silence stretch.

Then, he spoke with venom.

“They butchered you. They raped your wives and daughters. They dragged women from their homes, burned your houses, and put your children to the sword.”

The murmurs turned into shouting.

“They could have taken the Red Keep and claimed victory, but no—they chose to kill you instead! And now, as we speak, the Lannister soldiers inside these walls are still killing you, still raping your daughters, still stealing from you, because they know they are about to die.”

A roar erupted within the city.

Jon leaned forward, his voice dropping into something more dangerous, more commanding.

“But I offer you a choice.”

The people of King’s Landing fell silent once more, hanging on his every word.

“I will not send my army to slaughter you in the streets like the Lannisters did. I will not burn this city with wildfire. I will not let the innocent suffer because of the sins of the wicked.”

Jon’s eyes darkened, his voice growing cold.

“But if you want your revenge—if you want justice—then take it. Take it with your own hands.”

He paused, letting his words sink into the minds of the desperate, the hungry, the grieving.

“The Lannister soldiers inside your walls are not your saviors. They are your enemies. And they are few.”

The murmuring in the city turned into shouts.

“You outnumber them a hundred to one. They hide behind your walls, but those walls belong to you—not to them.”

The anger of the people began to swell.

Jon’s golden gaze flickered with intensity.

“The gates will open when you are ready. Not by my hands, but by yours. You decide what happens next. If you want justice—if you want freedom—take it now.”

He stepped back, his voice echoing into the silence that followed.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

A scream rang out from inside King’s Landing.

A cry for vengeance.

Then another.

And another.

And suddenly—

The roar of the people surged like a raging tide.

Across the city, the smallfolk rose.

Mothers picked up knives. Fathers grabbed pitchforks. Boys and girls, old and young, grabbed whatever weapons they could find.

The city burned with rage.