Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 103

King Jon Targaryen stood at the edge of the battlefield, his sharp eyes taking in the sight before him. The great walls of King’s Landing loomed in the distance, its massive iron gates locked shut, its defenders readying themselves for the siege that was about to begin.

The banners of House Targaryen flew high, the three-headed dragon rippling in the wind as his army, now swollen to an unstoppable force, assembled before the capital of Westeros.

Every city, every stronghold, every castle from the North to the Riverlands, from the Vale to the Reach, had either fallen or bent the knee to the dragon king.

And now, all that was left was King’s Landing—the last stronghold of the Lannister reign.

After the fall of Casterly Rock, the war had changed.

Many lords who once wavered, who had considered staying loyal to the Lannisters, had abandoned them overnight.

The destruction of the Lannister stronghold, the utter erasure of their history, had sent shockwaves through Westeros.

If the Starks and Targaryens could wipe out one of the most powerful houses in the realm, then no house was safe.

And so, one by one, lords of the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and even the Reach arrived at Jon’s camp.

They came not with swords, but with bended knees and pledges of fealty.

Even Lord Randyll Tarly, one of the most feared generals in the Reach, knelt before Jon, bringing the full might of House Tarly and the Reach with him.

House Hightower, House Florent, House Rowan, House Oakheart—all once sworn to the Tyrells, all now declared for King Aemon Targaryen.

Inside King’s Landing, panic spread like wildfire.

The streets were filled with terrified citizens, rumors flying from mouth to mouth.

"The North has come."

"The Targaryen dragon is at our gates."

"They will burn the city."

The Red Keep was locked down, and Cersei Lannister, now the Queen Regent, ruled in fear and paranoia.

Her son, King Joffrey, sat on the Iron Throne, clutching his crown like a child clings to a toy.

Jaime Lannister was dead.

The Lannisters had no allies left.

Only Cersei, Joffrey, and what remained of their forces stood against the inevitable.

The Gold Cloaks, once the city’s guards, had become deserters.

The Lannister soldiers, once feared, had become cowards, hiding behind the walls, waiting for death to come.

And it would.

Jon did not negotiate.

There would be no peace treaty, no surrender terms, no compromises.

The Lannisters had sealed their fate when they beheaded Eddard Stark like a common criminal.

And now, Jon would return the favor.

The war tent in King Jon Targaryen’s camp was filled with the scent of burning oil and parchment. The banners of the Direwolf of Stark and the Three-Headed Dragon of Targaryen hung side by side behind the great wooden table.

Jon sat at the head of the table, his dark eyes focused on the map before him. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, its walls standing defiantly against the inevitable siege.

The tent flap fluttered open, and Robb Stark strode in, his armor still stained with dust from the road. His red-brown hair was unkempt, his blue eyes sharp with victory.

Jon stood from his seat, a rare grin breaking across his face.

"Robb."

Robb let out a short laugh and pulled Jon into a tight embrace, clasping his forearm with a firm grip.

"You took too long to invite me to the real war, brother." Robb smirked, stepping back. "Didn’t think I’d miss watching the Lannisters crumble, did you?"

Jon chuckled, shaking his head.

"You came just in time," Jon replied. "I imagine the Rock is little more than rubble by now?"

Robb’s grin widened.

"It burned brighter than the Lannisters ever shined." His expression turned more serious. "Casterly Rock is no more. The gold, the wealth, the power they held—it’s all gone, Jon. The Lannister name will be forgotten, just as you wanted."

Jon nodded, his expression unreadable. "And what of the survivors?"

Robb’s smile faded slightly.

"Few," he admitted. "I left enough of my men to keep order in what remains. Most of their forces are dead, and the ones that live have scattered. Tywin’s dream of an eternal Lannister dynasty is ashes now."

Jon exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the table.

"You did what had to be done," Jon said. "The Lannisters never showed mercy. Neither did we."

Robb leaned against the table, studying Jon closely.

"Some of the lords wanted to keep the Rock for themselves," Robb said, his voice quieter now. "They think you were too quick to erase it from history."

Jon’s eyes darkened.

"That’s because they don’t understand," he said. "I wasn’t going to let another Lannister rise from the ashes. If we had left it standing, someone, someday, would have claimed the Rock and tried to bring back their power. No, Robb. This was the only way."

Robb watched his brother for a moment, then nodded.

"You sound more like a king every day, Jon."

Jon smirked.

"And you sound more like a Stark every day."

Robb laughed, shaking his head. "Was there ever any doubt?"

Jon motioned for Robb to sit, pouring them both a cup of Arbor Gold from a small pitcher on the table.

"Drink with me," Jon said, "before we march to end this war once and for all."

Robb took the cup, raising it slightly before taking a deep sip.

"To the end of the Lannisters."

Jon nodded, his eyes glinting.

"And to the beginning of a new Westeros."

Jon stood at the head of the long table, his dark eyes scanning the assembled lords.

To his left sat Robb Stark, Warden of the North, his expression calm but his fingers drumming impatiently on the wooden table.

To Jon’s right, Howland Reed, the quiet and cunning lord of the Neck, watched everything with unreadable eyes.

And across the table, the lords of the Reach, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale—those who had bent the knee—sat waiting.

Among them was Randyll Tarly, his broad shoulders squared, his face a mask of pride and discipline. Beside him, his son Samwell Tarly, looked both proud and strong.

Jon cleared his throat, and the tent fell into silence.

"Lords of Westeros," he began, his voice steady and commanding. "The war is nearly at its end. The Lannisters are broken. The Tyrells are finished. The Iron Throne is almost within my grasp. But before we move forward, we must ensure stability in the realm."

A murmur of agreement swept through the lords.

Jon turned his gaze to the lords of the Reach.

"The House of Tyrell is no more," he stated, and the lords nodded. "They have betrayed their oaths, fought against their own people, and sided with the Lannisters. Highgarden will no longer belong to them."

A few lords exchanged glances, waiting for the next words.

Jon looked directly at Randyll Tarly, his voice firm.

"From this day forth, House Tarly shall be the new Wardens of the Reach."

The tent erupted in whispers. Some of the lords were expecting it, but others looked surprised.

Randyll Tarly rose from his seat, his face unreadable, and then lowered his head in respect.

"It is an honor, Your Grace."

Jon nodded.

"You and your house have proven your loyalty. You have led men into battle against the Tyrells, fought bravely, and upheld the principles of honor and strength. It is only fitting that you take their place."

Some of the other Reach lords, such as House Hightower and House Florent, looked slightly displeased, but none dared to object openly.

Jon gestured to the table, unrolling a large map of the Reach.

"Highgarden itself," he continued, "will not belong to any lord. It will be property of the Crown—a place for royal gatherings, tournaments, and diplomacy."

This declaration eased some of the tension in the room. The other lords of the Reach, who had feared that House Tarly would grow too powerful, now nodded in agreement.

Jon looked at the gathered lords.

"Lands that once belonged to the Tyrells shall be divided among those who fought for the Crown," he announced. "Each house that has stood by my side will receive new lands and titles."

The lords murmured their approval, some with relief, others with greedy anticipation.

Jon took a deep breath, then turned to Samwell Tarly.

"Sam," he said, his voice softer now.

Sam looked up, startled.

Jon’s eyes met his, and for the first time in the meeting, he allowed himself a small smile.

"You have been my friend since the beginning. Before I was a king, before I had an army, before I was anything but a merchant in the North."

Sam shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

Jon’s expression turned serious again.

"I need a man I can trust. A man who values wisdom over pride, justice over ambition. A man who will tell me the truth, even when it is hard to hear. And that is why I am naming you my Hand of the King."

The tent fell into silence.

Samwell’s eyes widened in shock.

Even Randyll Tarly, his usually cold and harsh father, blinked in disbelief.

"Your Grace," Sam stammered. "I—I am honored, but I am not suitable. I am not—"

"You are exactly what I need," Jon interrupted. "I need a man who thinks before he acts. I need a man who understands books as well as battle. I need you, Sam."

Sam swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the table.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"I will serve, Your Grace."

Jon smiled.

"Good."

Jon turned back to the gathered lords.

"The Reach has been dealt with," he said. "We move forward with unity, not division. The war is not yet over. The Lannisters still hold King's Landing. But soon, we will finish what we started."

The lords of the Reach, Riverlands, and Stormlands pounded their fists on the table in agreement.

House Tarly had risen.

House Tyrell was no more.

And King Jon Targaryen had secured the loyalty of the realm.

The young wolf had earned the respect of the realm.

Robb Stark, the man who burned Casterly Rock to the ground, sat at the center of it all, his broad shoulders squared, his wolfish blue eyes sharp, and his demeanor as steady as the Wall itself.

Lords who had once only heard rumors of him now sought to see him with their own eyes, to measure the man who had brought low the mighty Lannisters and ravaged the Westerlands like no one before.

Across the room, Lord Yohn Royce of the Vale leaned forward, his dark bronze armor glinting in the dim torchlight.

"Lord Stark," he said, his voice carrying weight, "your campaign in the Westerlands has changed the course of this war. Many here have fought battles, but no one has shattered a great house like you did. Even the Conqueror did not burn Casterly Rock. Tell me, did you always plan for such destruction?"

Robb’s jaw tightened, but his voice was calm when he spoke.

"I did not seek destruction for its own sake," he said, "but I knew that a house like the Lannisters could never be broken unless they were stripped of all they held dear. Their pride was in their gold, their fortress, their legacy. So I took all of it."

"House Arryn once thought the Rock unassailable," Lord Harold Arryn confessed. "Yet you proved otherwise. You have done what no one else dared to dream, Lord Stark."

Robb inclined his head slightly, but he did not bask in the praise.

"War is not about dreams, Lord Arryn. It is about knowing your enemy and taking from them what they can never regain."

Across the room, Lord Randyll Tarly, the new Warden of the Reach, watched Robb with a careful gaze.

"Your father was known as an honorable man," Tarly observed. "Yet you have been more ruthless than any Stark before you. Did you learn that from your king?"

Robb’s lips curled into a smirk.

"No," he said. "I learned that from the Starks of old."

A murmur of approval rippled through the room, and several lords agreed at the sharp response.

"If I may, Lord Stark," Lord Estermont began, "there are many in the Stormlands who admire your strength in war. Some of our younger sons need to be forged into warriors. I would ask if you would take my son to be fostered in the North."

This was what Robb had expected—the lords of Westeros now saw him not just as a general, but as a powerful lord in his own right.

He glanced toward Howland Reed, who gave him a knowing nod. This was an opportunity.

"The North is a hard land," Robb said. "Those who come to foster with us must be ready to learn how to rule in winter, how to fight in snow, and how to ride through the frozen wastes. If your son is strong enough, I will take him."

Lord Estermont nodded eagerly, pleased with the response.

Soon, other lords stepped forward with their own offers.

Lord Tarly offered his nephew.

Lord Blackwood asked if his second son could squire for Robb personally.

Lord Velaryon of the Crownlands, despite his past neutrality, sought to send his own kin north.

Even the Knights of the Vale, long known for their isolation, were eager to forge ties with the Stark bloodline.

As the lords discussed alliances, fosterage, and promises, Lord Umber leaned over to Robb and muttered, "You know what this means, don't you?"

Robb glanced at his old friend.

"What?"

"It means you’re becoming more than just the Young Wolf. You’re becoming a Stark of legend."

Robb said nothing, but a small smile flickered across his face.

The war was far from over, but tonight, the lords of Westeros had made one thing clear—

Robb Stark was a man they respected, feared, and wanted as an ally.