Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 99

The banners of House Targaryen flew high above the warband as Jon Targaryen led his forces deeper into the Crownlands. The crimson dragon of House Targaryen, once thought to be banished from Westeros, now rode proudly beside the direwolf of House Stark, the trout of House Tully, and the falcon of House Arryn. What had once been a divided kingdom, shattered by war and treachery, was now reforming under the banner of the rightful heir.

The further they advanced, the less resistance they met.

At first, there were small skirmishes—loyalist knights foolish enough to believe that King Joffrey’s rule was still absolute. They threw themselves at Jon’s forces with misguided zeal, only to be cut down. But as word of his victories spread, the Crownland lords began to hesitate.

And then, one by one, they started to bend the knee.

Jon rode at the head of his army, his black armor gleaming in the afternoon sun. Beside him, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, kept a keen eye on the land ahead.

“They don’t fight anymore,” Brynden observed. “It’s not like before. They surrender the moment they see our banners.”

Jon nodded. “They know what’s coming. They’ve seen what happened to the Lannisters in the Riverlands and the Westerlands. They know we don’t lose.”

Domeric Bolton rode up alongside them, shaking his head in mild amusement. “We don’t even need to break their gates. They open them before we arrive.”

It was true. Many of the smaller holdfasts and villages had sent emissaries ahead, declaring their loyalty before the army even reached them.

At Rosby, Lord Gyles Rosby had no choice but to surrender. His soldiers had deserted, and his people had already declared for Jon before the army even arrived at his gates. He had bent the knee, his breath ragged from sickness, swearing fealty to Jon Targaryen.

At Duskendale, the ruling Darklyns had secretly plotted against King Joffrey for months. When Jon’s army approached, they slaughtered the Lannister soldiers in their keep and threw open their gates, greeting Jon as their true king.

And at Stokeworth, the castle had been thrown into civil war. Lady Tanda Stokeworth, a weak-willed woman who had bent the knee to Joffrey out of fear, was overthrown by her own household guard, who had declared for Jon Targaryen before his forces even arrived.

The tide was turning faster than even Jon had anticipated.

Jon met with the gathered lords in a hastily assembled war council at the now-loyal Rosby Castle.

“My lords,” Jon began, his gaze sweeping across the room, “you have all sworn your loyalty to me, but I must know one thing: What is the mood in King’s Landing?”

Lord Gyles, pale and coughing into his sleeve, spoke first. “The city is in chaos, Your Grace. The people whisper of your victories, and they cheer your name in the streets. But the Lannisters still hold the Red Keep. They have the Gold Cloaks, and they control the royal fleet.”

“The Gold Cloaks?” Jon frowned. “Are they truly loyal to the Lannisters?”

A younger knight from Stokeworth answered, “Not as much as you might think, Your Grace. The common soldiers have no love for King Joffrey. They fear the Lannisters, but they remember your father. Many still hold to the idea of a true king.”

Jon leaned back in his chair. “Then the city will fall without much bloodshed.”

Brynden Tully nodded. “King’s Landing won’t stand against us. But the Red Keep is another story. Tywin Lannister will not run. If we take the city, we still have to deal with the lion.”

Jon exhaled, his fingers drumming against the wooden table. “We take the city first. Then we deal with Tywin.”

Domeric grinned. “And if he doesn’t surrender?”

Jon’s voice was calm but firm. “Then we put an end to House Lannister once and for all.”

The room fell silent.

Everyone knew what that meant.


Tai Lung lay motionless in the bed, his breath ragged and shallow. His face, usually so full of warmth and cunning, was pale, drenched in sweat. The room smelled of blood, damp cloth, and herbs—an overwhelming mix that made even the hardened warriors flinch.

The Maester worked with practiced precision, carefully pulling out the last arrow embedded in Tai Lung’s side. Blood gushed out, and a deep groan escaped his lips. His body trembled from the pain, but he did not scream. Tai Lung was not a man to show weakness.

Beside him, Samwell Tarly watched with wide eyes, his hands clenching the edge of the wooden chair he sat on. He had seen many men wounded before, had helped Maesters tend to those who survived battle, but never had he sat beside a man so dear to his king.

A man who had helped shape the rise of Jon Targaryen.

The very thought made his chest tighten with worry.

“You will live,” the Maester muttered as he pressed cloth against the wound, wrapping it tightly to stop the bleeding. “You fought like a madman, Tai Lung. If you had fallen, I am not sure anyone would have been able to replace you.”

Tai Lung forced out a weak chuckle, wincing as pain shot through his ribs. “I don’t plan on dying yet, old man.” His voice was hoarse, but his spirit remained unbroken. “My king still needs me.”

Samwell exhaled in relief. “You should rest, Tai. You took too many wounds. Your body needs time.”

Tai Lung smirked slightly despite his pain. “Time is a luxury we don’t have, Sam. Highgarden has fallen. House Tyrell is no more. We have a kingdom to rebuild.”

The battle had been fierce. The once-proud banners of House Tyrell, golden roses on a green field, had burned away in the fires of war. What had once been the seat of the most powerful house in the Reach had been reduced to smoldering ruins.

The civil war between House Tyrell and House Tarly had been bloody, and the cost had been high. But in the end, it was the Tarlys who stood victorious, with Tai Lung fighting alongside them.

Mace Tyrell, the former Warden of the South, had been captured, along with his entire family. His son, Willas, the true heir to Highgarden, had surrendered without a fight, knowing that further resistance was futile.

But it was not just the Tyrells who had been dethroned. The entire structure of power in the Reach had been shattered. Lords who once feasted in the great halls of Highgarden were now kneeling before House Tarly, swearing their loyalty to their new ruler—or facing the sword.

It was a victory that would be written in history. The end of a great house.

And the rise of a new order under King Jon Targaryen.

By the time the sun set over Highgarden, a raven had already been sent to Jon Targaryen, carrying the news of Tai Lung’s victory and House Tyrell’s downfall.

Samwell Tarly himself had written the letter, detailing the battle, the capture of the Tyrells, and the fact that House Tarly now ruled the Reach in the name of Jon Targaryen.

And with that letter, one thing was clear—

The war was coming to its final act.

The Lannisters were broken.

The Tyrells were no more.

And soon, King’s Landing would be next.


The night sky over Lannisport burned green.

Wildfire consumed everything it touched, spreading in unnatural bursts, engulfing entire buildings in an instant. The once-proud harbor, the lifeblood of the Lannister wealth and trade, was reduced to a sea of molten ruin. Ships burned like torches, their crews leaping into the water only to be swallowed by the hungry flames. The screams of dying men echoed through the streets, mixing with the crashing of timber and the wails of women and children who fled for their lives.

And at the center of it all, Robb Stark stood atop his horse, his face illuminated by the eerie glow of wildfire, watching as the city that had helped fund his father’s execution was turned to ash.

He had imagined this moment for years.

Ever since that fateful day when his father, Eddard Stark, was dragged onto the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor and beheaded like a common criminal, Robb had sworn revenge.

This was the first step.

"We Burn It All"

“Howland.”

The Lord of Greywater Watch stood beside him, his green cloak blending into the shadows. He had arrived days before, bringing with him a shipment of wildfire—more than enough to turn Casterly Rock into a ruin.

Robb turned to him, his face hard. “Where did Jon get this much wildfire?”

Howland Reed smirked, a rare thing for him. “That’s not a question you should ask, Robb.”

Robb exhaled, gripping the hilt of his sword. He didn’t care. All he cared about was the destruction of House Lannister.

“The entire stock,” Robb said, his voice like iron. “We use it all. The Lannisters will be erased from history.”

Howland nodded. “Then we begin.”

The Stark banners flew above the burning ruins of Lannisport as the northern army marched through the city like ghosts. They did not rape, they did not plunder. They were not the Ironborn. They were not butchers.

They were here for revenge.

The Lannisters had killed a Stark Lord.

Now, the Starks would burn everything.

Wildfire spread through the merchant district, devouring warehouses, counting houses, and the mansions of Lannister loyalists. Gold melted in the heat, running in rivers down the streets. The famous Lannisport docks, once the pride of the West, were now a graveyard of smoldering ships.

No Lannister vessel would ever sail from this port again.

Robb rode through the ruined streets, Grey Wind by his side, the massive direwolf covered in the blood of Lannister soldiers. The red cloaks had tried to resist, but they had been cut down like wheat.

There were no survivors among the Lannister garrison.

No mercy.

Not this time.

"We Take The Rock"

Robb turned to Howland Reed as the city burned behind them.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice raw with emotion, “we take Casterly Rock.”

He would not stop until every last stone of that accursed lion’s den was ash.

The North would have its vengeance.


The sea was dark and restless as Euron Greyjoy sailed toward the Iron Islands. The salt air was thick with the scent of storm and blood. His fleet cut through the waves like blades, their black sails ghostly against the moonlit sky.

The Silence, Euron’s flagship, glided ahead of the others, its eerie stillness unmatched. The ship was unlike any other, crewed by mute men whose tongues had been torn out, ensuring absolute obedience and eternal silence. No shanties, no laughter—only the sound of the wind and the crash of the waves.

And soon, the Iron Islands would be just as silent.

Victarion Greyjoy, the strongest of Balon’s brothers, was gone—swallowed by the sea, his body never to be found. His fleet had been burned, shattered by the very kraken they thought was their ally.

And with him gone, there was no one left to challenge Euron for the Seastone Chair.

Balon Greyjoy was a fool. His rebellion had been ill-planned from the start, and even now, he was wasting his forces on a war he could never win.

The Ironborn needed a new king.

And Euron would give them one.

The first warning of Euron’s arrival came at dawn.

A watchman standing atop the cliffs of Pyke saw them first—black sails, dozens of them, moving toward the islands like a swarm of crows. They flew no banners but the kraken of House Greyjoy, but those who saw them knew:

This was not Balon’s fleet.

The war horns sounded, echoing across the stony shores of Pyke.

Balon Greyjoy stood on the balcony of the Great Keep, looking out over the turbulent sea. His once-proud fleet had been diminished by war. His men, stretched too thin.

Now, a new threat had come.

And it bore his own name.

Euron did not stop at the outer isles. He did not waste time with negotiations or promises. He landed on Great Wyk, the largest of the Iron Islands, and the lords who had long despised Balon gathered to hear him speak.

The King's Moot was called.

Euron stood before them, a grin carved into his face, his single blue eye gleaming, while his other eye, black-red and hungry, seemed to pierce into the souls of those before him.

“You’ve followed a weak king long enough,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, sharp as steel. “Balon Greyjoy sent your sons to die in a war he could never win. He made enemies of the North, the Reach, the Westerlands—while giving you nothing.”

He stretched his arms wide, his long black coat billowing in the sea wind.

“But I will give you everything.”

The Ironborn murmured among themselves. Some looked uneasy. Others intrigued.

“I have sailed farther than any man of the Iron Islands,” Euron continued. “I have seen wonders beyond your feeble imagination. The world is changing. The Ironborn will change with it—or we will die forgotten.”