Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 98

Daecy Mormont stood atop the watchtower, the cold wind of the Sunset Sea whipping her auburn hair around her face. She pulled her thick fur cloak tighter around her shoulders, her breath misting in the crisp evening air. The salty scent of the sea filled her nostrils as she peered through the massive far-seeing magnifying glass that Jon Targaryen had designed for Bear Island. It was a marvel of craftsmanship, unlike anything the North had ever seen—an intricate lens system mounted on a rotating base, allowing the watcher to see farther than the human eye could manage on its own.

Through the glass, she could see the bustling port below. Ships of various sizes, most bearing the sigil of House Mormont—a great black bear on a green field—bobbed in the icy waters. Fishermen unloaded their hauls, traders bartered, and shipwrights hammered away at new vessels. The island had never been this prosperous.

And beyond the port, stretching far into the horizon, she saw the vastness of the sea. The waters were deceptively calm, the waves gentle. But something in her gut told her that peace would not last.

She panned the glass slowly across the horizon—north, east, south. Then she froze.

Dark shapes. Sails.

At first, they seemed like shadows against the setting sun, but as she adjusted the lens, the sigils became clear.

Kraken.

A massive fleet, their black sails fluttering in the cold wind. House Greyjoy.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. But as she examined the ships further, her stomach dropped. These were not just Greyjoy ships. She could see the sigils of other Ironborn houses as well—House Harlaw, House Blacktyde, House Goodbrother, House Saltcliffe, House Orkwood.

This wasn’t a raid.

This was an invasion.

Daecy Mormont turned sharply and barked to the guards stationed at the tower.

“Light the signal!” she commanded, her voice steady but urgent.

The guards, already alert, did not hesitate. One of them grabbed a burning torch and thrust it into the prepared pyre at the tower’s peak. The dry wood and oil-soaked rags caught fire instantly, and within seconds, a blazing inferno roared into the night sky.

A warning.

A call to arms.

The alarm spread like wildfire. Other watchtowers across Bear Island saw the signal and ignited their own flames in response. One by one, the island lit up like a constellation of fire.

Alysane Mormont stormed into the war room of the newly built Mormont Keep, her eyes blazing with fury.

“How many?” she demanded as Daecy entered behind her.

“At least a hundred ships, maybe more,” Daecy answered grimly. “They’re bringing their entire force.”

Maege Mormont, their mother and acting Lady of Bear Island, leaned over the war table, studying a rough map of their defenses. She was a seasoned warrior, hardened by years of battle, and her face showed no fear—only determination.

“They think we’re weak,” she muttered. “They think they can take what we’ve built.”

“They’ll learn soon enough,” Alysane snapped. “The Ironborn think they can invade our lands, take our people as thralls? No. We’ll gut them and send their corpses back to Pyke.”

Maege turned to her daughters. “Daecy, you will command the shore defenses. We have trebuchets and ballistae along the cliffs. Use them to sink as many ships as you can before they land.”

Daecy nodded.

“Alysane,” Maege continued, “gather the shieldmaidens and our best warriors. Prepare for close combat. If the Ironborn reach the shore, we’ll meet them blade to blade.”

Alysane grinned, her hand already on the hilt of her sword. “Finally, a real fight.”

Maege turned to the gathered warriors and captains. “We are Mormonts. We fight with tooth and claw. We do not yield. Now, go—ready yourselves for battle!”

A resounding cheer echoed through the keep.

The first waves of Ironborn longships reached the shore just before dawn. The Mormonts were ready.

From the cliffs, Daecy and her archers let loose volley after volley of flaming arrows. The night sky was alight with streaks of fire as the arrows rained down upon the approaching ships. Some caught fire instantly, the dry wood of their hulls igniting like kindling. Screams filled the air as burning Ironborn leapt into the freezing waters.

Then came the trebuchets. Massive stones hurled from the high ground smashed into the longships, splintering hulls and sending men into the sea. A well-placed shot from a ballista skewered an entire row of Ironborn warriors, pinning them to the deck of their burning ship.

But still, they kept coming.

The Ironborn rowed with fury, their war cries carrying over the crashing waves. The first ships made landfall, and the raiders leapt onto the rocky beaches with axes and swords in hand.

Alysane Mormont led the charge.

“For Bear Island!” she roared, her sword flashing as she cut down the first man to reach her.

The battle was brutal. The Mormonts fought like the bears of their sigil—ferocious, unrelenting. The Ironborn, expecting an easy conquest, found themselves in a savage melee. Every Mormont warrior, man and woman alike, fought with everything they had.

Maege Mormont wielded her great axe, cleaving through Ironborn raiders with terrifying strength. Alysane fought with precision, ducking under wild swings and slicing throats with ease. Daecy, after exhausting her command at the cliffs, joined the fray, wielding two short swords with deadly efficiency.

The Ironborn fell by the dozens. Their arrogance had cost them dearly.

By midday, the shore was littered with corpses. The Ironborn had lost at least half their force. The Mormonts, though bloodied, still stood strong.

Then, a horn blew from the sea.

A massive warship, larger than the others, sailed toward the shore. Upon its deck stood a towering figure clad in blackened armor. Victarion Greyjoy.

Maege Mormont wiped blood from her face and spat on the ground. “So the kraken himself finally shows his face.”

Victarion leapt from the ship and landed heavily on the sand, wielding his massive axe. “You fight well, she-bears,” he called. “But your island belongs to the Drowned God now.”

“Come take it from us,” Alysane growled, stepping forward.

The two forces clashed once more, and this time, the fighting was even fiercer. Victarion cut through Mormont warriors like a storm, but the Mormonts did not break.

It was Daecy who struck the first real blow. She dodged one of Victarion’s wild swings and drove her dagger deep into his side. He roared in pain but backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling.

Maege and Alysane pressed the attack, forcing the Greyjoy captain back. The Mormont warriors, seeing their leaders holding their ground, surged forward with renewed fury.

Finally, with a combined effort, the Mormonts pushed the Ironborn back into the sea. Those who did not flee were slaughtered.

Victarion, bleeding and enraged, was dragged onto his ship by his remaining men. “This isn’t over,” he spat as his ship pulled away.

Daecy, bruised but grinning, wiped her blade clean. “It is for today.”

The battle was won. Bear Island stood unbroken.

As the surviving Ironborn ships disappeared into the horizon, the Mormonts let out a triumphant roar.

They had defended their home.

And next time, they would be ready.


The pain was unbearable. The stench of burnt flesh filled the cabin as Victarion Greyjoy clenched his jaw, gripping the edges of the wooden table so hard his knuckles turned white. His entire body trembled with rage, but he refused to show weakness before his men.

The shipmate removed the red-hot sword from his thigh, leaving behind an angry, smoldering wound. The iron stink of blood mixed with the salty air as the flesh hissed, sealing the injury shut. Victarion gritted his teeth, biting back another scream.

“The fuck went wrong?” he growled, his voice raw with fury.

The crew stood silently around him, wary of his rage. No one dared to speak. They had all seen what happened. What was supposed to be an easy conquest—a simple raid on an isolated island—had turned into a slaughter. His men had died in droves, cut down by the fierce warriors of Bear Island.

He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the half-empty tankard of ale beside him. “We had a plan. I spent moons planning this attack!”

Silence. The men avoided his gaze.

Victarion had come to Bear Island certain of victory. He had spent weeks in disguise, pretending to be a merchant to study its defenses. He had mapped the coastline, counted the ships, and judged the strength of its warriors. And he had been sure—so gods-damned sure—that most of Bear Island’s fighting men had gone south to war.

But he had been wrong.

The Ironborn had landed with overwhelming force. A hundred ships. Thousands of reavers. The plan had been simple—burn the port, sack the village, kill or capture the Mormonts, and claim the island for the Drowned God. With the island fortified, it would be easy to defend. Even if the North retaliated, the Ironborn could hold Bear Island for years.

But the Northmen had been waiting for them.

The first sign of trouble had been the signal fires. Within moments of their ships appearing on the horizon, flames had erupted from every watchtower, spreading across the island in a chain reaction. The Mormonts had been prepared, their defenses reinforced.

Then came the archers.

From the cliffs, fire arrows rained down on the longships as they tried to land. Ballistae and trebuchets hurled stones the size of a man's head, shattering hulls and capsizing vessels before they could reach the shore. Scores of Ironborn drowned, their armor dragging them beneath the waves.

But Victarion had pressed on. He had led the charge personally, his axe cleaving through Mormont warriors as the battle turned to brutal close combat. The women of Bear Island fought like demons, as savage as any Ironborn reaver. Their blades found gaps in armor, their axes struck with precision.

Victarion had been wounded in the melee, his thigh sliced open by a fierce woman in a bear-pelt cloak. He had managed to kill her, but not before she had taken a chunk of his flesh with her dying blow. The wound had slowed him, and his men had dragged him back to the ships as the battle turned against them.

By dawn, it was clear—the invasion had failed.

Victarion had lost nearly half his men.

And Bear Island still stood.

“I will burn that fucking island to the ground,” Victarion snarled, shoving aside the shipmate who had treated his wound. He struggled to stand, leaning against the wooden table.

A reaver stepped forward hesitantly. “My lord, we lost too many men. We should regroup at Pyke—”

Victarion backhanded him across the face. The man stumbled, blood trickling from his split lip.

“Cowards go home,” Victarion spat. “I will have my vengeance. The Mormonts think they can defy the Ironborn? They will learn what it means to cross us.”

The reavers exchanged uneasy glances. They had seen their captain in a rage before, but this was different. He had been humiliated.

“We need more ships,” Victarion continued, his voice like thunder. “More men. If Bear Island is too strong to take by steel alone, then we will break them with fire. We’ll blockade the island, cut off their food, burn their fishing vessels, starve them until they beg for mercy.”

Another reaver, older and more seasoned, hesitated before speaking. “And what of your brother? Lord Balon commanded us to raid the North, not get bogged down in a siege.”

Victarion scowled. “Balon gave me this task because he knew I would see it done. I will take Bear Island, even if I have to raze it to the ground.”

The men were silent.

Victarion turned to his second-in-command. “Send word to Pyke. Tell my brother we need reinforcements. I want another fifty ships.”

His second-in-command nodded and left the cabin to carry out the orders.

Victarion stared at the bloodstained deck beneath him, his fury simmering. This was not over. Bear Island would pay for its defiance.

And the Mormonts would know the wrath of the Ironborn.

For two days, Victarion Greyjoy had waited.

His ships lay anchored in the cold waters off Bear Island, their crews restless, their mood sour. The battle had been a disaster, and now they were left licking their wounds, waiting for Balon’s reinforcements to arrive.

Victarion knew his brother would send them. Balon Greyjoy hated the Starks more than anything. He had hated them so much that he launched this invasion despite knowing that his only son, Theon, was still their captive. That alone spoke volumes about his hatred.

Yet no ships had arrived.

The sea was eerily calm that night. The air was still, thick with the scent of salt and lingering smoke from the ruined longships that had been lost in the assault. Victarion had finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, his dreams filled with visions of fire and blood.

Then came the sound.

A heavy splash, followed by a scream.

Victarion’s eyes snapped open.

Another splash. Then another. And then—fire.

He stumbled from his cabin, his axe already in hand as he stepped onto the deck. His crew was shouting, scrambling in confusion. The sea around them was ablaze.

Fiery iron balls rained from the sky like falling stars. One crashed into the deck of a nearby longship, sending splinters of burning wood into the air. The ship groaned as it split apart, its warriors flailing as they were flung into the water.

Victarion’s first thought was that the North had come back for vengeance.

But then he saw the sails.

Through the thick smoke, he raised his small magnifying glass, a tool he had taken to using after seeing how the Mormonts spied from their watchtowers. What he saw made his blood run cold.

These were not Northmen.

The kraken of House Greyjoy was emblazoned on the sails of the attacking fleet. But there was another banner—one that had not flown in years.

A black iron crown.

Two crows.

And an eye. A black and red eye, watching, unblinking.

Victarion exhaled, his breath forming a single name.

“Euron.”