Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 96

Harrenhal stood like a blackened, ruined beast against the morning sky, its towering, scorched walls a grim reminder of what happened when kings overreached. Smoke still curled lazily from the outer ramparts where the last fires of battle had been extinguished, and inside the castle, the banners of House Targaryen, Stark, and Tully flew alongside the newly raised sigil of the Vale.

King Jon Targaryen stood in the war council chamber, his silver-gray eyes studying the large map of Westeros spread across the table. His lords and commanders stood around him—Domeric Bolton, Howland Reed, Harold Hardyng, and several others who had proven themselves in the war thus far. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, steel, and the faint lingering stench of burnt flesh from the battlefield beyond the castle walls.

The chamber doors swung open, and a new arrival entered—a man clad in the red and blue of House Tully.

Bryden Tully, the Blackfish, had arrived from the Riverlands with urgent news.

The lords turned to greet him as he strode forward with the bearing of a man who had just finished a long campaign. His armor bore fresh dents, his cloak was stained with the dust of the road, and his face—though grim as always—held a certain satisfaction.

Jon Targaryen gestured for him to speak. “Lord Brynden, you’ve returned from the seige. What word from the Twins?”

Brynden nodded, folding his arms. “The Freys are no more.”

A murmur passed through the gathered lords.

“The seige did not last long,” Brynden continued. “They were already weakened, their forces scattered. We stormed the castle, took it by force, and executed those who resisted. Every male Frey who survived has been sent to the Wall. The women have been given to the Faith. House Frey is finished.”

Robb Stark exhaled, shaking his head. “So, the Twins are leaderless now.”

Brynden met his gaze. “Not leaderless—governed.” He turned back to Jon. “For now, it is a military outpost. A fortress under our control. But once the war is won, the matter of its future must be settled.”

Jon gave a slow nod. “I have already decided. The Twins will not be given—it will be earned. Whoever fights hardest, whoever proves themselves the most loyal to our cause, will be granted lordship over it.”

A ripple of interest went through the room. Lords from the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale listened keenly.

But Brynden did not look entirely pleased.

“A fair offer, Your Grace,” he admitted, “but there is one matter that must be settled before any man claims the Twins.”

Jon studied him. “Speak plainly.”

Brynden placed his hands on the table, fingers splayed across the map. “Whoever takes the Twins, whoever wins this prize you offer, must swear fealty to House Tully. The Twins are part of the Riverlands, and they will remain under our dominion. I will not have them granted to some upstart lord who thinks he rules by his own decree.”

The council chamber grew tense.

Some of the Northern lords frowned, though none spoke against it outright.

Lord Harold Hardyng of the Vale, however, crossed his arms and stepped forward. “And if the man who earns the Twins is a Vale lord?”

Brynden’s expression did not shift. “Then he will swear his allegiance to House Tully, just as my bannermen do. I care not if the man is from the North, the Vale, or the Riverlands itself. The land belongs to my house, and any lord who takes it will serve us as vassals.”

Harold Hardyng narrowed his eyes but did not protest. The Vale was strong, but the Riverlands held the Twins by right, and Jon had made it clear that he did not intend to rule through force alone.

Jon listened to the exchange in silence before finally speaking. “That is reasonable.”

Brynden nodded. “Then it is settled. The Twins remain part of the Riverlands. Whoever earns it will serve under House Tully.”

Jon glanced around the room, taking in the expressions of his lords. Some looked satisfied, others were clearly disappointed, but none argued.

“Very well,” Jon said. “We move forward.”

Brynden stepped back, satisfied.

The war was far from over, but now the fate of the Twins was sealed. Whoever claimed it would do so knowing they served the Riverlands first and the crown second.

And for the first time in generations, the Frey name was gone from Westeros.

With the execution of Jaime Lannister, the war had reached a point of no return. There was no longer any room for negotiation, no possibility of truce. The Riverlords and the Vale, already leaning toward Jon Targaryen, now gave their full and unwavering support. In the North, his name was spoken with reverence, not just as a Stark or a Targaryen, but as a King.

The execution had not been swift, nor had it been painless. Jaime Lannister had met his end in chains, stripped of his golden armor, stripped of the myth of the Kingslayer. Jon had ensured that his death was not merely an act of vengeance, but a message—a declaration to all of Westeros.

The Lannisters had ruled through fear and treachery for too long. They had ended House Reyne and Tarbeck, crushed them utterly and wiped them from history. They had turned against the Targaryens, betraying the very dynasty they had sworn to serve. And when they thought themselves above consequence, they executed Eddard Stark, never once considering what would come next.

They had thought themselves invincible.

Jon Targaryen would prove them wrong.

Jon did not merely seek to defeat House Lannister—he sought to erase them.

“They call themselves lions,” he said to his gathered lords, “but they are no lions. They are parasites, clinging to power through treachery, feeding on the wealth of others. They have worn their sigil long enough, but I will show them that words do not make you a lion.”

The lords of the Riverlands and the Vale listened in rapt silence.

“They have destroyed houses and rewritten history to suit their ambition. They think themselves legends, invincible. But they made the same mistake again—they thought they could kill a Stark and face no consequences. They executed Lord Eddard without fear of reprisal, because they thought the North was too far, too divided, too weak to rise against them. And now, they will pay the price.”

The lords in the chamber murmured their agreement. The Freys had been wiped from existence for their treachery. The Lannisters would suffer worse.

Jon let his gaze sweep over the room. “When this war is over, there will be no House Lannister. Their name will be stripped from the records, their banners will burn, and after a single generation, no one will remember that such a house ever existed.”

Lord Brynden Tully nodded grimly. “House Reyne and House Tarbeck once believed themselves untouchable, too. The Lannisters wiped them from history. They will not expect to face the same fate.”

Jon smirked. “They should have learned from their own lessons.”


The sun had barely risen over the western horizon when the banners of House Stark appeared on the outskirts of Sarsfield. The town, nestled between rolling hills and thick woodlands, had long been a minor yet strategically significant stronghold of the Westerlands. It was one of the many castle-towns that bolstered the power of House Lannister, and now it was about to fall into the hands of Robb Stark.

Robb sat atop his warhorse, his eyes fixed on the fortress ahead. The walls were not as formidable as Casterly Rock or the Golden Tooth, but they were well-built, manned by a garrison that had yet to see real battle. The Lannister forces within were no match for the battle-hardened Northmen and Riverlords who had marched south under Robb’s command.

Beside him, Lord Smalljon Umber grinned, gripping the reins of his own horse. “They’ll surrender by nightfall. They don’t have the numbers, and their lord is no Tywin Lannister.”

Robb nodded, his gaze never leaving the town. “Perhaps. But we’re not taking any chances. No unnecessary risks. We take the town and secure the roads before any reinforcements from Lannisport can arrive.”

Howland Reed, standing to his left, adjusted his bow on his back. “You assume the Lannisters will march this far west to defend Sarsfield.”

“Tywin will have no choice,” Robb replied. “We’ve already crippled their supply lines along the Red Fork. If we take Sarsfield, we control another key route into the Westerlands.”

The strategy was sound. With Sarsfield under Stark control, Lannister forces in the west would be cut off from their allies in the Riverlands. It would further weaken their already crumbling defenses.

Robb turned to the assembled commanders. “We attack at midday. Let them see us coming. Let them know we are here.”

The Northern army moved swiftly, banners high, war drums beating in a steady rhythm. The archers were positioned on the nearby ridges, ready to rain death upon the defenders, while the main force advanced with methodical precision.

The walls of Sarsfield were lined with soldiers bearing the sigil of House Sarsfield—a green field with three silver swords. They were outnumbered, but they held their ground, their bows drawn, ready to fire upon the approaching enemy.

From the battlements, a voice rang out. “You march against the bannermen of House Lannister! Turn back now, and Lord Tywin may show you mercy!”

Smalljon Umber let out a bark of laughter. “Mercy? That’s rich, coming from those who serve a family of butchers!”

Robb raised a hand, signaling for silence. He rode forward, his voice carrying across the field. “This is your only chance. Surrender now, and you will be spared. Resist, and you will share the fate of every Lannister loyalist who stands in our way.”

The gate remained shut. The archers above did not lower their weapons.

A decision had been made.

Robb turned back to his commanders. “No more words. We take the town.”

The battle began with a volley of arrows. Northern archers let loose their shafts, cutting down Lannister defenders on the walls. Screams echoed as men fell, some toppling over the battlements, crashing onto the stone below.

Battering rams moved forward, covered by large wooden shields to protect the men pushing them.

The Lannisters fired back, but their archers were fewer in number. Their arrows struck shields, but the Northmen continued their advance.

Then came the first breach.

With a thunderous crack, the gate buckled under the force of the ram. A second strike followed, then a third—until finally, the wood splintered, and the gates burst open.

“Charge!” Robb roared, leading the attack himself.

The Northmen surged forward, steel clashing against steel as they poured into the streets of Sarsfield. The defenders fought with desperation, but they were unprepared for the sheer ferocity of the Northern assault.

Smalljon Umber cut down a Lannister soldier with a powerful swing of his greatsword, grinning wildly. “Come on, you golden bastards! Let’s see what you’re made of!”

Howland Reed, moving with the precision of a ghost, weaved between enemies, cutting throats and slipping through gaps in their defenses.

Robb fought with calculated aggression, parrying a sword stroke before driving his blade into the chest of a Lannister knight. Blood sprayed onto his armor, but he didn’t stop.

Within minutes, the outer defenses had collapsed. The remaining defenders retreated toward the keep, their last stronghold within the town.

Robb wasted no time. “Take the keep! No one escapes!”

The keep fell within the hour. The Lord of Sarsfield, a man past his prime but still wearing Lannister red, was dragged before Robb, his face pale with fear.

“You have lost,” Robb said simply. “Sarsfield belongs to the North now.”

The lord swallowed hard. “You have no right to this land. The Westerlands belong to House Lannister—”

“The Westerlands belong to whoever takes them,” Robb interrupted. “And we have taken Sarsfield.”

The lord clenched his jaw but did not argue further. He knew the fate that awaited him.

Robb turned to Howland. “Have him sent to Riverrun as a prisoner. His men will be given a choice—bend the knee or die.”

Howland nodded, motioning for the guards to take the defeated lord away.

Smalljon Umber stepped forward, wiping blood from his blade. “And what of the town, Stark? What do we do with it?”

Robb looked out over Sarsfield, now in Northern hands.

“We hold it,” he said. “We fortify it. And we prepare for the next battle.”

For the war was far from over.

And the lions were running out of places to hide.