Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 94

Stannis Baratheon stood upon the battlements of Storm’s End, staring out toward the vast, storm-tossed sea. The wind howled around him, whipping his dark blue cloak behind him, the sigil of the crowned stag embroidered upon it barely visible in the dim morning light. His expression was grim, as always, his jaw clenched, his face carved from stone.

He had received another raven from King’s Landing the night before. Another desperate plea from Cersei Lannister, demanding—no, begging—for his aid in securing the Iron Throne against Jon Targaryen’s advancing forces. And just like the letters before it, Stannis had cast it into the flames without a second thought.

Lannisters. Leeching parasites. They had spent years twisting the court around their fingers, all while systematically removing the influence of Stormlanders from the Red Keep. Where once his men had stood proud in the King’s Guard and among the city’s protectors, now there were only Westerlanders. The court was no longer a place for Stannis and his people; it had become a Lannister playground.

Robert’s reign had been a farce. A crown upon a stag’s head, but the true power lay with the lions. And now, in their desperation, the Lannisters dared to summon him as their ally.

The audacity of it boiled his blood.

Behind him, footsteps approached, precise and measured. Stannis did not turn; he did not need to.

“Another letter?” Ser Davos Seaworth asked, his voice calm yet wary.

“Burned it.” Stannis’ response was clipped.

Davos sighed. “They’re desperate.”

Stannis exhaled sharply through his nose. “They are weak. Their gold will not save them from the storm that is coming.” He finally turned to face Davos, his steel-blue eyes intense. “You know what they’ve done to the Stormlands. Our men, once a presence in the Red Keep, are now nothing. Cast out like beggars while the Lannisters grow fat on their stolen power. And now they expect me to come crawling back to their service?” He shook his head. “I will not fight for the people who stripped my brother’s kingdom of its dignity.”

Davos nodded, folding his hands behind his back. “Then what will you do, my lord?”

Stannis was silent for a long moment. Then, he turned back to the sea.

Davos hesitated. “And what of Jon Targaryen?”

Stannis’ fingers curled into fists. That was the complication. The wolf in dragon’s clothing, the boy with the North and Riverlands behind him, the one who marched with the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Eddard Stark in his veins. A young man who had already proven himself more capable than most rulers in Westeros.

“He has no claim,” Stannis muttered, as if convincing himself. “The throne is not won by a bastard of a usurped dynasty.”

Davos tilted his head. “Then why does the realm rally to him?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Why had the lords flocked to Jon instead of Stannis? Why did the common people whisper his name in reverence, while they spoke of Stannis in tones of uncertainty and fear?

“Because the boy plays at being a king,” Stannis said bitterly. “Because he speaks of prosperity, of strength, and the fools believe him. But he has never ruled. He has never known the weight of the crown. He will falter, like all the others.”

“And yet, he has already achieved what you have not.”

Stannis turned sharply at Davos’ words, but the Onion Knight held his gaze, unwavering.

“I have no love for the Targaryens,” Davos continued, “but Jon Targaryen—Jon Frost, whatever he chooses to call himself—he does not sit idly waiting for a throne to fall into his lap. He has taken it upon himself to lead. He has built alliances where others would have waged war. He commands the loyalty of the North, the Riverlands, and now even the Vale. And more will come.”

Stannis’ jaw clenched. “You think I should bow to him?”

Davos shook his head. “No. I think you should consider your position carefully. The Lannisters are desperate. They will fall. And when they do, the realm will have two kings left standing. If you declare war upon Jon Targaryen, it will not be the North that bleeds. It will be the Stormlands.”

Stannis said nothing. He knew the truth of it. The Stormlands, for all their strength, were isolated. If he fought the North, he would be alone.

But the alternative—allying with a Targaryen? It was a bitter pill to swallow.

A gust of wind rolled in from the sea, salty and cold.

“There is another way,” Davos said after a long pause.

Stannis raised an eyebrow.

“Meet with him,” Davos urged. “See what kind of man he truly is. The realm may not survive another war between two kings. But if there is a way forward—one where the Stormlands are not cast aside, where you are given the respect you deserve—then isn’t it worth considering?”

Stannis turned back to the horizon. “He will not agree to any arrangement where I sit the throne.”

“Perhaps not.” Davos exhaled. “But would you rather fight for a crown that may leave the Stormlands in ruin, or secure a future where you and your people still hold power?”

The waves crashed below, the tides shifting as they always did. Stannis stared out at the rolling sea, the battle raging in his mind.


The candlelight flickered in the dim chamber of Storm’s End, casting elongated shadows on the stone walls. Stannis Baratheon sat at his wooden desk, his fingers gripping the parchment tightly as he read the words again. His eyes, sharp and piercing, moved over the inked letters with a slow, deliberate pace. Each word settled in his mind like a hammer striking an anvil.

The letter was from an old ally, a minor lord from the Riverlands, a man Stannis had met during the Ironborn Rebellion. They had fought side by side, and though they had not been in close contact in recent years, the man had remained loyal to him. And now, he had delivered Stannis the greatest revelation of his life.



A battle took place near Harrenhal, between Jaime Lannister’s forces and Jon Targaryen’s army. It was during the fight that Jon Targaryen himself made a declaration before thousands of men—Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella are not the trueborn children of Robert Baratheon. They are bastards, born of incest between Jaime and Cersei Lannister. The realm knows the truth now, and the Lannisters are scrambling to control the fallout.



Stannis exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the letter until the edges crumpled.

This… this was the moment he had been waiting for.

For years, he had been bound by duty, by honor, by the chains of loyalty to his brother’s children. He had loathed Joffrey, had found Tommen weak and Myrcella little more than a pawn, but they were Robert’s children—or so he had believed. He had held himself back from making a move against them, unwilling to stain his hands with kinslaying.

But now?

Now, they were not his kin.

Now, they were pretenders sitting on a throne that rightfully belonged to him.

Stannis’ mind raced with the implications. If the truth had spread across Westeros, then it would shake the very foundation of the Seven Kingdoms. The legitimacy of the Baratheon rule in King’s Landing was in ruins, and no matter how much gold or power the Lannisters wielded, they could not make the people forget this.

He turned to the fireplace, where the flames crackled hungrily. He reached for the letter again, staring at the words one last time before tossing it into the fire. The parchment curled, blackened, and turned to ash.

Behind him, a familiar voice spoke.

“The flames do not lie, my king.”

Stannis did not turn. He did not need to. Melisandre stood in the doorway, her red robes flowing like liquid fire, her hair a river of crimson. Her presence was like a shadow that never left him, her words always laced with prophecy and fate.

“You knew,” Stannis said. It was not a question.

Melisandre stepped forward, her red eyes glinting in the firelight. “I have seen it in my visions. The false king’s children are false in blood as well. You have always been the rightful heir, Stannis Baratheon. Azor Ahai reborn.”

He clenched his fists. He did not have time for riddles or prophecy. He had facts, and facts were what mattered.

He turned to face Davos Seaworth, who had been standing silently in the room, waiting for his lord’s response. The Onion Knight’s expression was grim, as if he already knew what was coming.

“Davos,” Stannis said, his voice a low rumble of certainty. “Summon the bannermen. The Stormlands will ride for war.”

Davos hesitated. “And who do we fight, my lord?”

Stannis looked past him, through the narrow slit of a window where the stormy sea raged against the cliffs below.

“The pretender on the Iron Throne,” he said. “And any who would stand in the way of my rightful claim.”

The next morning, the ravenry at Storm’s End was alive with activity. Letters were penned and sealed with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Each one carried the same message:


The Iron Throne is in the hands of a bastard-born usurper. The rightful heir, Stannis Baratheon, calls upon all loyal men of the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and beyond to rise and take back what belongs to him by law. The time for inaction has passed. The time for war is now.


The battlefield was silent. Not the calm before a storm, nor the tense stillness of warriors preparing for battle. This was the silence of death, of finality, of an ending that had long been coming.

The banners of House Lannister, once held high and proud, now lay tattered and soaked in blood upon the muddy ground. Their golden lions, symbols of their might, were trampled under the boots of Northern and Riverlands soldiers who had fought fiercely to break the power of the West.

In the center of it all stood Jaime Lannister.

Despite the chains around his wrists and the dirt streaking his once-pristine armor, he still carried himself like the proud knight of the Kingsguard he once was. His golden hair was matted with sweat and blood, his face streaked with the grime of war, but his smirk remained. He stood tall, unwavering, his confidence an act of defiance in the face of defeat.

And standing before him, blade in hand, was King Jon Targaryen.

The gathered lords—Tullys, Starks, Arryns, and more—stood watching, murmuring amongst themselves. Many had expected Jaime to be taken as a prisoner, to be used as a bargaining chip. A valuable hostage, a tool for negotiations.

But Jon Targaryen had no interest in political games.

Lord Edmure Tully stepped forward, his face pale but resolute. “Your Grace,” he said carefully, “Ser Jaime Lannister is one of the most valuable men in Westeros. As the heir to Casterly Rock, he is worth more alive than dead.”

Jon did not take his eyes off Jaime. “The Lannisters thought the same when they executed Eddard Stark.” His voice was cold, measured. “Did they consider his worth? His position? His alliances?”

Lord Domeric Bolton, ever the calculating man, spoke next. “If we ransom him back to Casterly Rock, the Lannisters will pay handsomely. Gold, supplies—perhaps even their surrender.”

Jon finally looked at them, his silver-gray eyes hard as steel. “Did Tywin Lannister offer House Stark a ransom for their lord? Did he spare the North his wrath? Or did he have Eddard Stark beheaded in the streets of King’s Landing while everyone watched?”

The murmurs quieted.

Jon turned back to Jaime. “When the Lannisters kill, they do not ask for permission. They do not consider consequences. They act, knowing the realm will do nothing in return.” He took a step forward, his voice cutting through the silence. “That ends today.”

Jaime’s smirk faltered just slightly.

Jon raised his sword. “Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, heir to Casterly Rock, I sentence you to die.”

The assembled lords tensed. Even among enemies, executing a noble of Jaime’s station was unprecedented.

Jaime, despite himself, let out a breathless chuckle. “So this is how it ends?” he muttered. “Beheaded like your father?”

Jon shook his head. “My father died on his knees, betrayed by those who claimed to serve justice.” He lifted his blade. “You die standing, like the warrior you believe yourself to be.”

The sword came down.

It was clean. A single stroke. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the pride of House Lannister, fell to his knees before his body crumpled to the dirt. His head rolled to the side, golden hair streaked with blood, his smirk forever frozen in death.

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the wind rustling through the torn banners.

Jon turned to the rest of the prisoners—Lannister knights, nobles, bannermen. Some were boys barely old enough to wield a sword. Others were grizzled veterans of many wars. All wore expressions of shock, defiance, or resignation.

Jon did not hesitate.

“Every man who marched under the lion's banner will face the same fate.” His voice carried across the field. “There will be no ransoms. No bargains. The Lannisters executed my kin without hesitation. I return the favor.”

One by one, the executions began.

Screams filled the air as the last of the Westerland nobility was wiped out. None were spared. Not the sons, nor the fathers, nor the brothers who had pledged loyalty to Tywin Lannister. Some tried to plead, others spat their final curses. It did not matter. They had fought for House Lannister. They had stood against the North and the Riverlands.

And now, they were gone.

The news spread faster than wildfire.

The Lannisters had suffered the greatest loss in their history. Not only had their army been crushed, but their nobility had been eradicated. There would be no bargaining, no negotiations, no second chances.

At Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister received the news in cold silence. His unreadable expression betrayed nothing, but those close to him saw the slight clench of his jaw, the tightening of his fingers on his goblet.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but deadly.

“Jon Targaryen has declared war in full. He has burned our name from the world.” He stood, turning to his remaining commanders. “Then we shall return the favor.”

But those who served the Lannisters knew the truth. The tides had turned. Fear had seeped into their ranks. Their golden empire had begun to crumble.

And Jon Targaryen had proven that he was not just another claimant to the Iron Throne.

He was a conqueror.