Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 87

The Northmen and Riverland soldiers approached the Twins with the precision of seasoned warriors. Their banners—direwolves, trout, bears, and giants—fluttered in the cold wind, a grim reminder to House Frey of the forces they faced.

Smalljon Umber, a towering figure with a voice that could shake the earth, rode at the front of the army, his massive sword strapped across his back. He raised his hand, signaling the march to halt as they reached the banks of the Green Fork, where the two towering castles of the Freys loomed over the river.

The Twins, built as impregnable fortresses to control the crossing, stood defiant. The drawbridges were raised, the gates were barred, and archers lined the walls.

Smalljon grinned. “Cowards,” he muttered, spitting onto the dirt. “Hiding behind their walls like rats.”

He turned to the commanders gathered around him. “Send the ultimatum. Let’s see if these weasels have any sense left, or if we need to starve them like the pigs they are.”

A herald rode forward under a white flag, his voice echoing across the river.

“To Lord Walder Frey and the Houses of the Crossing! You have betrayed your liege lord and defied your king! King Jon Targaryen, rightful ruler of Westeros, demands your immediate surrender!”

The soldiers below cheered at the name of their king, their voices ringing through the air like thunder.

“If you surrender now, you will keep your lands, your treasures, and your titles. But if you resist, your castle will be taken, your wealth confiscated, and your name will be stricken from the annals of history!”

The herald paused, letting the threat hang in the air. “You have one day to decide!”

From the battlements, a Frey commander stepped forward, his voice filled with arrogance.

“You think you can starve us? The Twins have enough stores to last years! You’ll all die of old age before we run out of bread!”

Laughter rang out from the walls, but Smalljon wasn’t impressed. He stepped forward, his voice like thunder.

“Bread doesn’t matter when your men start eating rats and their own dead! We’ll tighten this noose until your people beg us to let them out!”

He turned to his men. “Surround the castle! No one gets in or out! Seal the roads and the river! I want their supplies choked off until they’re pissing in buckets and drinking from puddles!”

The Northmen and Riverlanders moved quickly. Camps were established around the Twins, cutting off all paths in and out. Scouts patrolled the roads, intercepting any merchants or travelers who might try to break through.

Boats were stationed along the river to block any attempts by the Freys to escape by water. Engineers began constructing siege engines, not to breach the walls, but to launch flaming projectiles should the Freys try to hold out for too long.

Smalljon made sure to send additional forces to guard their rear, ensuring that no surprise attacks could break the siege.

“Let them sit in their stone towers,” Smalljon said, pacing through the camp. “Every day we sit here is another day they lose faith. They’ll break, and when they do, we’ll be ready.”

Inside the Twins, chaos simmered beneath the surface. Walder Frey, old and frail, shouted at his sons and grandsons, demanding solutions.

“You fools! I told you this would happen! We should have bent the knee while we had the chance!”

“And give up everything we’ve built?” retorted Lothar Frey. “The North won’t hold us in high regard, no matter what promises they make. They’ll tear us apart the moment we surrender!”

“And what will they do if we don’t?” snapped Black Walder. “Do you think they’ll just leave? They’ll burn us alive if we resist!”

Arguments broke out, and the once-united Frey household fractured as fear set in.

Back at Riverrun, Jon Targaryen received reports of the siege daily. He stood over a map of the Riverlands, marking the progress of his forces.

Robb Stark stood beside him, tracing the movements with his fingers. “They’re caged, Jon. They’ll hold out for a while, but no castle can last forever.”

“I don’t need them to last forever,” Jon said. “I just need them to break. When they do, we make an example of them.”

Val approached, her eyes sharp. “You won’t be able to leave them with power, Jon. Even if they surrender, they’ll stab you in the back the moment they get the chance.”

Jon nodded. “I know. Walder Frey will never sit in that castle again. But his people might, if they’re willing to swear loyalty.”

Jon Targaryen stood near the edge of the Green fork, his piercing gray eyes fixed on the rippling waters that reflected the overcast sky. His black and red cloak billowed in the wind as he listened to the scouts’ reports. The Lannisters had assembled their forces in the Crownlands, their banners of crimson and gold fluttering defiantly.

The time for diplomacy had long passed. The South had underestimated the North’s resolve. Now, Jon intended to show them why the North remembered.

In the great war tent, the map of Westeros stretched across the table. Lords from the Riverlands and the North stood in a half-circle, murmuring their opinions as Jon’s gloved hand traced over the territory of the Westerlands.

Robb Stark stood at his brother’s side, Grey Wind lying quietly at his feet, his sharp golden eyes flicking back and forth as though he sensed the tension in the air.

Jon straightened, his voice cutting through the noise. “We cannot allow Tywin Lannister to use his castles and gold to reinforce his forces. Casterly Rock is their stronghold, and their supply lines will keep their men fed and armed. We break that, and we break their strength.”

Robb nodded. “Then let me go, Jon. I’ll take the army into the Westerlands. We’ll make them regret standing against us.”

Jon looked at his brother for a long moment. “You’ll have half of the North’s strength, Robb. And you’ll have the Karstarks, Umbers, and Manderlys with you. I want you to burn their crops, empty their granaries, and take their gold. Make the Westerlands bleed.”

Robb grinned wolfishly. “Leave it to me.”

“No unnecessary risks,” Jon added firmly. “You fight smart, not reckless.”

“I will.”

Jon turned to Vorran. “Prepare the men. We leave for the God’s Eye at dawn. If Tywin Lannister thinks he can crush us with numbers, let him come.”

The next day, the camp stirred before dawn. Soldiers packed their supplies, sharpened their blades, and prepared for battle. Banners of wolves and trout, bears and flayed man, fluttered in the cold wind as the army divided into two forces.

Robb rode at the head of his contingent, his armor polished and his sword gleaming. Grey Wind padded alongside him, a living symbol of Northern strength.

Jon clasped his brother’s forearm. “Send me ravens when you move, and make sure the Riverlands’ flanks are guarded.”

“I’ll keep them busy, Jon,” Robb promised. “They won’t even see you coming.”

As Robb and his force marched westward, Jon turned south with the rest of the army. The Riverlords followed his command, their loyalty now firmly tied to him after his decisive actions against the Freys.

By the time Jon’s army reached the shores of the God’s Eye, scouts brought word of the enemy’s position. The Lannisters, under the command of Ser Jaime Lannister, had set up camp near the ruins of Harrenhal. They had numbers, but Jon’s men had discipline and hunger for justice.

Jon stood on a small hill, gazing down at the enemy lines. The gold and red banners of the Lannisters stood in stark contrast to the earth and stone of the Riverlands.

Vorran rode up beside him. “They’ve taken the ruins of Harrenhal as their base. Smart choice—it’s nearly impossible to breach, even as ruined as it is.”

Jon’s eyes didn’t waver. “They won’t be hiding behind those walls for long. We’ll draw them out.”

“And if they don’t come?” Vorran asked.

“Then we set the field on fire,” Jon said simply. “Let them burn inside their precious castle.”

Jon’s forces began maneuvering, spreading out to surround Harrenhal. Archers took positions in the woods, while cavalry prepared to cut off any retreat. The North’s soldiers, hardened by years of war with wildlings and Ironborn, stood ready with spears and shields.

Messengers were sent to Jaime Lannister under a flag of truce.

“Come out and face me,” Jon’s message read. “Or hide behind your walls like a coward while the rest of your men starve and burn.”

Inside Harrenhal, Jaime Lannister read the message with a smirk.

“He thinks he can intimidate me?” Jaime tossed the letter aside. “He’s more Stark than Targaryen if he expects me to walk into his trap.”

Tywin’s orders had been clear—hold Harrenhal and force Jon’s army into a siege. But Jaime’s pride bristled at the idea of being called a coward.

“Ready the men,” Jaime ordered. “We’ll meet them on the field.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Jon stood at the edge of his camp, watching the fires in Harrenhal’s towers flicker in the distance. He knew that tomorrow would decide much.

Domeric approached, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger. “They’ll come,” he said. “Men like Jaime Lannister don’t take insults lightly.”

Jon smirked. “Good. I want him to come. We’ll break them here, Dom. And after this, we march to King’s Landing.”

Domeric studied him for a moment before nodding. “Then we’ll make sure they don’t leave this field alive.”

Jon Targaryen sat in his command tent near the God’s Eye, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows over the maps and letters sprawled across his table. The northern winds howled outside, but Jon’s focus remained fixed on the letter in his hands—intelligence from his agents in the Vale.

The news confirmed what he had suspected. The Vale of Arryn was divided.

Lord Jon Arryn, once a close ally of Eddard Stark, had refused to bend the knee. His reasons were rooted in the old rivalries between the North and the Vale, but more concerning was his resistance to Jon’s religious tolerance policies. The Vale’s faith in the Seven ran deep, and Jon Arryn had positioned himself as a guardian of their traditions against what he framed as Jon’s “godless reforms.”

But the letter also hinted at cracks in Jon Arryn’s foundation. Many lords of the Vale saw Jon Targaryen as the future of Westeros, a king who could bring prosperity and order to a fractured realm. They whispered of dissatisfaction and doubt in Jon Arryn’s leadership.

Jon set the letter down and looked up at his trusted advisors—Jorah Mormont, Greatjon Umber and Tormund.

“Jon Arryn will not yield,” Jon said, his voice low but firm. “And if the Vale does not join us willingly, then we must make them see reason.”

Jorah leaned forward, his scarred face grim. “Are you sure about this, Your Grace? Arryn was your uncle’s ally once. Killing him could turn some of the Vale’s lords against us.”

Jon’s eyes hardened. “And leaving him in power will give the Lannisters time to gain his support. We don’t have that luxury.”

Greatjon frowned. “You’re proposing assassination?”

Jon met his brother’s gaze. “Yes.”

The room fell silent. Jon knew the weight of his decision, but war demanded sacrifice.

“It won’t be an ordinary assassination,” Jon continued. “We’ll make it appear as though the Lannisters are behind it. Once Arryn falls, his followers will look for guidance—and we’ll be there to offer it.”

Tormund smirked. “And the lords who already favor you will have no reason to resist.”

“Exactly,” Jon said. He turned to Jorah. “Send word to our agents. Make it clean. And plant enough evidence to ensure the Lannisters take the blame.”

Jon’s agents in the Vale worked quickly. Messages were sent to sympathetic lords, sowing doubts about Jon Arryn’s leadership. Rumors of corruption and incompetence began to spread, chipping away at his reputation.

At the same time, whispers of Lannister spies in the Vale were quietly encouraged. The idea that Tywin Lannister might be plotting against Jon Arryn took root, amplified by Jon’s agents at every turn.

And when the time came, the assassination was swift.

It happened at night. Jon Arryn was found dead in his chambers, a goblet of wine spilled beside him. His face was twisted in agony, the clear signs of poisoning unmistakable.

The evidence left behind pointed directly to the Lannisters—golden coins, a broken Lannister pendant, and an unsigned letter implicating Tywin’s agents.

The Vale erupted in chaos. Lords who had been loyal to Jon Arryn questioned his death, while others seized the moment to push for new leadership.

The next raven arrived at Jon’s camp a week later, confirming the assassination’s success. Jon read the message in silence before handing it to Domeric.

“It’s done,” he said.

Jorah crossed his arms. “And the Vale?”

“The lords are splintering,” Val said, scanning the report. “Some are calling for revenge against the Lannisters. Others are rallying behind those who already support Jon’s claim.”

Jon nodded. “Good. Jorah, send letters to the Harold Hardying. Offer his protection and stability under my rule. And make sure we emphasize that Jon Arryn’s death will not go unpunished.”

Domeric shifted uneasily. “And what happens if the Vale unites against us instead?”

Jon’s voice was steady. “They won’t. They’re leaderless and divided. And even if they resist, we’ll take the Vale by force. Its mountains can’t stop us forever.”