Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 86

Jon Frost—now King Jon Targaryen—stood atop the battlements of Moat Cailin, his gaze fixed southward as banners snapped in the cold northern wind. Rows upon rows of soldiers stretched out below him, a sea of steel and leather bearing the sigils of the North—direwolves, bears, krakens, mermen, and giants—all united under his banner.

Behind them, the wildlings, the free folk, stood armed with axes, spears, and swords, their loyalty to Jon unwavering after the life he had given them beyond the Wall. The mountain clans, fierce and untamed, had come down from their peaks, eager for blood and glory. The North had risen, and it marched not as rebels but as conquerors reclaiming what was rightfully theirs.

Jon’s mind, however, was not only focused on his march. The North’s strength lay in its fortresses and harsh terrain, but he knew that no war could be won without securing the home front.

He had left Vorran and his trusted commanders behind to guard Moat Cailin, Frostmore, and Snow Harbor. Forts along the eastern and western coasts were garrisoned with well-trained soldiers, ready to repel any raids from the Iron Islands.

Letters had been sent to White Harbor, instructing Lord Manderly to fortify the port and deploy his fleet to patrol the shores. The North’s naval force, though smaller than the fleets of the Reach or the Ironborn, had been strengthened over the years under Jon’s reforms.

“If the Greyjoys think they can strike at our shores while we march south, they will find only fire and steel waiting for them,” Jon had said in council before his departure.

Val and Hilda had remained behind as well, ensuring that the new trade routes through Frostmore stayed intact and that supplies continued to flow to the armies.

Jon’s army marched south in disciplined columns, their banners fluttering in the wind. At the head of the host rode Jon himself, clad in black armor edged with red, the image of a dragon and direwolf entwined on his breastplate. Frostfang hung at his hip, its Valyrian steel gleaming under the winter sun.

Robb Stark rode beside him, his direwolf, Grey Wind, padding silently alongside the column.

“This is larger than anything our ancestors ever dreamed,” Robb said, glancing at the army standing out behind them. “Fifty thousand strong—and ready to bleed for you.”

Jon’s voice was calm but firm. “We will need every sword. The South will not give up the throne without a fight.”

Messages had already reached Jon that the Riverlands were preparing to rise under Edmure Tully. Blackfish Tully was already rallying the lords of the Trident, and word had come from the Vale that Lord Yohn Royce was gathering his banners.

The Reach remained divided. House Tyrell stood by the crown, but the Tarlys had not yet declared their allegiance. Jon had sent a second letter to Samwell Tarly, urging him to press his father to seize the opportunity to rise above the Tyrells.

Dorne, too, was silent. Jon had no illusions about their mistrust of northern blood, but he reminded himself that the Dornish hated the Lannisters even more. They would not stand idle forever.

Jon Targaryen stood at the edge of the castle that spanned the Green Fork, connecting the North and the Riverlands. The early morning mist curled around the massive stone structure, hiding its full length, but Jon knew every inch of it.

He had ordered this castle built years ago, foreseeing a time when the North might need to march south without being at the mercy of House Frey. Many had doubted the need for such a structure then, but now, as his army of fifty thousand began to cross, Jon’s foresight had proven invaluable.

The banners of the North—direwolves, bears, mermen, and giants—fluttered in the wind as the soldiers marched in disciplined columns. Their armor gleamed in the pale light, and the sound of boots striking stone echoed across the riverbanks.

Robb Stark rode beside Jon, his direwolf Grey Wind padding silently at his side. “The Freys must be furious,” Robb said, unable to keep a grin from his face.

Jon’s expression was hard, his eyes scanning the distant towers of the Twins, which loomed in the mist. “Let them stew,” Jon replied. “We don’t need their bridges. And soon, we won’t need them at all.”

The Freys had always been a thorn in the North’s side—proud, opportunistic, and treacherous. Walder Frey, the aging and cunning Lord of the Crossing, had built his power by controlling the vital river crossing. He had bled travelers dry for generations, demanding tolls and fealty in exchange for passage.

But Jon had outmaneuvered him. By granting Brandon Stark land in the Riverlands and fortifying it, Jon had ensured a safe crossing for the North without ever having to rely on the Twins. Now, Walder Frey’s influence was waning, and Jon intended to keep it that way.

Robb leaned closer, lowering his voice. “What about the Freys, Jon? They’ll see this as an insult. Walder Frey won’t forget it.”

Jon’s eyes didn’t leave the horizon. “I don’t care if he forgets or not. What matters is that he understands his place.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Robb asked.

“Then we deal with him before he becomes a threat.”

Jon’s voice was cold, sending a chill through those nearby. He knew that as long as Walder Frey controlled the Twins, he would remain a dangerous, if petty, obstacle. And there was another problem—Genna Lannister, Tywin’s sister, was married into the Frey family, giving the Lannisters a foothold in the Riverlands.

“Genna Lannister will use the Twins to spy on us,” Jon said, turning to Robb. “I want scouts watching their movements day and night. If they so much as open their gates to a Lannister, I want to know.”

Robb nodded. “And if they try anything?”

Jon’s eyes hardened. “We burn the Twins to the ground.”

With the crossing secured, Jon’s army advanced into the Riverlands. The villages and towns welcomed them, offering food and supplies. The people cheered, throwing flowers and singing songs of the “Dragon of the North.”

Jon rode at the front, his black armor edged with crimson, the sigil of the dragon and direwolf emblazoned across his chest. Longclaw hung at his side, its Valyrian steel gleaming in the sunlight.

As Jon’s host passed through the Riverlands, they were met with cheering crowds. Peasants lined the roads, throwing flowers and shouting Jon’s name.

“Jon Targaryen!”

“King Jon!”

The stories of Jon’s reforms in the North had spread far and wide. Tales of his fairness, his protection of the Faith, and his prosperity had captured the imaginations of the smallfolk.

“They believe in you,” Robb said as they rode past another village.

Jon’s expression was resolute. “Then we’ll make sure their belief isn’t misplaced.”

But Jon knew the true test lay ahead. At King’s Landing, Cersei Lannister and her son, Joffrey, sat on the Iron Throne, backed by the wealth and armies of the Westerlands.

Reports indicated that Tywin Lannister had begun mobilizing his forces, calling banners from the Westerlands and hiring sellswords from Essos. The Lannisters would not surrender easily.

“Tywin will try to break us before we reach the capital,” Jon told his commanders. “We’ll have to move quickly and strike hard before he can gather his full strength.”

Jon stood before his army on the eve of their first battle. Fires burned in the night, casting shadows over the soldiers who sharpened their blades and prayed to their gods.

“Tomorrow, we begin to reclaim this kingdom,” Jon said, his voice carrying across the camp. “The South has grown fat and complacent under the Lannisters’ rule, but we have not. We have bled, we have suffered, and we have endured.”

He raised Frostfang, its blade glinting in the firelight.

“We march not as conquerors but as liberators. We will bring justice for Eddard Stark and for every man, woman, and child who has suffered under their tyranny.”

The army roared, pounding their weapons against their shields.

“For the North!”

“For the King!”

“For Jon Targaryen!”

Jon lowered his sword, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The war for Westeros had begun.

The banners of House Tully fluttered proudly along the high walls of Riverrun as Jon Targaryen rode through its gates. Behind him, his most trusted companions followed closely, their eyes scanning the crowd of soldiers and banners that surrounded the castle. Thousands of tents sprawled across the grassy fields, housing the men called by House Tully to answer the North’s call for war.

Jon’s eyes moved quickly, taking in the preparations. Soldiers sparred, blacksmiths hammered weapons into shape, and messengers rushed between the camps, carrying orders and strategies. The Riverlands were preparing for battle, and Jon felt a flicker of pride at their swift response.

But his thoughts shifted when he saw the figures waiting for him in the courtyard—Brandon Stark, his youngest brother, and Lady Catelyn Stark.

Before Jon could dismount, Catelyn Stark rushed forward, her skirts trailing behind her. She reached up and pulled Jon into a tight embrace, her arms trembling as she clung to him.

“Jon,” she choked out, her voice heavy with emotion. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

Jon stiffened at first, caught off guard by the sudden embrace. For most of his life, Lady Stark had regarded him with cold distance, a reminder of a supposed betrayal she had never forgiven. But now, the weight of grief and the loss of her husband had softened her.

He let her sob into his chest, gently placing his arms around her. “It’s all right,” Jon said softly.

Catelyn pulled back slightly, her eyes red and puffy. “I thought we lost you, too,” she whispered. “When I heard the truth… that you were not Ned’s bastard but Lyanna’s son… I didn’t know what to think. But you’re still my family. You’ll always be.”

Jon nodded, unsure of what to say. He had never expected such words from Catelyn Stark, yet he saw the sincerity in her eyes. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Brandon Stark stepped forward, his face full of excitement and admiration. Unlike the small boy Jon had last seen, Brandon was now a young lord, wearing the colors of House Stark but carrying the Tully influence in his features.

“Jon!” Brandon said, smiling broadly. “Or should I call you King Aemon now?”

Jon laughed, shaking his head. “Jon is fine, Bran.”

Brandon’s grin faded slightly. “I heard what they did to Father,” he said, his voice quieter. “I want to fight, Jon. I want to make them pay.”

Jon’s eyes softened as he placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “You will fight, but not out of anger. We fight for justice, not revenge.”

Brandon straightened, nodding. “I’ll be ready.”

After the emotional reunion, Jon was escorted into Riverrun’s great hall, where Edmure Tully waited along with the Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully. The banners of House Tully hung from the walls, and the room buzzed with the presence of knights and commanders.

Edmure stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Your Grace, Riverrun is yours.”

Jon nodded, gesturing for him to rise. “I thank you, Lord Edmure. Your support will not be forgotten.”

Brynden Tully approached, his sharp eyes appraising Jon. “You look like a Stark,” he said gruffly, “but there’s fire in you. The kind we’ll need to burn the Lannisters out of King’s Landing.”

Jon smirked. “Then we’re of the same mind, Ser Brynden.”

Maps were spread across the table as the lords of the Riverlands and the North gathered. Robb Stark stood beside Jon, acting as his chief advisor, while Vorran, Edmure, and Brynden Tully filled the room with strategies and ideas.

“Tywin Lannister is gathering his forces in the Westerlands,” Brynden began, pointing to the map. “He’ll want to defend Casterly Rock at all costs.”

“We don’t need to take the Rock,” Robb said. “Not yet. We need to cut off their supply lines and force them into a corner.”

Jon nodded. “We march south, but we leave garrisons in the Riverlands to protect our rear. Domeric Bolton, send scouts to monitor the Twins and the Freys. If they show signs of treachery, we deal with them immediately.”

Domeric Bolton nodded. “Consider it done, Your Grace.”

Edmure spoke up. “We’ve sent ravens to the Vale, but there’s no word yet from Lord Arryn.”

“The Vale will come,” Jon said. “They won’t stay neutral when the war reaches their borders.”

The hall was heavy with tension, and the flickering torches cast shadows that danced across the banners of House Tully and Stark. The banners of the North stood tall, but Jon’s mind was on the Riverlords—the ones who had not come.

The absence of many banners weighed on him. He had ridden through the Riverlands, seeing firsthand the empty camps and quiet villages that should have been brimming with soldiers. Jon had asked questions, and the answers disturbed him.

Edmure Tully, the Lord of Riverrun, had lost the respect of many of his bannermen. Whispers of incompetence and indecision followed him, and now his vassals mocked him in secret. They doubted his ability to lead, and their absence from his call was an insult—a declaration in everything but words.

Jon saw the opportunity.

He stood, and all eyes turned to him. “Not answering your liege lord’s call to banners is treason,” Jon said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “And treason must be punished.”

Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, leaned forward. “You mean the Freys.”

Jon nodded. “The Freys were absent. Walder Frey believes he is untouchable because of his bridges, his silver, and his ties to the Lannisters. But he is wrong. His disobedience cannot be ignored.”

Brynden Tully’s eyes burned with anger. “Walder Frey has always been a coward. He waited during Robert’s Rebellion, changing sides only when it was safe. And now he hides behind his gates, hoping we’ll look the other way.”

Jon’s voice hardened. “We won’t look the other way. If we let this insult stand, it will spread. Other lords will think they can defy their oaths and go unpunished. That cannot happen.”

Robb Stark stepped forward. “And if we march on the Twins, what then? The Freys are fortified. They will not open their gates.”

Jon smirked. “They don’t need to. We’re not asking for their permission.”

Jon turned to Small Jon Umber, his trusted commander. “Take scouts and map out every entrance, every hidden path into the Twins. Walder Frey thinks his bridges are his strength. We’ll make them his weakness.”

Small Jon nodded grimly. “Frey’s strength is in his walls, but his people are cowards. They’ll fold the moment they feel the fire. We just need to get inside.”

Jon looked around the room, his voice carrying the weight of command. “We will take the Twins, and when we do, we will strip Walder Frey of his power. His family will pay for their treason, and the Riverlords will know that I do not tolerate treason.”

Edmure shifted uncomfortably. “But the Freys control the crossings. If we attack, we’ll make enemies of anyone who still uses their bridges.”

Jon’s gaze snapped to him. “We don’t need their bridges. I’ve already built crossings farther north. The Freys’ power is an illusion—one that dies the moment we shatter it.”

Jon called for a raven and began dictating a letter.

"To Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing,"

"You failed your liege. You turned your back on your oaths. The North does not forget treason, and neither do I. Surrender your castles, your banners, and your men, or face the consequences."

"Jon Targaryen, King of Westeros, King of Seven Kingdoms."

He folded the letter, sealing it with black wax stamped with the sigil of House Targaryen. “Send this immediately,” Jon said. “And make sure it’s delivered by someone he knows—someone he won’t harm but who will make him sweat.”

As the meeting ended, Jon walked the battlements of Riverrun with Brynden Tully. The night was cold, but Jon’s blood burned with purpose.

“The Freys have held the Riverlands hostage for too long,” Brynden said. “You’ll be doing the realm a favor by breaking them.”

Jon nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “They’ve grown too comfortable in their treachery. That ends now.”

In the distance, campfires lit the night like stars, marking the gathering armies of the Riverlands and the North. Jon’s army would march at dawn, and the Freys would face the wrath of dragons and wolves.

The North remembered—and soon, so would the Freys.