Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 85

The Grand Hall of Moat Cailin, the seat of Jon Frost was filled with the booming voices of Northern lords. Banners of wolves, bears, mermen, and giants hung proudly along the stone walls, representing the great and ancient houses of the North. The massive hearth blazed at the center, but even its fire paled in comparison to the heat of the gathered men’s fury.

Every lord, great and small, was present. Those who could not attend had sent their heirs, and those too far away had sent sworn representatives. They came not as fragmented houses but as one people, united by grief, anger, and hope.

At the head of the hall, Jon Frost stood tall, flanked by Val and Hilda. His gray eyes surveyed the room, seeing faces he had grown up knowing and others he had never met but had heard of through stories. Despite the crownless head and the worn leather armor he still wore, Jon radiated authority.

And then Robb Stark, Warden of the North, stepped forward.

Robb Stark’s steps echoed in the hall as he approached Jon. He carried no sword—only the weight of his name and title. His red hair and wolfish features made him every bit the image of a Stark of Winterfell, but today, it was not Robb the lord who spoke. It was Robb, the brother and protector.

Robb knelt before Jon, lowering his head in the tradition of the North.

“I am Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And here, in the sight of gods and men, I swear fealty to Jon Targaryen, King of Westeros, King of the North, and Protector of the Realm.”

A hush fell over the hall. The weight of the words seemed to hang in the air, unbroken. Then Robb lifted his head, his blue eyes meeting Jon’s.

“You are my king, Jon. You carry the blood of the dragon and the wolf, but more than that, you carry the heart of the North. You are one of us, and we will follow you—through fire, through war, through blood.”

One by one, the lords stepped forward to kneel.

“House Umber bends the knee!” shouted the Greatjon, his booming voice echoing through the hall.

“House Manderly swears fealty!” Lord Wyman declared, raising his hands. “For the rightful king and the justice he brings!”

“House Karstark will fight for King Aemon!”

“House Reed stands with the King!”

From the mountainous clans to the coastal houses, from Bear Island to White Harbor, every name was called, and every lord bent the knee. Even the Free Folk—wildlings who had long fought the Starks—stood at the back of the hall, their leader, Tormund Giantsbane, grinning as he thumped his chest.

“The Free Folk fought for Jon Frost,” Tormund said, “and we’ll fight for King Aemon!”

Jon raised his hand, and the room fell silent once more. He stepped forward, his voice steady and clear.

“I am humbled by your loyalty,” Jon began, “and I will not forget the vows you’ve made today. The North has always stood apart from the South, and for good reason. We are strong. We endure. And today, we rise.”

He paused, letting his words sink in.

“The Lannisters thought they could kill my uncle and silence the North. They thought their gold and crowns would protect them. But they were wrong. Today, we declare that the North remembers—and we will have justice.”

A roar erupted from the crowd, swords drawn and pounded against shields as the lords cheered.

“Justice for Eddard Stark!”

“Justice for the King!”

When the noise died down, Jon motioned for Vorran and his commanders to bring forth the maps.

“This will not be a war of defense,” Jon declared. “We march south not as rebels but as liberators. We will break the chains of tyranny and restore the realm to what it should be—a realm for its people, not for its lords.”

Robb spoke next. “The Riverlands are ready to rise. House Tully has already called its banners, and Edmure Tully will march to meet us at the Twins. With their support, we can divide the South.”

Vorran added, “And the Vale is restless. The Lords Declarant may hesitate, but there are those who see the Lannisters as weak.”

Jon nodded. “Send ravens to the Vale, Dorne, and the Reach. Let them know that the North does not march alone—we march with fire and blood.”

Before the council adjourned, Val stepped forward, holding a crown of blackened steel and polished dragonglass.

“You were born a Targaryen, but the North shaped you,” she said, her voice steady. “You are fire and ice, and you will rule as both.”

She placed the crown upon Jon’s head, and the hall erupted in cheers once more.

“King Aemon!” they cried.

“King Jon!”

“The Dragon of the North!”

Jon raised his hand, silencing them once more.

“This is no ordinary crown,” Jon said. “It is a promise. A promise that we will fight for every man, woman, and child in Westeros. A promise that justice will be restored.”

He drew his sword, raising it high. “The North remembers. And so will the South.”

Ravens flew like black arrows across the skies of Westeros, their wings carrying the weight of truth and change. From the icy lands of the North to the sun-drenched shores of Dorne, letters arrived bearing the same message—a revelation that could shatter kingdoms.

"Jon Frost is no bastard. He is Aemon Targaryen, the son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The blood of the dragon and the wolf runs in his veins. The true heir to the Iron Throne has been revealed."

The words spread faster than wildfire. Lords and ladies gathered in their halls, rereading the letters as if their contents might change with another glance. Smallfolk whispered in taverns and markets, sharing the news like forbidden secrets.

Jon Frost's reputation preceded him. He was no ordinary lord; he had already changed the North into a land of prosperity. Under his leadership, cities like Frostmoor and Snow Harbor flourished. Roads were paved, ports were expanded, and trade routes flourished.

He had welcomed the wildlings and turned them into farmers, miners, and builders. He had allowed the Faith of the Seven to enter the North and protected their followers under his laws, even though he did not worship their gods.

Merchants from King’s Landing and the Riverlands had returned home with gold in their pockets and stories of opportunity. They spoke of towns where no one starved, where justice was swift but fair, and where even the poorest could dream of a better life.

In the South, the smallfolk began to stir.

Farmers who had struggled under high taxes dreamed of the fair trade policies in the North. Artisans and smiths, who lived in fear of their lords' whims, envied the craftsmen of Frostmoor who thrived without fear of seizure or punishment.

Many whispered about the Faith’s safety under Jon Frost. “He doesn’t pray to the Seven,” they said, “but he protects those who do. He doesn’t care what gods we worship, so long as we’re honest and hardworking.”

The news frightened the southern lords. They could see the cracks forming in their rule. In towns and villages, their subjects debated abandoning their homes to head North, or worse, rising in rebellion if their lords opposed Jon Frost.

The letters caused turmoil within the noble houses. Some declared for Jon Frost immediately, eager to secure a place in the new order.

House Manderly of White Harbor, already aligned with Jon, swore full fealty and sent out messages urging others to do the same. House Reed of the Neck prepared to guard the North’s borders and prevent southern armies from advancing.

Even in the South, cracks began to form. Lord Hightower of Oldtown hesitated, considering the Faith’s growing favor toward Jon Frost. House Tarly, known for its discipline and military strength, quietly sent emissaries north to feel out alliances.

But not all welcomed the change.

House Lannister and House Baratheon, bound by Joffrey’s rule, declared Jon Frost a traitor and a pretender. Tywin Lannister sent ravens calling for the Lords of Westeros to unite against him, but whispers in his own ranks spoke of fear. “If the smallfolk rise, who will fight for us?”

The High Septon in King’s Landing faced mounting pressure. Many of his followers saw Jon Frost as a king favored by the gods—one who upheld justice and protected the faithful.

In secret, some of the Septon’s closest advisers urged him to support Jon Frost, fearing rebellion from within their own congregations. Others warned against defying the Lannisters, whose gold funded the Faith’s lavish ceremonies and temples.

The High Septon’s hesitation only fueled speculation. In the streets of King’s Landing, whispers turned into chants: “Aemon Targaryen! King Aemon!”

For the lords of Westeros, the letters presented an impossible choice.

Support Jon Frost, and they risked open war with the Lannisters and Baratheons. Oppose him, and they risked rebellion from their own people, who had already begun calling him “the People’s King.”

In the Riverlands, House Tully remained divided. Edmure Tully leaned toward caution, while Brynden “Blackfish” Tully saw in Jon Frost the hope of restoring honor to Westeros.

In the Vale, Lord Yohn Royce argued for Jon Frost’s legitimacy, pointing to the blood of the First Men and the dragons that ran in his veins. But others feared losing their position under the current regime.

As the nobles debated, the smallfolk acted.

Riots erupted in King’s Landing, fueled by the execution of Eddard Stark and the growing belief that Joffrey was illegitimate. Shops were looted, and nobles were dragged from their carriages.

In the Westerlands, farmers began withholding their grain, refusing to pay taxes to their lords. In the Reach, villages rose up, chasing out soldiers who tried to enforce their lord’s commands.

The Faith Militant, long thought disbanded, began to stir again. Devout followers of the Seven began arming themselves, calling for a king who would protect the faithful rather than terrorize them.

At Moat Cailin, Jon Frost read the reports from his ravens with a heavy heart.

Val and Hilda stood beside him, their faces reflecting the weight of what was coming. Vorran and his commanders laid maps of Westeros across the table, marking the castles that had declared for Jon and those that still held out for Joffrey.

“We have more support than I expected,” Jon said, his voice calm but grim. “But war will come, and the Lannisters will not sit idle.”

Vorran nodded. “The North stands ready, my lord. The Riverlands are stirring, and the Vale is divided. The Reach and Dorne watch, but we may have allies there, too.”

Val spoke up. “And the smallfolk believe in you. That is more powerful than any army of knights.”

Jon looked to the horizon, his thoughts on the battles ahead. “Let them come,” he said at last. “The North remembers. And this time, we march south not as rebels—but as rightful kings.”

Jon Frost—Aemon Targaryen—stood in the great hall of Moat Cailin, the weight of revelation still pressing against his shoulders. The fire from the hearth danced in his gray eyes, reflecting both determination and unease.

For most of his childhood, he had been the bastard of Eddard Stark, a child who bore the name “Snow” and carried the shame that came with it. But now the truth had shattered that identity. He was no Snow. No Frost. No mere lord of the North.

He was a king.

The rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

The revelation had come as a burden at first—heavy and suffocating. But as the days passed, Jon found clarity in the storm. He had always felt the call to do more, to build, to lead. It was that drive that made him turn the North into the most prosperous land in Westeros. And now, with the truth revealed and his birthright laid bare, Jon knew what needed to be done.

He would take the Iron Throne. Not for himself, but for the people.

Jon stood at the table, surrounded by maps of Westeros, marking allies and enemies. Val and Hilda sat nearby, both quietly observing, while Vorran and his council discussed the growing tension.

“We can’t wait for the South to move first,” Vorran said, his voice sharp. “The Lannisters will raise their banners. The Tyrells will back them, and the Baratheons in Storm’s End are still loyal to Joffrey.”

Jon nodded but remained focused on the parchment before him. He dipped his quill into the ink and began writing another letter.

“We won’t let them dictate the terms of this war,” Jon said. “We strike first—not with swords, but with words.”

He had already sent ravens to every major and minor lord, including Dorne, knowing that their hatred for the Lannisters might sway them. Dorne had suffered under Robert’s rebellion, and perhaps their need for vengeance would outweigh their distrust of the North.

But the Reach required more than letters—it required strategy.

Jon’s eyes flicked toward the letter addressed to Reynald Tarly. The words were precise and calculated, offering House Tarly the chance to rise above the Tyrells, to claim the title of Warden of the Reach under a new, just king.

But in truth, Jon’s eyes were on Samwell Tarly.

Sam, his old friend and brother in arms, had proven himself time and again as a thinker, a strategist, and a man of vision. Jon knew that Sam could lead not only the Reach but also Westeros as his Hand.

“If I can bring the Tarlys to my side, we weaken the Tyrells and split the Reach,” Jon said aloud. “Samwell will help me rebuild the South, just as we rebuilt the North.”

Val leaned forward. “And if they refuse?”

“Then we take it.” Jon’s voice was steady. “With or without their support, the Reach will fall.”

Outside the walls of Moat Cailin, the sound of swords clashing and shields ringing filled the air. The North was preparing. Soldiers trained relentlessly, and new recruits arrived daily—wildlings, mountain clansmen, farmers, and hunters who had answered the call.

Jon rode through the camp, observing their progress. The wildlings fought with ferocity, while the Northmen honed their discipline. Blacksmiths worked tirelessly to forge weapons and armor, their forges blazing well into the night.

At the docks, ships were being prepared. The North’s fleet had grown under Jon’s leadership, and now it stood ready to sail south.

Jon returned to his chambers and sealed the final letters. He handed them to his ravens, sending them to every corner of Westeros.

To Dorne, he wrote:

"House Martell, the sands of Dorne have long known the weight of loss and betrayal. I offer you justice, vengeance, and a future where your voice shapes the realm. Stand with me, and together we will burn the Lions who betrayed you."

To the Tarlys, he sent a letter heavy with promise:

"House Tarly, you have always stood as defenders of the Reach. But when the Targaryens fell, the Tyrells betrayed their makers and claimed power for themselves. It is time for the Reach to have true leaders once more. I offer you that chance. I offer you honor, prosperity, and a future where your strength shapes the realm."

And to the Faith of the Seven, Jon’s message was one of peace and unity:

"The gods are many, and they guide us all in different ways. I ask not for your loyalty to me, but to the people. The Faith has suffered under tyrants. Stand with me, and I will ensure that the Faith of the Seven thrives under my protection."

As the ravens took flight, Jon turned to his council. “The letters are sent. Now we prepare.”

Vorran stepped forward. “And if the South refuses?”

Jon’s eyes burned with resolve. “Then they’ll kneel to the sword. The Iron Throne was built with fire and blood. If that’s what it takes, I’ll reclaim it the same way.”

Val stepped closer, placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You’re ready for this, Jon. You’ve been ready your whole life.”

Jon turned toward the window, looking out over the North—the land he had built, the people he had protected. He thought of his uncle, Eddard Stark, and the sacrifice he had made to keep him safe.

“This isn’t just about me,” Jon said softly. “It’s about them. All of them. The North remembers—and soon, so will all of Westeros.”