Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 84

The plaza before the Great Sept of Baelor fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the rustling of banners and the distant cries of seagulls overhead. The crowd stared in disbelief as Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North and closest friend of the late King Robert Baratheon, knelt in chains and spoke that he is ready to confess.

For many in the crowd—merchants, smallfolk, and city officials—the sight was jarring. They had come expecting justice, not humiliation. The workers of the municipality, whose loyalty lay with Eddard Stark due to his son Jon Frost, felt a knot of dread form in their stomachs. Their founder’s father, a man known for his honor and integrity, was publicly bowing to the new king.

Whispers rippled through the crowd:

“Lord Stark? A traitor? That can’t be true!”

“He fought beside King Robert in the rebellion! Why would he betray him now?”

“The Lannisters did this. They must have.”

The council members of the municipality exchanged anxious glances. They had expected their leader’s father to emerge victorious, to be cleared of false charges and freed. Instead, they were witnessing a spectacle designed to humiliate and break the North’s greatest lord.

In the front rows, several municipality leaders stood frozen, their faces pale. Ser Garris, one of Jon Frost’s trusted men who had traveled with Eddard Stark to King’s Landing, clenched his fists. Beside him, Lanna, the record-keeper of the municipality, whispered fiercely.

“This isn’t right. Lord Stark wouldn’t do this unless he was forced. Look at him—look at his eyes!”

Garris’s jaw tightened. “They’ve threatened him. Or his family. He’s doing this to protect them.”

The men and women of the municipality exchanged determined nods. They had worked tirelessly to transform King’s Landing under Jon Frost’s reforms, and they owed their loyalty to the man who made it possible—Eddard Stark’s son.

King Joffrey slammed his fist on the armrest of his throne, his voice sharp and angry. “We don’t need this farce of a trial!” he shouted. “He is guilty! Bring me his head now!”

The High Septon raised his hand, his voice calm but firm. “Your Grace, the Faith will not allow blood to be spilled without due process.”

Joffrey’s face twisted in frustration, but Cersei leaned over, whispering into his ear. “Let the trial proceed, my son. Let the people see the traitor’s confession. It will strengthen your rule.”

The boy king hesitated before slumping back in his chair, though his eyes remained locked on Eddard with a murderous gleam. “Fine. Let him confess.”

The High Septon stepped forward, raising his arms. “Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, you stand accused of treason against the crown. You are charged with the murder of Robert Baratheon and claim the North as an independent kingdom. How do you answer these charges?”

Eddard raised his head, his voice steady despite the chains that bound him. “I stand falsely accused. I did not conspire to overthrow the throne.”

The crowd murmured, whispers spreading like wildfire. Some believed him; others doubted.

Joffrey slammed his fist again. “Lies! All lies!”

The High Septon raised his hand again. “Let the accused speak, Your Grace.”

Eddard took a deep breath. “I am guilty,” he said, his voice carrying through the hall. “I committed treason against King Robert Baratheon.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Joffrey grinned triumphantly, leaning forward on the Iron Throne.

“You see?” Joffrey sneered. “The traitor admits it! Bring me his head!”

But Eddard raised his voice, cutting through the rising noise.

“I did not betray Robert after he was crowned,” he said firmly. “My treason began during the rebellion itself.”

The room stilled. Even Cersei’s mask of composure slipped for a moment, her brow furrowing in confusion. Littlefinger leaned closer to her, whispering, “He’s stalling. Trying to get more time.”

Cersei said nothing, her gaze fixed on Eddard as he continued.

“After the sack of King’s Landing,” Eddard began, “I rode to Storm’s End to lift the siege laid by the Tyrells. From there, I received word that my sister, Lyanna Stark, was being held at the Tower of Joy in Dorne.”

The crowd murmured, the tension thick in the air.

“I rode south with my most loyal men,” Eddard said, his voice steady. “And there, at the Tower, I faced three Kingsguard—Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Gerold Hightower—still loyal to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The murmurs grew louder. Lords exchanged uneasy glances. The mention of Rhaegar’s name rekindled old wounds and fears.

“We fought,” Eddard continued, “and I watched my men die to protect me. When the battle was done, I entered the Tower and found my sister, Lyanna, dying in a bed soaked with blood.”

Eddard Stark’s voice, weathered but commanding, rose again, cutting through the mounting tension like a blade.

“I didn’t think much at the time,” Eddard began, his voice carrying through the chamber. “About why three Kingsguard abandoned the royal family during Robert’s Rebellion and stood guard over a lonely tower in Dorne. I didn’t question why the greatest knight I ever faced, Ser Arthur Dayne, wielded his sword to protect it, even as his king lay dead in King’s Landing.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd.

“But when I climbed those steps and opened that door, I understood.”

The Sept was so quiet that the faint crackle of torches echoed against the marble walls.

“I didn’t find my sister Lyanna Stark, as I expected,” Eddard said, his voice softening. “I found Lyanna Targaryen—the second wife of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Gasps erupted across the hall.

“Lies!” Cersei’s voice cut through the noise, sharp as a dagger. “Desperate lies from a man who knows he is doomed!”

But Eddard ignored her. His eyes swept across the crowd, lingering on the common folk who had come to witness his confession—the workers of the municipality who had served under Jon Frost and seen their lives transformed.

“I didn’t just find my sister in that tower,” Eddard continued. “I found my nephew—her son. She had given birth to a child, and in her dying breath, she made me swear to protect him.”

The whispers grew louder, spreading through the crowd like wildfire.

“She named him Aemon Targaryen, the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Eddard’s words sent ripples of disbelief through the hall. Some shouted in outrage; others sat in stunned silence.

Cersei rose from her seat, her voice sharp. “This is treason! A desperate attempt to place another claimant on the throne!”

Eddard turned to her, his gray eyes unflinching. “I swore to my sister that I would keep her son safe—from Robert, from you, from all those who would seek to harm him.”

“I gave him a new name—Jon Snow—and claimed him as my bastard to shield him from those who would see him dead. I raised him as my son, but I always knew the truth. I gave him a different name and a different land to rule as a lord because I believed Robert Baratheon should sit the Iron Throne.”

Eddard’s voice faltered for the first time, but he pressed on.

“I did it to protect the realm. I did it to protect my friend. But that trust was misplaced.”

He lifted his chin, his voice filled with sorrow and anger. “The Lannisters killed my friend. They put me in chains, and as I sat in that dungeon, I had time to think. Time to reflect on what I have done.”

Eddard’s voice grew stronger. “In the North, my nephew—Jon Frost—has proven himself a true leader. Under his guidance, the North has become the richest, most prosperous region in Westeros. He united the wildlings, rebuilt the defenses of Moat Cailin, and transformed the North into a land of peace and prosperity.”

The crowd erupted into murmurs of agreement. Many in attendance had heard of Jon Frost’s achievements, and some had even witnessed his reforms firsthand.

“What has Joffrey Baratheon done as a Prince?” Eddard continued, his voice sharp as steel. “Raised taxes? Spilled the blood of innocents? Rule through fear and cruelty?”

Joffrey leapt to his feet, his face red with fury. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

But Eddard ignored him, speaking over the cries for blood.

“I have spent my life fighting for the realm, serving kings and protecting the innocent. And now I ask you all—lords, ladies, and common folk alike—how many of you dream of peace? How many of you dream of prosperity?”

His eyes swept across the room, landing on the faces of the municipality workers who had shouted Jon Frost’s name.

“Jon—Aemon Targaryen—has already proven he can lead. He has already proven he can build. Imagine what he could do for all of Westeros if he were crowned king.”

Joffrey slammed his fist down on the armrest of the Iron Throne. “Enough of this treason! Bring me his head!”

Cersei stepped forward, her voice sharp but controlled. “Joffrey, think! You’ll start a war!”

“I am the king!” Joffrey screamed. “He dies today!”

Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, drawing his sword as the crowd erupted into chaos.

Eddard knelt, his gray eyes scanning the crowd one last time.

“The North remembers,” he said, his voice ringing out even as the sword was raised above him. “And soon, all of Westeros will remember.”

The blade fell, and Eddard Stark’s head rolled across the marble floor.

The municipality workers, fiercely loyal to Jon Frost and emboldened by Eddard Stark’s final words, erupted in fury. Their chants of “King Aemon! King Aemon!” turned into battle cries as they surged forward, armed with nothing but knives, clubs, and their bare hands.

The Gold Cloaks and Lannister soldiers struggled to hold them back. Shields locked, swords flashed, and blood began to stain the floor of the Kingslanding. The cries of the wounded and dying echoed through the chamber.

Queen Cersei and King Joffrey were hurriedly ushered out of the Sept by their Kingsguard, the cries of the mob trailing behind them. Rocks pelted the royal retinue as they fled toward the Red Keep.

Cersei’s face was pale with rage and fear. “This is your fault!” she hissed at Joffrey, shoving him toward his guards. “You’ve made him a martyr!”

Joffrey, still flushed with anger, shouted back, “I am the king! Let them fear me!”

“Fear doesn’t hold a city!” Cersei snapped. “It burns it to the ground!”

Littlefinger followed closely, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos. “This won’t end here,” he murmured, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. “This riot is only the beginning.”

The riot spilled out of the Sept and into the streets of King’s Landing. The smallfolk, enraged by the execution and years of hunger and oppression, turned their fury on the nobles and merchants who had grown fat at their expense.

Shops were looted. Wagons were overturned. Noble carriages were dragged through the streets, set aflame as symbols of their hatred for the ruling class.

Gold Cloaks scrambled to restore order, but their numbers were too few, and the fury of the mob too great.

The bells of the city rang out, signaling a riot, but there was no calming the storm.

The fighting grew bloodier as mobs swarmed through the streets. Lannister soldiers fought desperately, cutting down men and women alike. Blood soaked the cobblestones, but the smallfolk’s numbers overwhelmed them.

Lord Meryn Trant, one of the Kingsguard, was dragged from his horse and beaten to death, his gold armor stripped from his body. Several lesser nobles were found butchered in alleys, their wealth stolen and their corpses left as messages.

Even the Faith of the Seven could not protect itself. The High Septon, who had failed to stop the execution, was dragged from the Sept by the mob and torn apart in the streets.

As the chaos unfolded in the capital, word spread like wildfire. Whispers of Eddard Stark’s confession reached the ears of those who still harbored loyalty to House Targaryen.

“A Targaryen King lives.”

The news flew across Westeros, carried by ravens and rumors. In the Riverlands, whispers stirred among old Targaryen loyalists who had gone into hiding after Robert’s Rebellion. In the Reach, houses who had once bent the knee to the dragons began quietly gathering men.

But it was the North that roared the loudest.

When word reached Moat Cailin, Jon Frost—now revealed as Aemon Targaryen—gathered his council. The letter bore the grim news of his uncle’s execution and the riots that followed.

Jon stood in the great hall of Moat Cailin, his wives, Val and Hilda, at his side. Vorran and his commanders awaited his command.

“The Lannisters murdered my uncle,” Jon said, his voice cold. “They executed him for telling the truth.”

Vorran stepped forward. “The North is ready to march, my King. And not just the North. Ravens are flying in from the Riverlands, the Vale, and even the Reach. They want a king they can follow. They want you.”

Jon’s eyes burned with determination. “Then let them have one.”

As banners were raised across the North, men gathered in numbers not seen since the days of Aegon’s Conquest. Lords swore their loyalty to Jon Frost—not as the Lord of Moat Cailin, but as Aemon Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

The Mountain Clans sharpened their axes, the Umbers and Karstarks marched south, and ships prepared to sail from White Harbor. Wildlings, now free under Jon’s rule, stood beside Northmen, ready to take vengeance.

In King’s Landing, Queen Cersei stood on the balcony of the Red Keep, watching the fires burn in the city below.

“We should have killed him years ago,” she muttered.

Littlefinger stepped beside her, his voice like silk. “It may not be too late, Your Grace. Wars are won not by swords alone, but by whispers.”

Cersei turned to him, her eyes filled with fury and desperation. “Then whisper louder. Because the wolves are coming.”

The flames of rebellion had been lit, and there was no turning back. The Seven Kingdoms stood on the brink of war, and Westeros would soon know the fury of fire and ice.

Aemon Targaryen—Jon Frost—had risen, and the North marched to reclaim the throne.