Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 1 (Patreon)

The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving a twilight glow over the desolate landscape surrounding the Tower of Joy. The wind whispered through the stones, carrying with it the scent of blood and death. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, stood amidst the fallen, his heart heavy with grief and a newborn babe cradled in his arms. The child, no more than a few hours old, was a silent testament to the tragedy and chaos that had unfolded. He was a living symbol of a secret that could change the course of history—a secret Eddard was sworn to protect.

Howland Reed, the only other survivor of the bloody conflict, stood beside him, his small frame marked with the blood of their enemies and comrades alike. The Kingsguard had fought fiercely, but now they lay dead at Eddard's feet, alongside the Northmen who had ridden south with him, each one of them a man Eddard had known and trusted. All were gone now, save for Howland, who had fought valiantly at his side.

Eddard's gray eyes met Howland's weary gaze, and for a moment, the two men stood in silence, the weight of what they had witnessed pressing down on them like a stone. The child in Eddard's arms stirred, his small fists clenching the remnants of a bloodstained cloak that had once belonged to his mother, Lyanna Stark. The child's dark eyes, so much like Lyanna's, peered up at Eddard, unaware of the world he had been born into—a world filled with treachery, violence, and the ever-present shadow of death.

"I will name him Jon,"

Eddard said, his voice steady but filled with the gravity of his decision.

"Jon Snow, my bastard son."

Howland's eyes widened in surprise, and he hesitated before speaking, his voice laced with disbelief.

"But… he is the rightful king of Westeros,"

he whispered.

"He is Rhaegar's son. The true heir."

Eddard's jaw tightened, and he looked down at the child in his arms, his heart torn between the duty to his family and the harsh reality of the world they lived in. The truth was a dangerous thing, one that could ignite the flames of war anew, and Eddard knew that revealing Jon's parentage would put the boy's life in immediate peril.

"What rightful king?"

Eddard replied, his tone sharp, though devoid of malice.

"There is no such thing as a rightful king. Do you understand me, Howland? The Targaryens came from the east, from Essos. They were conquerors, nothing more. They had no connection to this land, no more right to rule than any other who has seized the throne by force."

He paused, his voice growing softer, more contemplative.

"Robert is king because he took the throne. He fought, he bled, and he won. And if another comes after him, if they are strong enough to take it from him, then they will be king. That is the way of the world, the way it has always been."

Howland was silent, digesting Eddard's words, but the unease in his expression remained. He had heard tales of the Targaryens, their dragons, and their long reign over Westeros. He had seen the devastation left in the wake of their fall. To think that this child, so innocent and small, could one day lay claim to that blood-soaked throne was almost incomprehensible.

Eddard sensed Howland's hesitation, and he continued, his voice steady and firm.

"Once, my family were the rightful kings of the North,"

Eddard said, his voice tinged with the bitterness of old wounds.

"We were kings in our own right, ruling the North as our forefathers did for thousands of years. But what did that mean in the end? We bent the knee to the Targaryens, as did the rest of the realm. We are lords now, under their rule, just as we are under Robert's. Rightful kings are not meant—there is no such thing as rightful kings. There are only those who have the strength to take and hold the throne."

Howland nodded slowly, understanding the grim truth in Eddard's words. The concept of a rightful king was a comforting lie, a story told to justify the rule of those in power. But power, in the end, was taken and held by force, not by birthright or divine right.

Eddard turned his gaze back to the child in his arms, his expression softening as he looked down at the tiny life he had sworn to protect.

"Jon must never know the truth of his birth,"

he said quietly.

"Not until the time is right, if it ever comes. He will be raised as my son, but he will carry the name Snow. He will be a Stark, in all but name, and I will protect him as I would any of my own children."

Howland hesitated once more before speaking, his voice careful.

"But… what if someone learns the truth? What if the secret comes out? The boy could be in grave danger. Tywin Lannister didn't kill Elia Martell and her children out of hatred. It was a calculated move, a way to secure his daughter's place as queen. If it were known that Jon is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, he would be hunted. He would never be safe."

Eddard's expression darkened, and he nodded slowly, acknowledging the danger.

"I know,"

he said grimly.

"That is why this secret must be kept, no matter the cost. The truth would put a target on his back from the moment it became known. Tywin Lannister has shown us the lengths he is willing to go to secure his family's power. And if it were known that Jon is the last of the Targaryen line… There would be no end to the bloodshed."

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of death and decay from the battlefield. Eddard's thoughts drifted back to his sister, Lyanna, and the events that had led them all to this moment. The memory of her lying in that bed, her life slipping away as she begged him to protect her son, was seared into his mind.

"When Rhaegar kidnapped my sister…"

Eddard began, his voice thick with emotion, but Howland interrupted, a note of confusion in his voice.

"Kidnapped?"

Howland asked, frowning.

"I thought… I thought she went willingly with Rhaegar. That she loved him."

Eddard's eyes flashed with anger, and he tightened his grip on the child in his arms.

"Of course she was kidnapped,"

he insisted, his voice hard.

"She was a fifteen-year-old girl, barely more than a child herself. Whatever feelings she may have had for Rhaegar, they do not change the fact that she was taken against her family's will, against her father's will."

He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"In this world, it is the men who hold the power. It is men who decide who a woman should marry, what sort of life she should live. Lyanna was my father's daughter, and it was my father who had the right to decide her fate, not Rhaegar. And if my father was absent, it was my brother Brandon who had that right. But Rhaegar took that choice from them, from us."

Howland opened his mouth to speak, but Eddard continued, his voice growing more impassioned.

"What if this rebellion had never happened? What if Rhaegar had become king, and one day his daughter, Rhaenys, ran away with a man twice her age, already married with children of his own? Do you think Rhaegar would have just let her go, let her do whatever she wished because it was her choice? No. He would have done whatever was necessary to bring her back, to restore his family's honor. That is how the world works, Howland. A woman's choices are not her own in this world. They belong to her father, her brothers, her husband. And Rhaegar knew that, just as well as any other man."

Eddard's voice softened, and he looked away, his eyes clouded with grief.

"Lyanna was taken from us. Whether she loved him or not, whether she went willingly or not, she was taken. And because of that, our family was torn apart. Brandon… he was a fool, a rash and reckless fool. He knew what kind of man King Aerys was, we all saw it at the Tourney at Harrenhal, but he rode straight to King's Landing to demand our sister's return. And it cost him his life. It cost our father his life. Rhaegar may have loved Lyanna, but that love was not worth the price we paid."

Howland Reed fell silent, absorbing Eddard's words. He had always known Eddard Stark to be a man of honor, a man who valued duty above all else. But here, in this moment, he saw the depth of Eddard's pain, the conflict between his sense of honor and the harsh realities of the world they lived in.

Eddard had lost so much—his brother, his father, his sister—and now he was faced with the task of raising the son of the very man who had torn his family apart. The weight of that responsibility bore down on him, a burden he would carry for the rest of his days. He would protect Jon, as he had sworn to Lyanna, but the secret of Jon's parentage would haunt him, a shadow that could never be cast away.

Eddard turned his gaze back to the tower, where the blood of his sister still stained the cold stone floor. Lyanna's final moments, her desperate pleas, echoed in his mind.

"Promise me, Ned,"

she had whispered, her voice barely audible as she held her newborn son in her arms.

"Promise me you'll protect him."

"I swear it,"

Eddard had replied, his heart breaking as he took the child from her.

"I swear it, Lyanna."

And now, as he stood in the fading light of the day, Eddard knew that the promise he had made was more than just a vow to his sister. It was a commitment to the future of his family, to the future of the North. Jon would be raised as his son, but the truth would remain hidden, buried deep within the cold, hard earth of Winterfell, where it could never threaten the fragile peace they had fought so hard to achieve.

Eddard turned to Howland, his voice firm.

"We will tell no one of what happened here today. The boy is mine, and mine alone. I will raise him as a Stark, and he will know nothing of his true parentage. This secret dies with us."

Howland nodded, his expression somber. He had always respected Eddard's sense of duty, and now he understood just how far Eddard was willing to go to protect those he loved.

"As you wish, Lord Stark,"

Howland replied.

"I will carry this secret to my grave."

The wind picked up, a cold breeze that swept across the desolate landscape, carrying with it the scent of death and decay. Eddard looked down at the child in his arms, the tiny life that represented both hope and danger. Jon Snow, he would be called—a name that would keep him safe, a name that would protect him from the wrath of those who sought to destroy the Targaryen line.

But as Eddard looked into the child's dark eyes, so much like his mother's, he couldn't help but wonder what the future held for him. Would Jon grow up to be like his father, a man who had followed his heart, even if it led him to ruin? Or would he be like the Starks of old, strong and unyielding, bound by honor and duty?

Eddard shook his head, banishing the thought. The future was uncertain, and all he could do was ensure that Jon had the chance to grow up, to live, to forge his own path in the world. And so, with a heavy heart, Eddard turned away from the tower, the child cradled in his arms, and began the long journey back to Winterfell.

The North would remain as it always had—cold, unforgiving, and steeped in the traditions of the First Men. And within the walls of Winterfell, the last trueborn Targaryen would be raised as a Stark, unaware of the blood that flowed through his veins, unaware of the destiny that might one day be his.

As they rode away from the Tower of Joy, leaving the fallen behind, Eddard's thoughts returned to the words he had spoken earlier. There were no rightful kings—only those with the strength to take and hold the throne. But as he looked down at Jon, he couldn't help but wonder if, one day, this child might grow up to challenge that very belief.

For now, however, Jon was just a child—a child who would be raised in the North, far from the politics and intrigue of the South, far from the dangers that awaited him in King's Landing. Eddard would see to it that Jon grew up strong, with the values of a Stark, but he would also ensure that Jon understood the harsh realities of the world they lived in.

As they rode through the mountains, the shadows growing longer with each passing hour, Eddard could almost hear the voice of his father, Rickard Stark, reminding him of the old ways, the ways of the North. The Starks had ruled Winterfell for thousands of years, not because they were rightful kings, but because they were strong, because they understood the cold truth that winter was always coming.

And so, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world into darkness, Eddard Stark made a silent vow to the child in his arms. Jon would grow up in the North, with the Stark blood in his veins, but he would also be a reminder of the Targaryen legacy, a legacy that had been both a blessing and a curse.

The journey back to Winterfell would be long, and the road ahead uncertain, but Eddard knew that he had made the right choice. Jon would be safe in the North, far from the dangers that had claimed the lives of so many. And as long as Eddard drew breath, he would ensure that the boy's true identity remained a secret, known only to those who had been there on that fateful day.

As they continued their journey, Eddard's thoughts returned once more to the words he had spoken earlier. Rightful kings were a myth, a comforting lie told to justify the rule of those in power. But power, in the end, was taken and held by force, not by birthright or divine right.

And in the North, where the cold winds blew and the wolves still howled, Eddard Stark would see to it that Jon Snow, the last Targaryen, grew up strong and wise, ready to face whatever challenges the future might hold.

For winter was coming, and in the North, the Starks knew all too well that the coldest days were yet to come.