Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 33 (Patreon)

The dawn of the Harvest Festival broke over Moat Cailin with a golden hue, casting long shadows over the sprawling grounds where preparations had been underway for weeks. The North was vibrant with activity as lords, their families, and notable guests from across Westeros and Essos began to arrive, bringing a sense of anticipation and celebration that filled the air.

Jon Frost stood at the edge of the temporary grounds he had ordered to be constructed outside the ancient walls of Moat Cailin. A large open field stretched before him, surrounded by wooden pavilions and colorful tents, which had been erected to house the festivities. The banners of the great northern houses fluttered in the crisp autumn breeze: the direwolf of Stark, the bear of Mormont, the moose of Hornwood, and the weirwood of Karstark among them. Yet, despite the grandeur, Jon had been clear about one thing—Moat Cailin itself was off-limits to all but the Northerners.

The decision was not born of mere stubbornness, but a deep-seated understanding of how vulnerable the North had once been. Jon, ever the strategist, had no desire to invite the eyes of southern lords or foreign merchants into the inner sanctum of his fortress. The North had been underestimated far too long by those beyond its borders, and Jon would ensure it stayed a mystery to those not born of its harsh winters.

The Harvest Festival was meant to showcase the strength of the North, and Jon had ensured it would do just that. For days, traders from across the North had been arriving with goods to sell, and the marketplace at Moat Cailin had become a lively affair. Even the traders from Essos, who had been carefully permitted within the outer grounds, brought exotic goods: silks, spices, and rare trinkets from Yi Ti and the Free Cities. Still, Jon had been careful not to let their presence overshadow the true purpose of the festival—to celebrate the North’s self-sufficiency.

As Jon surveyed the scene, he spotted Robb Stark speaking with Lord Manderly near one of the larger tents, where tables had been laid with platters of food and pitchers of northern ale. The festival had brought out the finest the North had to offer—hearty stews made with game from the Wolfswood, honeyed breads sweetened with Jon’s own northern maple syrup, and barrels of mead brewed in the far reaches of Bear Island. The air was thick with the aroma of roasting meats and spiced pies, reminding Jon of simpler times before the weight of leadership had settled on his shoulders.

Northerners from all walks of life mingled among the pavilions, dressed in their finest cloaks lined with fur. Lords and ladies spoke in hushed tones, negotiating trades and alliances under the guise of pleasantries. Children laughed and chased each other through the crowd, their faces lit with the innocent joy of the festival. Musicians played lively northern tunes on wooden flutes and drums, adding to the festive atmosphere.

In the distance, a group of men was preparing the archery range, where competitions would be held later in the day. The North’s greatest hunters, eager to display their skill with the longbow, had traveled far for the chance to earn honor and recognition. Beyond them, the large pit where the traditional wrestling matches would take place was being filled with soft earth. The strength of the North was not just in its swords but in its traditions, and Jon had made sure the festival would reflect that.

Amid the celebration, Jon’s eyes settled on a group of newcomers—foreign guests who had arrived from Essos. They were dressed in flowing silks, their skin tanned by the warm sun of their homeland. Tai Lung, the merchant Jon had introduced to Hoster Tully, stood among them, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd, ever the businessman. He had already made a name for himself as an intermediary between Westeros and Essos, but Jon had his own reasons for bringing him to the festival. The North’s relationship with the outside world was evolving, and Jon intended to control that evolution with care.

Tai Lung approached Jon, his face breaking into a broad smile as he bowed his head slightly in greeting. “Jon Frost,” he said, his accent thick but his words clear. “The festival is a marvel to behold. I’ve already made several deals that will benefit your northern allies greatly.”

Jon nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good,” he replied, his voice low. “But remember, this is a northern festival. I don’t want the people distracted by foreign influences. Keep your trades subtle.”

Tai Lung chuckled softly. “Of course, my lord. I understand the value of northern pride.”

Jon’s gaze shifted back to the crowds, where Lord Umber and Lord Karstark were deep in conversation, likely discussing their shared concerns about the approaching winter. Even in times of plenty, the North never forgot that winter was always just beyond the horizon.

The guests from Westeros began to arrive in greater numbers as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Jon watched as several lords from the Riverlands and the Vale made their way through the outer grounds. He had made sure that their accommodations were comfortable but separate from those of the northern lords. The distinction was subtle but clear—the North was a world unto itself, and Jon was determined to maintain that divide. His face hardened as he thought of the subtle condescension the southern lords often held for the North.

As the day wore on, the festivities grew louder and more joyous. Wrestling matches broke out in the dirt pit, with burly men grappling to the cheers of the onlookers. Archers loosed arrows at distant targets, their fletching whispering through the air. Jon watched as his people celebrated, their laughter carrying over the din of the marketplace.

At the heart of it all, Jon remained a quiet observer, his mind never straying far from the future. The Harvest Festival was a symbol of the North’s strength, but it was also a reminder of how far they had come. Moat Cailin, once a ruin guarding the swamps of the Neck, was now a thriving center of trade and power under Jon’s stewardship. And Jon intended to keep it that way.

As the evening approached, the great bonfires were lit, and the feast began in earnest. Large tables were set up beneath the twilight sky, laden with food from every corner of the North. The largest of the tables, set for the lords of the North and their most important guests, sat near the center of the grounds. Jon took his place there, with Robb on one side and Tai Lung on the other. Lords and ladies of the North took their seats, exchanging pleasantries and toasting the harvest.

As the first courses were served, Jon’s mind wandered briefly to the future. The bridge he planned to build would connect the North to the South in ways the Freys could only dream of. It would be a symbol of northern independence, a gateway that no southern lord or merchant could control. With Bran ruling the land, Jon knew the North would never again be at the mercy of another house.

The Harvest Festival had reached its peak, and each day had brought new excitement, challenges, and surprises. One of the most talked-about events, however, was the children’s tournament—an idea born from Arya Stark’s relentless pestering of Jon Frost. She had proven herself time and again in training, and Jon, not one to disappoint the young wolf, had decided to allow a separate contest for the children under ten years old. It would be a chance for them to showcase their skills in archery, wrestling, and swordfighting—preparing them for the harsh realities of the North while still preserving the spirit of competition.

The grounds were buzzing with activity as spectators gathered to witness the children’s tournament, which had been held on the third day of the festival. Wooden stands had been erected around the archery range and the makeshift sparring arena, while the wrestling pit had been prepared nearby. The northern lords watched with amusement and pride as their young heirs took the field.

Arya, with her usual determination, strode into the archery range, her face set in a determined scowl. Her small frame belied the fierceness within her, and Jon couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as he watched her ready her bow. The contest was fierce, with several of the children displaying surprising skill. But it was Arya who stole the show. Arrow after arrow hit its mark with deadly accuracy, her concentration unwavering. By the end, she stood victorious, her final shot splitting the arrow of her closest competitor clean in two.

Cheers erupted from the crowd, and even Jon, who rarely let his emotions show, allowed himself a small smile. Arya was unstoppable.

Yet the day wasn’t over. The swordfighting event soon followed, and Arya entered the ring once again, this time facing a tougher crowd. The young Stark girl had practiced swordplay since she could walk, but her opponents were not without their own skills. Though she fought with the spirit of a true wolf, Arya found herself matched against an older boy from House Manderly in the final round. The bout was intense, their wooden swords clashing with speed and precision. Arya held her own, but the boy’s size and strength gave him a slight edge. In the end, a well-timed strike to her leg forced Arya to yield. She had earned second place—an incredible feat for someone so young—and even the Manderly boy offered her a respectful nod as she left the ring.

Later that day, the tournament for the older children took place, and the brutality of the fights was a reminder that in the North, combat was no game. The below fifteen category saw some of the most heated duels, and the melee was the highlight of the tournament. Jon watched with interest as Robb Stark, now a skilled young warrior in his own right, took the field. His brother had the Stark determination, and his swordsmanship had been honed by years of training alongside Jon.

But it was Samwell Tarly who turned heads. The son of Randyll Tarly, Samwell was not known for his fighting prowess, but in this melee, he fought with an uncharacteristic ferocity. Armed with a warhammer, Samwell surprised everyone—including Jon—with his sheer strength and cunning. The melee was chaotic, with boys from all the great houses of the North charging into the fray. Robb, despite his skill and quick thinking, was caught off guard when Samwell attacked him from behind, knocking him to the ground with a well-placed strike. Robb tried to recover, but the blow had been decisive.

The melee came down to two: Samwell Tarly and Domeric Bolton. Domeric, a skilled warrior in his own right, fought with a blend of weapons, switching between a battleaxe and a longsword. The fight was long and brutal, with both boys trading vicious blows. Samwell’s warhammer crashed against Domeric’s defenses again and again, each strike bringing them closer to exhaustion. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the two fought on, neither willing to yield.

In the end, it was Samwell who emerged victorious, his warhammer delivering a final, crushing blow to Domeric’s shield that knocked the Bolton heir to the ground. The crowd roared in approval as Samwell was declared the winner of the melee, his face flushed with both pride and disbelief.

The wrestling matches followed, with a member of House Umber, a boy built like a small bear, dominating the pit. His sheer size and strength left little doubt as to who would emerge victorious, and the crowd cheered as he hoisted his opponents over his head, one by one, and tossed them from the ring.

The rest of the festival continued in similar fashion, with spear throwing, weight lifting, horse racing, and even a swimming competition. Each event saw the best of the North’s youth testing their mettle, proving themselves not just to their families, but to the entire North. Jon had ensured that the festival was more than just a celebration—it was a reminder of the North’s strength, resilience, and independence.

The festival’s five days passed in a whirlwind of competition, feasting, and negotiation. Lords from all over Westeros had come to secure trade agreements, form alliances, and arrange marriages. Many left with favorable deals, their coffers enriched and their house’s future strengthened.

As the final day of the festival drew to a close, the northern lords gathered one last time at Moat Cailin, preparing to return to their lands. Jon stood at the edge of the festivities, watching as banners were lowered and tents dismantled. His mind was already on the future, thinking of what the North would need to do to maintain its power and protect its people. The festival had been a success, but Jon knew that winter was always coming, and with it, new challenges.

Robb approached him, still nursing the bruise from his fight with Samwell but smiling nonetheless. "I still can't believe Sam won that melee," he said, shaking his head. "Who would've thought?"

Jon chuckled. "Never underestimate someone just because they don’t look the part, Robb. The North has always been full of surprises."

Robb nodded, his expression thoughtful. "And Arya... She'll be talking about this for months."

Jon smiled. "Let her. She earned it."

As the last of the lords rode off into the distance and the festival came to an end, Jon took one final look at the grounds. The North was changing, and so was he. But with every change, Jon knew that the North would remain as strong as ever—because that was the way of the wolves.