Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 47 (Patreon)

King Robert Baratheon stood upon the balcony of the Red Keep, looking out over King’s Landing with a goblet of wine in his hand. It was late in the evening, and the city sprawled out before him like a living, breathing creature, teeming with life even as the sun dipped below the horizon. The sound of revelry echoed up from the streets, mingling with the salty air from Blackwater Bay.

Yet, Robert’s thoughts were not on the city, nor on the responsibilities that came with wearing the crown. His mind was far to the North, in the lands ruled by his oldest and dearest friend, Eddard Stark.

“Flourishing,” Robert muttered to himself with a smile, taking a deep gulp of wine. “The North is flourishing.”

It was no secret that the prosperity of the North had become the talk of every court in Westeros. From Dorne to the Reach, from the Westerlands to the Vale, whispers spread of how the cold and barren lands of the North had become a bastion of wealth and abundance. And every time Robert heard these whispers, he couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride.

To him, it was more than just a distant kingdom growing stronger—it was proof that his friend, the man who had stood by his side through blood and fire, had finally found a measure of peace and success. While others might have seen the North’s rise as a potential threat, Robert saw it as the triumph of a brother.

“Your Grace,” came the soft voice of Varys, the Master of Whisperers, who had a way of appearing in the shadows whenever Robert least expected it. “You seem lost in thought this evening.”

Robert glanced over at the eunuch, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Just thinking about the North, Varys,” he replied. “Seems it’s become the envy of every lord south of the Neck.”

Varys smiled, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “Indeed, Your Grace. There are many who wonder how Lord Eddard has managed such a feat. The North was always considered a harsh and unforgiving land, yet now it thrives. Some say it’s as if a new spring has blossomed beyond the Wall.”

Robert chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that came from his belly. “Aye, that’s Ned for you. Always making the impossible seem as natural as breathing. But tell me, Spider, what do your little birds say of the North?”

Varys’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “They say much, Your Grace. They speak of a young man, Jon Frost, who rides beyond the Wall and bends the wildlings to his will. They say he’s carved out a kingdom of his own, built from the snow and ice, and that the free folk now live under his rule, following his laws and sharing in his prosperity. They say he is… remarkable.”

“Remarkable indeed,” Robert agreed, his smile widening. “By the gods, I’d love to meet the lad! Imagine it, Varys—Ned’s boy, commanding a kingdom beyond the Wall. Makes you wonder what the South has been doing all this time, doesn’t it?”

Varys inclined his head. “Jon Frost is… unique, Your Grace. He possesses a strength and determination that is rare, even among the nobility. There are some who whisper that he may be the greatest warrior the North has seen in generations.”


Robert Baratheon sat in the council chambers, swirling a goblet of wine in his hand, as Tywin Lannister’s words hung in the air. The proposal was simple: a marriage alliance between House Baratheon and House Stark, through Jon Frost. The more Robert thought about it, the more he liked the idea.

It wasn’t just about securing a political alliance with the North. It was about ensuring his daughter’s happiness and future. Jon Frost was everything Robert had once dreamed he could be—a warrior of unparalleled skill, a man who commanded respect not through fear but through strength and honor. Most importantly, Jon Frost wasn’t some pampered southern lord who saw women as mere pawns in a game of power. He would treat Robert's daughter with the respect and kindness she deserved.

“What do you think, Your Grace?” Tywin Lannister’s cold, calculating eyes met Robert’s, and the King could see the wheels of ambition turning in the older man’s mind. For Tywin, this was more than a simple marriage proposal—it was a way to bind the North closer to the Crown, to solidify their power, and to keep any rival ambitions in check.

“I think it’s a damned good idea,” Robert said, slamming his goblet down on the table with a grin. “Jon Frost is a fine lad. He’s got the blood of the First Men in him, and he’s proven himself ten times over. My daughter could do far worse.”

“Indeed,” Tywin replied, inclining his head. “A marriage between Princess Myrcella and Lord Jon would bring much-needed stability to the realm. The North has grown prosperous under Jon Frost’s leadership, and he’s becoming a power unto himself. Better to bring him into the fold, where we can keep an eye on him.”

Robert chuckled. “You always did love keeping an eye on everyone, Tywin.”

“It’s what keeps us safe,” Tywin said, his tone clipped and formal. “And in this case, it would ensure the North remains loyal.”

Robert nodded, already imagining Jon Frost standing at the altar with his daughter, the two of them bound together by vows of love and loyalty. But there was one obstacle to his plans—his wife, Queen Cersei.

Cersei had made no secret of her disdain for the Northerners, and the idea of marrying off her daughter to a Stark—albeit a bastard who had risen to lordship—would be met with fierce resistance. And then there were the Lannister ambitions, the constant reminders that Myrcella could marry into a far more prestigious family, one that might elevate the Lannisters to even greater heights of power.

“Your wife may not approve,” Tywin said, reading Robert’s thoughts with ease.

“She never approves of anything that doesn’t benefit her precious Lannister pride,” Robert grumbled. “But this isn’t about her. It’s about my daughter and what’s best for her. Jon Frost will make a good husband, and I’ll not let Cersei ruin this.”

The truth was, Robert was weary of his wife’s schemes. He had grown tired of the endless games, the veiled threats, and the way she used their children as pawns in her quest for power. Marrying Myrcella to Jon Frost would mean taking her out of Cersei’s hands, giving her a chance to grow up with a man who would care for her, not treat her as a political tool.

“If the Queen objects, I’ll deal with her,” Robert said, his voice hardening. “Myrcella will marry Jon, and that’s the end of it.”

Tywin’s eyes gleamed with approval, and Robert could see that the old lion respected him a little more in that moment. “Very well, Your Grace. I will begin the preparations.”

But even as Robert spoke, he knew that there was another path he needed to explore, one that could ensure the future of the realm and strengthen the bond between House Baratheon and House Stark in a way that no marriage ever could. Jon Frost was not just a warrior—he was a teacher, a leader, and a man who had earned the loyalty of his followers through courage and strength.

That’s why Robert had decided on another course of action. If he couldn’t secure Jon Frost as his son-in-law, he would at least ensure that his youngest son, Tommen, learned from the greatest warrior in Westeros.

Tommen was a gentle soul, not like his older brother Joffrey, who was all fire and cruelty. Robert knew that if Tommen was to survive in this harsh world, he needed to learn from a man who could teach him how to fight, not just with a sword but with honor and wisdom.

“Tommen will go north,” Robert announced, surprising Tywin, who raised an eyebrow. “He’ll be Jon Frost’s squire. The lad could use some proper training, and there’s no better man to learn from than a Stark.”

“Jon Frost is not officially a Stark,” Tywin corrected, though his tone was cautious. “He may be their blood, but he’s still a bastard.”

“Not in the eyes of the North,” Robert shot back, his voice rising. “He’s earned their loyalty, and he’s earned mine. And that makes him as good as any Stark in my book.”

Tywin nodded, accepting the decision with a slight bow. “Very well, Your Grace. I will make the necessary arrangements.”

Robert watched him leave, his mind already wandering to the day when Jon Frost would take Tommen under his wing. He could picture it clearly—the boy standing in the cold Northern air, shivering slightly but determined, and Jon, with that calm, unyielding smile, teaching him how to wield a blade, how to stand tall in the face of danger, and how to be a true knight.

And maybe, just maybe, Tommen would learn more than just how to fight. He would learn what it meant to be honorable, to be strong, and to be a man that others could look up to. The kind of man Robert had once hoped he could be.

“Here’s to you, Jon Frost,” Robert murmured to himself, lifting his goblet once more. “May you shape my son into the man I know he can be.”

As he took a deep drink, Robert allowed himself a moment of hope. Hope that Jon Frost could be the guiding light his family so desperately needed, and that maybe, just maybe, the North would become the ally that the Crownlands had always needed but never truly appreciated.

And with that thought, Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, let out a hearty laugh that echoed through the empty halls of the Red Keep, the sound of a man who had finally found something worth believing in.


The winds blew cold through Moat Cailin, but the hearts of the people of the North were warm. In this unforgiving land of snow and ice, life had always been about enduring hardship and overcoming the odds. But now, under the leadership of Jon Frost, the North had become something more—it had become a land of opportunity, a beacon of strength, and a testament to what could be achieved with resilience and determination.

The great stone walls of Moat Cailin stood tall, guarding the vital passageway into the North. Daily, the gates opened to the sights of traders, merchants, and artisans, all bringing their wares to exchange for the North’s growing bounty. What had once been a land considered harsh and inhospitable had transformed into a center of trade and commerce, and the Northerners had Jon Frost to thank for that.

Jon had started small, just a few ships braving the icy seas to transport honey and coffee to the markets of White Harbor, Oldtown, and King's Landing. The honey, made from the unique Northern flowers that could withstand the cold, had a taste that was unmatched, and the coffee grown in the warmer southern reaches of the North was unlike any other in the world. It was richer, bolder, and left an impression on those who tasted it for the first time.

From these humble beginnings, Jon’s shipping company grew. It wasn’t long before other Northern goods—timber from the Wolfswood, furs from the vast forests, and even iron from the mines in the mountains—began finding their way onto his ships. Each journey they made strengthened the North’s economy, filling the coffers of Moat Cailin and bringing prosperity to even the smallest of villages.

And as the North grew richer, Jon didn’t hoard his wealth. He invested it back into his people. New roads were built, connecting remote towns and villages to the larger cities. Grain silos were constructed, ensuring that no one would starve during the long winters. And fortifications were erected to protect the North from any who dared to challenge their newfound prosperity.

Jon Frost himself became a figure of awe and admiration, not just among the Northern lords but also among the common folk. He wasn't just a warrior who could swing a sword with unmatched skill; he was a visionary who had led his people out of the darkness of poverty and into a golden age.

As Jon sat in his study one evening, gazing out of the window at the bustling streets below, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Moat Cailin was thriving in a way it hadn’t for centuries, and it was all because they had learned to look beyond survival and embrace the possibility of something greater.