9th Day of the First Moon, 282 AC – Saltpans, Riverlands Coast
The sea mist clung to the sails as the ships slipped into Saltpans harbor, their hulls creaking, their men weary from weeks upon the waves. The town lay before them — or what was left of it. Smoke rose from charred beams, the stench of rot and brine mixing in the air. Once, Saltpans had bustled with fishmongers and sailors, its piers crowded with merchant cogs bound for Braavos. Now it was silent save for the caw of gulls circling above corpses that bobbed in the tide.
The Stark host disembarked in uneasy silence. Soldiers who had braved storms with laughter and song now stepped ashore with grim faces, their boots sinking into ash and mud.
Jin Mu-Won walked among them, his staff steady, his gaze sweeping across the ruins. His eyes did not linger on burned timbers or shattered walls, but on the smaller things: a child's doll half-buried in soot, a fishing net torn and discarded, a cradle overturned in the mud.
Ned Stark dismounted beside him, his face pale. "Seven save them…" he murmured, though his voice carried little conviction.
Jin's voice was calm, yet heavy. "Seven cannot save what men choose to burn. Only men can shield what remains."
Ned looked at him sharply, then away, as though the truth cut too deep.
---
They found survivors in the cellars beneath the town's great salt-hall — women and children, their faces hollow, their eyes wide with terror. Some screamed when soldiers entered, expecting only more swords.
Jin knelt among them, lowering his staff, his voice soft as water. "Peace. You are safe now."
A woman clutched her child, her voice broken. "Safe? The last who said that burned my husband alive."
Jin met her gaze, unflinching. "Then let my actions prove truer than his words." He reached into his pouch and placed dried fruit in the child's hands, guiding the boy's fingers gently. The child blinked at him, then bit, chewing hungrily.
The others stirred, hope flickering. The soldiers murmured, some ashamed at their own unease.
Ned watched, his heart heavy. Where steel could not comfort, this stranger's quiet presence did.
---
Not all who lurked in Saltpans were helpless. As soldiers spread to search the ruins, raiders struck — crown-loyalists who had lingered, scavenging like carrion. They came screaming from alleyways, blades flashing.
The Northmen reeled, surprised. One fell with a knife in his gut, another with an arrow in his throat. Panic threatened to spread.
Jin stepped forward, staff in hand. His voice cut through the chaos. "Breathe! Shields together!"
The men, trained by his words on the road and sea, obeyed. Their breaths steadied, their shields rose as one. Arrows clattered off iron instead of flesh.
Jin moved like water, his staff a blur. He struck aside blades, disarmed men, swept raiders into the mud. Where others killed, he crippled; where others raged, he flowed. His qi rippled outward, unsettling foes who felt an invisible weight pressing on their chests.
Within moments, the ambush broke. Survivors fled, dropping weapons. The Northmen stood, shaken but alive, their shields unbroken.
A soldier gasped, staring at Jin. "By the gods… he bent the air itself."
Another whispered, "The Shield…"
The name spread again, softer than song but heavier than any title.
---
That night, the survivors of Saltpans huddled in the rebel camp, fed with what little could be spared. Children clung to their mothers, their eyes wide as they watched the barefoot man with the staff.
Jin sat apart, repairing a wagon wheel with slow, deliberate hands. His qi flowed through the wood, binding splinters, strengthening grain. To the smallfolk, it seemed sorcery. To Jin, it was only balance restored.
Ned approached him, his face drawn. "You saved them today. Not just from raiders — from despair. You make men stand when they would break."
Jin's gaze was steady. "I only show them what they already carry. A shield does not give strength. It only reminds you of your own."
Ned's lips tightened. "You speak as though you bear no burden of your own. But I see it in your eyes. You carry more than any of us."
Jin was silent for a long moment. Then he said quietly, "I carry what I could not save. That burden will never leave me. But if I can shield even one life here, then perhaps it grows lighter."
Ned bowed his head. "Then may the gods grant you strength enough to bear it. For we will need it before the end."
---
Across Westeros, news spread swift as wind.
In the Stormlands, Robert Baratheon laughed as he crushed another loyalist host beneath his hammer, his men roaring his name. Yet in campfires and kitchens, servants whispered of another: a man who bent arrows, who shielded children.
In King's Landing, Aerys raved louder. He clawed his throne, demanded more wildfire, more heads. Elia Martell clutched her children close, praying not for dragons, but for the Shield.
In Sunspear, Oberyn raged, calling for vengeance. Doran counseled patience. But in the shadows of the Water Gardens, women whispered that Elia's hope lay not with lions or wolves, but with a nameless stranger.
And in Casterly Rock, Tywin listened in silence as merchants brought tales of the Shield. His golden eyes narrowed. "Shields break," he murmured. "But perhaps this one will buy us time."
---
Back in Saltpans, the fires burned low. Survivors slept, soldiers kept watch.
Jin sat awake, his staff across his knees, his gaze on the stars. He thought of Elia's pale face in Harrenhal, of Ashara's searching eyes, of Rhaella's shadow across the sea. He thought of vows unbroken, of burdens unlifted.
And softly, he whispered to the night, "Not this time. Not again."
---