20th Day of the First Moon, 282 AC – Banks of the Trident, Riverlands
The Riverlands bled.
Smoke hung low over the waters of the Red Fork, veiling the sun in a haze of ash. Villages that had once thrived on fishing and grain lay silent — their thatched roofs collapsed, their fields trampled by marching feet. The stench of burnt wheat and iron clung to the air, and the river itself ran dark where bodies drifted downstream, caught in the reeds like grotesque offerings.
The Stark host marched through the ruin, boots sinking into mud that was half blood, half rain. Men no longer spoke loudly. Even laughter had grown cautious, subdued by the ghosts that haunted every roadside.
Jin Mu-Won walked among them, his staff steady, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage. His calm was the only stillness in a world unraveling.
---
At the next village they came to, they found smoke still rising. The banners of House Darry had once flown here, but the loyalist garrison had turned on their own before fleeing. Houses looted, barns empty, children vanished.
The Northmen cursed softly, but Jin said nothing. He stepped into the charred remains of the sept, where the statues of the Seven lay toppled, their faces shattered. Amid the rubble, a girl no older than ten knelt beside a broken altar, clutching her mother's hand — a hand that no longer moved.
She did not cry. Her eyes were hollow, her face streaked with soot.
Jin knelt beside her, silent. He laid a hand upon the mother's brow, and for a long moment, his eyes closed. When he opened them, they were wet — not from weakness, but from grief too deep to hide.
The girl looked up at him finally. "She said the Seven would save us," she whispered. "They didn't."
Jin's voice was soft. "The gods can only reach through men's hands. It is men who fail, not gods. But we can still save what remains."
He lifted her gently, wrapping his cloak around her small shoulders. "Come. The fire has taken enough from you. Let us not give it your breath as well."
Ned watched in silence as Jin carried the girl out of the ruin, his face unreadable but his eyes full of quiet awe.
---
That night, the camp lay on the riverbank, fires dimmed to keep from drawing loyalist eyes. The men ate in silence, too tired for talk.
Ned approached Jin again, watching him tend the little girl, now asleep beside the fire. "You find them wherever you go," he said quietly.
Jin didn't look up. "No. War finds them. I only walk where it leads."
Ned's gaze fell to the sleeping child. "You act as though you can save them all."
Jin's voice was steady. "Not all. But each one is a world. Save one world, and perhaps the greater one becomes lighter."
Ned exhaled slowly, the truth of it cutting deep.
---
The next morning, they marched again. The rivers glimmered silver under a pale sun, but the beauty was false — the land was dying beneath it. Scouts rode ahead, returning with grim news: loyalist remnants were gathering, striking at supply trains and isolated companies. Worse, there were whispers of assassins — men not wearing any banner, hired blades moving through the chaos.
That evening, the attack came.
It began with arrows at dusk — black fletching, whistling from the trees. Two men fell before the rest ducked behind shields.
"Shields together!" Jin's voice cut through the panic like a bell.
The men obeyed, forming the wall he had drilled into them. Arrows rattled off iron and wood. Jin stepped forward, qi flowing from his palms, air rippling as if the world itself bent to his rhythm.
A second volley came — and faltered midflight, slowed, falling short. The men gasped, awe and fear mingling.
"Hold," Jin said, calm as stone. "Breathe. The wave passes when you do not fight it."
When the assassins charged, Jin was already moving. His staff blurred, wood striking steel, qi cracking the air. He disarmed three before they reached the line, his movements fluid, unhurried.
One assassin lunged at Ned — Jin caught the blade mid-strike, barehanded, and twisted. The metal bent like softened clay.
The man froze, eyes wide with terror. Jin looked at him, not with anger, but with sorrow. "Do you know who sent you?"
The assassin's voice shook. "Gold cloaks… gold lions… they said you would burn the king's realm. That you are a demon from the east."
Jin released him, striking the haft of his staff against the man's temple with controlled force. He fell unconscious but alive.
"Then let them learn," Jin murmured. "Demons do not spare. Men do."
---
When dawn broke, the survivors counted their losses. Four dead, seven wounded. The assassins — those still breathing — were questioned.
"They're being paid in gold from Casterly Rock," Ned said grimly, scanning the notes they carried. "Tywin's hand again. But why target you? Why not me? Why not Robert?"
Jin's gaze was distant. "Because I do not march for crowns. A man who kills for a throne expects enemies like himself. But a man who shields what kings break — he confuses them."
Ned frowned. "You speak as though they cannot see what you are."
Jin's voice softened. "They see. They just do not understand. That is what terrifies them most."
---
As the army rested, the soldiers gathered around Jin again, as they always did. He showed them simple forms — breathing through the stance, steadying their balance with the rhythm of qi. They laughed when they stumbled, cursed when they fell, but learned all the same.
One grizzled veteran wiped his brow, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd see the day a Northern sword learns to dance like a Riverlander girl."
Jin chuckled. "Then she must be strong indeed, if she stands when the wind blows."
The laughter that followed was easy, real — rare in war.
Ned watched from a distance, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. For a moment, he could almost believe they might reach the war's end with their souls still intact.
---
But far away, in King's Landing, fire still burned.
Elia Martell sat in her chamber, pale and frail, her children asleep beside her. She read the latest letter from her brother Oberyn — filled with rage, threats, and grief. Doran's cautious hand was visible in the measured tone, but Elia felt the fury beneath each word.
And yet, another letter had come — unsigned, written in an unfamiliar hand. The Shield still walks. He shields your name.
Elia traced the ink with trembling fingers, tears spilling silently. "Then let him walk a while longer," she whispered. "For I will hold hope until he cannot."
---
By the time the rebel host reached the fords of the Trident, word of Jin Mu-Won had traveled faster than the banners.
Men whispered of the Shield who bent arrows from the sky. Mothers told their children of a stranger who saved little girls from fire. Soldiers spoke his name before battle, as both prayer and promise.
And somewhere in the ashes of a burned village, a single small handprint remained on the wall of a sept — blackened, but unbroken.
The river washed past it, red with war, but the print did not fade.
---