2nd Day of the Third Moon, 282 AC – The Ruby Ford, Riverlands
The dawn came gray and cold, veiled in mist. The fields along the Trident lay silent, the river slow and wide, its surface smooth as a mirror.
Then the horns began to sound.
From the north bank, the rebels stirred — thousands of men tightening their straps, checking their blades, whispering prayers to gods old and new. The banners of Baratheon, Stark, and Arryn fluttered in the chill wind, their colors dim under the pale sky.
Across the river, the banners of the dragon rose crimson and black, rippling like tongues of flame. The loyalist host stretched for miles, armor gleaming, lances bristling, their formation disciplined and terrible.
Between them flowed the Trident — deep, cold, uncaring.
And standing beside its edge, his staff in hand, Jin Mu-Won breathed slowly, his eyes closed.
He could feel it — the tension, the fear, the bloodlust. It vibrated in the air like a drawn bowstring. The river itself seemed to hum with it.
He exhaled once, and the mist swirled around him, parting slightly.
"Too much anger," he murmured. "Even the earth trembles."
---
Robert Baratheon strode to the front lines, his hammer resting across his shoulder, his grin wide and terrible. "There!" he shouted, pointing toward the dragon banners. "There rides the man who stole my love and burned our peace! Let his blood flow to the sea!"
The men roared, a tide of sound shaking the ground.
Ned Stark rode beside him, silent, grim. He looked at Jin, who stood unarmed among the archers, and nodded once.
Jin inclined his head slightly. "Do what you must," he said softly. "I will do what I must."
---
The horns blew again — long, deep, final.
The armies surged.
The first impact came as a thunderclap — horse against horse, shield against shield, steel against flesh. The riverbank exploded in chaos. Arrows filled the air, cutting through mist, striking armor with sharp, wet sounds. The smell of iron and mud and blood filled the world.
Jin walked into it.
Not ran. Not charged. Walked.
His staff spun once in his hands, a blur of wood and qi. Arrows that came near him curved aside, their flight bending in unnatural arcs. A man stumbled beside him, bleeding from the neck — Jin caught him before he fell, pressed two fingers against the wound, and the blood slowed.
"Breathe," Jin whispered. "You are still alive."
The man gasped, nodded weakly, and was carried away by comrades.
---
The roar of the battle deepened as the dragons' charge struck the rebel center.
Silver helms and black armor flashed like serpents as Rhaegar Targaryen himself entered the fray — mounted on his great black destrier, clad in rubies that burned red even in the fog. His sword gleamed, his eyes fixed on Robert across the chaos.
When the two finally met, the sound was like the world cracking open.
The hammer and the sword struck again and again — the song of storm and fire.
Men stopped fighting to watch. Even the river seemed to hold its breath.
Jin stood not far, watching too, his heart heavy.
Every strike they traded rippled through the field like waves. The men nearest them were flung aside by the sheer force of their blows.
Robert roared with rage; Rhaegar fought with desperate grace. Neither saw the bodies crushed beneath their feet.
The river ran red around them.
---
Jin could take it no longer.
He stepped forward, staff rising as qi surged through him — a pulse that silenced the air, that stilled the chaos for a heartbeat.
The combatants felt it. Even the horses reared, snorting in fear.
"Enough," Jin said, his voice low, but it rolled like thunder.
Rhaegar turned, startled. "Who are you to command kings and princes?"
Jin's eyes were calm. "A man who remembers that kings and princes are still men."
Robert spat blood, panting. "Stay out of this, Shield! This is between us!"
Jin looked between them — one burning with fury, the other with pride — and in that moment, he saw not heroes, but children playing with fire.
"Then remember," he said quietly, "that fire burns all."
---
But the world was not ready for peace.
An arrow hissed from the bank — loyalist, meant for Robert — and struck Rhaegar instead. He staggered.
Robert's hammer fell.
It struck the prince's chest with a sound that silenced even the wind. Rubies burst from Rhaegar's armor, scattering like drops of blood across the river.
The dragon fell.
The storm roared.
And Jin, standing among the chaos, felt the weight of another world collapsing.
---
When the fighting ended, the river ran dark and heavy, the water thick with the dead. The banks were strewn with the wounded — groaning, calling for mothers, for gods, for mercy.
Robert's men cheered.
"The dragon's slain!" they cried. "The war is won!"
Jin did not cheer. He moved among the fallen, tending to loyalists and rebels alike.
One loyalist boy — no older than sixteen — clutched his gut, gasping. "We… we were told you were the demon…"
Jin pressed a hand against his wound, qi flowing softly. "Then you see how poorly men tell stories."
The boy blinked up at him, tears mixing with blood. "Then what are you?"
Jin's voice was quiet, almost kind. "A man who refuses to hate."
The boy smiled faintly before sleep claimed him.
---
Later, when the bodies were gathered, Robert came to him. His hammer was still red, his eyes hollow despite his grin.
"You saw it, Shield. I kept my promise. I killed him. For Lyanna."
Jin's gaze was steady. "And did it bring her back?"
Robert froze. His grin faltered.
Jin continued softly. "A man who fights for love may win a crown. But he loses the reason he began to fight."
Robert said nothing for a long time. Then, quietly, "You speak like a priest."
"No," Jin said. "Priests forgive. I do not. Not yet."
He walked away, leaving the new king staring into the river where rubies still glimmered like drops of fire.
---
That night, the wind howled across the fields. Campfires flickered among the corpses.
Jin sat alone by the river, washing his staff, his reflection rippling in the crimson water.
Ned found him there. "The war is ending," he said softly.
Jin did not look up. "No. It is only beginning. Wars do not end when swords still remember blood."
Ned knelt beside him. "You cannot carry the world's sorrow, Jin."
Jin smiled faintly. "Then let me carry enough of it that others can still walk."
The wind carried the smell of rain, faint and clean. For a moment, Jin thought he could hear laughter — distant, soft — the laughter of children by a river long dead.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "May the next dawn find fewer graves."
---
Far to the south, in the Red Keep, Elia Martell dreamed of bells — tolling, ceaseless, yet somehow softer than before.
And across the sea, on Dragonstone, Rhaella Targaryen woke with a start, hand pressed to her belly. The child kicked hard for the first time.
She smiled through tears. "The Shield still stands," she whispered.
---