King's Landing – The 6th Day of the Third Moon, 282 AC
The Red Keep never slept anymore.
In the days since Rhaegar's fall at the Trident, the air around the Iron Throne had thickened with dread. Ravens came and went like ghosts, their wings dark smudges against the orange haze of dusk. Below the castle, the city whispered — of betrayal, of fire, of doom.
The Mad King still ruled, though he no longer resembled one. He shuffled barefoot through the hall of the throne room, muttering to himself, his long nails scraping the metal of the blades fused into his seat of power. Servants had learned to look away when he passed; those who didn't were ordered burned for "spying on royal thoughts."
And in Maegor's Holdfast, locked away from the world, Elia Martell of Dorne held her children close and listened to the sound of the city dying by inches.
---
That morning, she woke before dawn, unable to sleep. Rhaenys was curled at her side, breathing softly, her tiny hands clutching a faded stuffed cat. Aegon lay in the cradle near the window, the faintest trace of silver hair glinting in the candlelight.
The city outside was restless. Elia could hear distant shouts, the dull clang of gates opening and closing, the marching of boots.
She rose quietly, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and looked out through the narrow window. The smoke rising from the streets below caught the early light, glowing like the dying embers of a hearth long untended.
The banners of House Targaryen still flew from the walls — black and red, dragon triumphant — but even from here, she could see their edges tattered, their colors dulled by soot and wind.
The sight filled her with a strange emptiness.
For months, she had tried to believe Rhaegar would return. He had spoken of prophecy, of the child that would "sing the song of ice and fire." But prophecy had not come to save her. Only silence, and now the thunder of approaching armies.
Behind her, Rhaenys stirred and murmured sleepily, "Mother, is it morning?"
Elia smiled faintly and turned. "It is, sweetling. The sun is waking."
The little girl rubbed her eyes. "Will Father come back today?"
For a long moment, Elia could not answer. She sat beside her daughter, brushed a curl from her brow, and kissed her head. "Not today, my love."
Rhaenys frowned. "He promised."
"Yes," Elia whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "He did."
---
By midday, the bells of the Sept of Baelor rang, not in mourning, but in warning.
From the walls came the cry — "The Lannisters are at the gates!"
The words rolled through the city like thunder.
Elia stood frozen as her handmaid, Mariya, burst into the room, her face pale. "My lady — Lord Tywin's host has come. They say he rides to protect the city!"
Elia's first instinct was disbelief. "Protect? Tywin Lannister does not protect. He waits, and he profits."
"But the King has ordered the gates opened," Mariya said breathlessly. "He believes Tywin comes as a friend."
Elia laughed softly — a brittle, mirthless sound. "Aerys believes only in fire and ghosts. Gods help us."
She crossed to the cradle and lifted Aegon gently into her arms. The boy stirred, whimpering once before settling against her. Rhaenys clung to her skirt.
"Mariya," Elia said quietly, her voice calm despite the chaos rising outside. "Pack what you can carry — blankets, food, anything light. We will stay inside the Holdfast until we know more. And bar the door when you return."
Mariya hesitated. "My lady, if the lions—"
"If the lions come," Elia said softly, "they will find a Martell who still has claws."
---
Far to the north of the city, beyond the Kingswood, Jin Mu-Won was running.
He had not slept in two days. His feet left no prints on the damp forest soil; his breath was measured, each exhale a rhythm, each heartbeat a pulse of qi that pushed his body forward beyond mortal endurance.
The message had reached him near the Blackwater ford — a bloodstained scrap bearing one line in a careful, trembling hand:
> "The lions come. The city burns. — V."
He didn't need to ask who "V" was.
He had seen enough of this world to recognize its pattern: noble intentions rotting into betrayal, power feeding on weakness.
Now, as dusk fell, he crested a hill and saw it — King's Landing sprawled below like a dying beast, its walls blackened by smoke, its towers veiled in firelight.
Jin slowed at last, breathing deeply, letting the scent of ash and blood settle over him. His chest rose and fell slowly, his face unreadable.
"So," he murmured. "It begins."
---
Inside the Red Keep, chaos reigned.
Lord Tywin's men — gold lions gleaming crimson in the flames — swarmed through the streets. Houses were broken into, smallfolk cut down for trinkets, and the guards who resisted were butchered where they stood.
Aerys had locked himself in the throne room, surrounded by pyromancers chanting prayers to their green fire. "Burn them all," he whispered again and again, clawing his throne as if it could save him. "Burn every man, every woman, every child who dares defy their king."
And through it all, Elia waited.
She had barred the doors to her chambers, piled furniture against them, and gathered her children close beneath the bed. The air was hot and thick with smoke.
Rhaenys whimpered softly. "Mother… why are they shouting?"
Elia held her tighter. "Because they are afraid, my love. And fear makes monsters of men."
Mariya knelt beside the door, clutching a kitchen knife, her hands trembling.
From outside came the pounding of boots — heavy, deliberate, drawing closer.
A man's voice barked orders. "Search every room! The prince's bastards die first!"
Elia felt her blood run cold.
Mariya's lips moved in silent prayer. Elia reached over and touched her arm gently. "Go," she whispered. "Through the servants' passage. Take Rhaenys. I will follow with Aegon."
"No, my lady—"
Elia's voice hardened. "Go, Mariya. Now."
The girl hesitated, tears streaming down her face, then scooped Rhaenys into her arms and vanished through the hidden door.
Elia was alone now, the baby in her arms, the sound of boots closing in.
She kissed her son's forehead and whispered, "I will not let them take you. Not you, my sweet boy."
The door shuddered as something massive slammed against it. Once. Twice. Then a splintering crash.
A shadow filled the doorway — huge, armored, monstrous.
Gregor Clegane.
His helm was shaped like a hound, his sword still slick with blood. Behind him, two lesser men grinned, eager for spoils.
"There she is," one sneered. "The Dornish whore."
Elia rose, her arms tightening around the child. Her voice trembled, but it was steady. "If you have any honor, leave us."
Clegane's laughter was a low, ugly growl. "Honor? I'm no knight, woman."
The sword came up.
And then — the room changed.
The air grew heavy, the light dimmed, as if the fire itself bowed. The very walls seemed to breathe.
A voice came from behind the hulking knight — calm, measured, impossibly certain.
"Then face a man who still remembers what that word means."
Gregor turned — and Jin Mu-Won stepped into the light.
---
For a moment, even the fire forgot to move.
The enormous knight, half-turned, sword raised, found himself staring into eyes that did not belong in this world. They were calm — not the calm of fearlessness, but of complete stillness. The eyes of a man who had seen monsters before, and did not care for them anymore.
Jin Mu-Won stepped fully into the room. The smoke curled away from him as if uncertain whether to touch him. His long black hair was streaked with ash, his robe torn at the shoulder from some unseen struggle, but his bearing was unbroken. In one hand he held his staff, its end scorched and cracked, yet steady.
Behind him, the hallway burned. The Red Keep itself groaned like a wounded beast.
Gregor Clegane's eyes narrowed behind his hound-shaped helm. "Who the fuck are you supposed to be?" His voice was a rasping growl, thick with arrogance and bloodlust.
Jin didn't answer. He simply took one slow step forward. His staff tapped the stone floor once — a sound too soft to echo, yet somehow it filled the room.
Elia Martell stood frozen near the bed, her arms tightening around Aegon. Her body trembled, though her gaze did not leave Jin's back. For the first time since the bells had tolled that morning, she felt the faint stir of something she hadn't dared believe in anymore — hope.
The two lesser Lannister men sneered. "He's no knight," one said, spitting on the floor. "Some sellsword in rags—"
The words died when Jin's eyes shifted to him.
The air moved. No — it shuddered. The man's breath caught in his throat, a tremor running down his arm as if invisible hands had seized his muscles. He dropped his sword with a clatter, clutching at his chest. His companion backed away instinctively.
Jin's voice was quiet, but each syllable was precise. "Leave this place. Take the path down the servants' hall and run until the fire does not reach you. If you draw your sword again before you leave the city, your hand will not answer you."
The men hesitated, but whatever they saw in his face made their choice for them. They fled, stumbling past the doorway, their courage gone.
Only the Mountain remained.
He laughed. The sound was thick, like rocks grinding in a pit. "Tricks and whispers," he said. "I've gutted mages and priests before. You'll die screaming like the rest."
Jin's tone did not change. "You have killed for pleasure. Today you will learn what it means to live with the pain you made."
Clegane raised his sword in both hands. "You talk too much."
He charged.
The blade came down like a falling tower. Jin moved only his wrist. His staff met the sword with a sound like thunder, wood and steel clashing — and the steel bent. The shock drove Gregor half a step back, confusion flashing across his brutal face.
He swung again. And again. The staff blurred, catching every strike, redirecting, deflecting. The air itself began to twist around Jin's movements, rippling with the pressure of his qi. Sparks flew where steel met air too quickly to see.
Gregor roared and slammed forward with his shield. The blow would have crushed a lesser man outright. Jin slid aside, turning his body with the flow of the strike. His staff darted out, tapping the giant's armor just beneath the shoulder.
A sharp crack rang out. Clegane staggered, his right arm hanging limp for a heartbeat before rage forced it back into motion.
"You—" he bellowed.
"Still standing," Jin said softly. "Good. Learn to feel what you've given."
The Mountain's next strike was wilder, slower. He was strong, monstrously so, but his strength was blunt, unshaped. Jin moved as though through water — each motion smooth, unhurried, inevitable. The staff's end struck armor plates in quick succession: chest, ribs, thigh, knee. Each blow landed with a dull crack that reverberated through stone.
By the fourth strike, Clegane's sword dropped from nerveless fingers. He fell to one knee, gasping like a bull speared too many times to count. His helm turned upward, hatred burning through the slits.
"Finish it," he snarled. "Coward."
Jin knelt slightly, resting the staff against the ground. "You want mercy?"
The knight spat blood. "I want your head."
"Then you still haven't learned." Jin's tone was quiet, almost sorrowful. He stepped closer until the two men were nearly face to face. "Mercy isn't for the innocent. It's for the damned who choose to change. You are not one of them."
He struck once more — open-handed, palm against helm.
The blow sent the Mountain sprawling. The sound was like a bell breaking. The floor beneath his massive frame cracked. When he tried to move, his limbs refused him. Jin had shattered the flow of energy through his body — not killing, not crippling, but ensuring every movement would remind him of what he'd done.
"You will live," Jin said, rising to his full height. "Every breath will carry the pain you gave others. If you find redemption, perhaps the ache will fade."
He turned away.
Elia had not moved. The child in her arms whimpered, sensing the charged stillness that lingered in the room. She flinched as Jin approached, though his expression was gentle now, the ferocity of moments before gone as if it had never been.
"Come," he said. "This place will fall soon."
She stared at him, wide-eyed. "You came through the fire."
He shook his head once. "No. I came through men who made it."
Her lips parted. "Why? You don't even know me."
Jin's gaze softened. "A mother's cry reaches farther than kings' commands. You are not the first I've heard."
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant crackle of burning wood. Then Elia nodded slowly. "My daughter—Rhaenys—she escaped with my maid. They went through the servants' tunnel."
"We'll find them," Jin said. "Hold tight to the boy."
He lifted his staff, touching the air lightly. The faint shimmer of qi rippled outward, bending the smoke aside to reveal a hidden door in the corner of the chamber. The servants' passage — narrow, dark, but leading down.
Elia clutched Aegon closer. "How can you see that?"
"I listen," Jin said. "Stone remembers where men hide their sins."
---
The stairway twisted downward through heat and darkness. The walls were hot to the touch. The smell of pitch and charred flesh grew stronger with each turn.
At one landing, they passed a dead soldier slumped against the wall, his armor melted, his eyes still open. Elia shuddered. Jin paused only long enough to pull the body aside so she wouldn't have to step over it.
When they reached the lower hall, the sounds of battle were closer again — shouts, screams, the roar of collapsing beams.
Jin glanced back. "Stay close behind me. Whatever happens, don't run unless I tell you."
Elia nodded. "What about you?"
He allowed himself a small smile. "I'll be where the fire isn't."
They emerged into the open courtyard of Maegor's Holdfast. The world outside was chaos. Flames licked up the walls; the sky glowed orange, thick with ash. Men ran past carrying loot, others dragging prisoners. The Red Keep was dying, piece by piece.
Elia's eyes darted across the carnage, desperate. "Rhaenys—"
A child's cry cut through the din, faint but real. Jin turned his head sharply toward the sound. "There," he said, pointing toward a collapsed stable. Without another word, he was moving.
They reached the wreckage in moments. Beneath a fallen beam, Mariya struggled to pull Rhaenys free. The girl's eyes lit up when she saw her mother, her small voice breaking into a sob. "Mother!"
Elia fell to her knees, pulling both daughter and handmaid into her arms. "Thank the gods," she whispered again and again.
Mariya's face was streaked with soot. "I thought—you weren't coming."
Jin turned away politely, giving them their moment, but his senses stretched outward. The ground trembled faintly beneath his feet. Not from fire — from charges. The pyromancers' stores. Wildfire. Aerys's final madness burning beneath the Keep.
He looked up at the walls, at the burning towers, and felt the qi of the place unraveling like frayed rope.
They had minutes, maybe less.
"Elia," he said, voice low but commanding. "We must leave. Now."
She nodded, clutching Rhaenys to her side, Aegon still against her chest. "Where—how do we get out?"
"The sea," Jin replied. "There are tunnels beneath the kitchens that lead to the shore. Can you walk?"
"Yes."
He smiled faintly. "Then walk as if every step belongs to the living."
---
They moved quickly through the inner courtyards. The firelight danced across Jin's face, throwing his features into planes of gold and shadow. He fought only when he had to — one man in gilded mail lunged at them near the kitchens; Jin parried the sword with his staff and struck once. The man collapsed, gasping, alive but unmoving.
Elia watched him, her thoughts a whirl of fear and disbelief. He was not like the knights she'd known — no armor, no heraldry, no prayers shouted before striking. He fought like a man who had measured violence, who understood exactly how much of it the world deserved.
They reached the tunnel mouth hidden behind a pile of barrels. Cool air breathed from the darkness beyond — and the faint rush of waves.
Elia hesitated, looking back at the burning towers. "So many…" she whispered. "All those who couldn't escape."
Jin met her gaze steadily. "Then remember them. That is how you keep them alive."
For a heartbeat, their eyes held — her despair meeting his weary calm, and somewhere between them, a fragile trust formed.
"Go," he said softly. "I'll follow."
---
When they emerged at last on the rocky shoreline below the city, the sea wind hit them — cold, sharp, full of salt and smoke. The Red Keep burned high above, its reflection rippling across the water like molten glass. Ships still fired in the harbor; flames leapt from the docks.
Jin scanned the horizon and found what he needed: a small galley half-hidden among the rocks, its sail torn but hull intact. He guided them aboard, his movements steady, efficient, even as the wind howled around them.
Elia sat with her children wrapped in cloaks, her eyes wide and hollow as she watched the city. Mariya sobbed quietly beside her. Rhaenys leaned against her mother, whispering, "Are we going home now?"
Elia swallowed hard. "Yes, my love. Somewhere safe."
Jin moved to the prow. The oarlocks groaned as he pushed them away from the shore. The current caught the boat, carrying them into the darkness beyond the burning harbor. The waves hissed like whispers.
Behind them, the Red Keep shuddered one final time, a column of green fire blooming skyward as the wildfire stores ignited. The night turned emerald for a moment, then black again.
Elia watched the glow fade and whispered, "So ends the dragon's house."
Jin's voice came from the shadows near the stern. "No. So begins its debt."
She turned toward him, the faint light catching his profile — calm, unreadable, but not cold. "Who are you?" she asked quietly.
He looked back at her, eyes reflecting the distant firelight. "Someone who has already seen one world burn," he said. "And will not let another."
---