Blackwater Coast, the 11th Day of the Third Moon, 282 AC
Morning came gray again, as it always did near the ruins of King's Landing. The sun never rose clean here; it dragged itself up through layers of smoke and sea fog like an old drunk climbing out of bed.
Elia awoke to the slow rhythm of waves against the shore and the scent of boiled fish. Mariya was crouched by the fire, stirring the pot with a wooden ladle, her lips moving in silent complaint about salt, fish bones, and the cold wind that refused to die.
"Don't frown at the sea, girl," Thalen said from behind her. "It frowns back. Then it takes what it wants."
Mariya grumbled something about old women and their superstitions. Elia smiled faintly where she sat, her children still asleep beside her under a blanket patched from sailcloth.
Beyond the firelight, Jin stood in the shallows, water swirling around his ankles. His staff was planted in the sand, the tide lapping against it. He was still, eyes closed, breathing slow and even.
Elia had learned not to disturb him when he was like that. Whatever he did — prayer, meditation, or something stranger — it left the air around him feeling different afterward. Quieter somehow. Lighter.
When he finally opened his eyes and came back to camp, Thalen was scolding Rhaenys for trying to steal a piece of flatbread from the pan.
"You'd think being a princess would've taught you patience," the old woman muttered.
Rhaenys crossed her arms, unrepentant. "I'm not a princess anymore."
Elia flinched at that, but Thalen only grunted. "Then all the more reason to wait your turn like a common soul."
Jin passed by them, pausing just long enough to set a small shell in front of Rhaenys. "You were patient enough to find this yesterday," he said mildly. "If you wait until the food's done, it'll keep its color."
The girl's eyes widened. "You found it?"
"I borrowed it from the tide," he said.
She squinted at him, trying to decide if he was teasing. "Does the tide take things back?"
"Only if you forget to thank it," Jin said, walking on.
Thalen watched him go, shaking her head. "Strange man," she muttered, though not unkindly. "Talks like the gods owe him favors."
---
They left the cove after the meal, traveling along the coastal road that wound south toward Rosby. The road was a scar — burned wagons and blackened trees lined it like bones. Smoke still drifted from the ruins of villages farther inland.
Jin carried Aegon in a sling across his chest; the boy slept, small and content, unaware of the ashes beneath their feet. Elia walked beside him, her shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders. Rhaenys clutched Mariya's hand, dragging her feet through the dust to make patterns.
Ralf — the half-starved deserter Jin had spared days earlier — followed at a distance, a pack slung over one shoulder. He limped from an old wound but never complained. Every so often, he'd glance at Jin as if trying to understand why he was still alive.
They passed a crossroads where a wooden post jutted from the earth. Crows had gathered there, black shapes shifting restlessly. Jin paused, eyes narrowing. Three men hung from the beam — looters, perhaps, or rebels. The wind tugged at their torn cloaks.
Elia looked away, pulling Rhaenys close. "How many times must men hang each other before they learn there's nothing left to win?"
"Until they learn they were never fighting the right enemy," Jin said quietly.
She glanced at him. "And who is that?"
He brushed his thumb against the wood of his staff. "Their own hunger."
---
By afternoon, the wind turned warmer. They came across a wagon half-buried in sand near a cliff edge. Two bodies lay beside it — a man and a woman, arms still around each other. The sea had already begun its slow claim.
Thalen made a sound halfway between a sigh and a curse. "They starved, I'd wager. Wouldn't be the first."
Jin crouched near them, eyes tracing the lines of their faces. "They stayed together," he murmured. "That's something."
He took off his cloak and covered them both, pressing his palm to the earth briefly. A ripple of qi moved through the sand — not power, not magic, just stillness offered to the restless.
When he stood, Rhaenys was watching. "Why did you do that?"
"They were cold," Jin said simply.
---
They reached a village before dusk — or what remained of one. Half the houses had been looted and burned. Smoke rose from a single chimney near the center square, thin and gray.
As they approached, a man stepped into view. He was tall and wiry, with a face weathered by sea air and suspicion. His hand rested on the hilt of a short sword, though it looked like he hadn't sharpened it in years.
"Travelers?" he asked, eyes flicking over them one by one.
"Refugees," Elia said before Jin could answer. "We seek only rest for the night."
The man's gaze lingered on Jin. "You don't look like any refugee I've seen."
"I don't sleep well in cities," Jin said mildly.
Something in his tone disarmed the man. After a moment, he nodded. "You can stay in the barn. Don't touch the well; the water's gone sour."
Thalen snorted. "Ain't nothing new about sour water."
The man cracked the faintest smile. "You'll fit right in, old woman."
---
The barn smelled of hay and salt. The children slept quickly. Outside, the sky had cleared enough for the stars to show through — faint, uncertain lights above a dark world.
Elia sat against a wall, watching Jin patch a tear in his sleeve by lamplight. "You fix things often," she said.
"It keeps my hands busy," he replied.
"You could rest."
"I could," he said, smiling faintly. "But then I'd have nothing to mend tomorrow."
She looked down at her hands. "Before the war, I thought peace meant stillness. But it's… lonely, isn't it? When you finally stop moving."
Jin nodded. "Peace is just motion we no longer notice. When it stops completely, that's death."
Elia laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. "You sound like one of the old monks in Dorne. They used to say, 'The sand moves even when it sleeps.'"
"Then your monks were wiser than most kings."
She smiled faintly, the firelight catching the faint curve of her lips. "You would've liked them. They never stopped arguing."
"I prefer people who argue," Jin said. "It means they still believe something's worth defending."
They fell quiet for a while. The barn creaked in the wind. Somewhere outside, an owl called once, then again.
---
Later, when Elia had drifted into uneasy sleep, Ralf approached the fire. He hesitated before sitting down opposite Jin.
"Why did you spare me?" he asked suddenly.
Jin didn't look up. "Because you were still breathing."
"That's it?"
"That's enough reason for now."
Ralf frowned. "You don't know what I've done."
"I don't need to." Jin glanced at him, eyes unreadable. "What matters is what you'll do tomorrow."
Ralf stared into the flames. "Tomorrow, I'll still be me."
"Then start there," Jin said.
Ralf snorted. "You talk like you've never killed a man."
Jin's gaze lingered on the fire, on the way it devoured wood without thought. "I've killed more than I can count," he said softly. "But I've saved fewer than I'd like."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, but alive — the kind that comes when two men who've seen too much realize they don't have to explain it to each other.
When Jin finally rose to his feet, Ralf spoke again. "You really think the world can get better?"
Jin's answer came without hesitation. "I don't think it can. I know it must."
---
Morning came with a pale drizzle. The villagers offered them stale bread and directions south. In exchange, Jin helped mend a section of collapsed roof while Ralf drew water from the well, grumbling about "labor not being part of the deal."
Rhaenys chased chickens through the mud, laughing for the first time in days. Elia watched her daughter with a strange mixture of joy and sorrow.
Mariya hummed while washing clothes at the stream, her tune off-key but hopeful. Even Thalen found a dry bench and muttered that she could almost taste the sun behind the clouds.
It wasn't peace, not really — but it was something like it.
And for now, that was enough.
---
That night, as they camped near the edge of a salt marsh, Jin watched the horizon. Lightning flickered far out at sea.
Elia joined him, wrapping her shawl tighter. "Storms coming?"
"Yes," he said. "But not yet."
She glanced at him, noticing the faint tremor in his fingers. "You're hurt."
He smiled slightly. "Just tired."
"You never admit pain."
He shrugged. "It doesn't help to talk about it."
Elia's eyes softened. "Sometimes it does."
He met her gaze for a long moment. "Then perhaps I'll learn that too."
The first drops of rain fell between them — soft, hesitant, like the beginning of another long road.
---