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Chapter 4 - Chapter 3 – The Road to Harrenhal

10th Day of the Sixth Moon, 281 AC – The Kingsroad

The road stretched long and dusty, winding northward past fields of barley and groves of oak. Summer clung stubbornly to the land, though clouds gathered heavy on the horizon.

Jin Mu-Won walked at the rear of the small caravan, his staff tapping softly against the packed earth. Around him clattered the retinue of House Dayne — squires leading horses, servants carrying trunks, knights in pale cloaks whose swords gleamed with Dornish steel. At their head rode Ashara Dayne, her violet eyes scanning the road ahead, her posture a blend of grace and command.

To most, Jin looked an oddity among them — robes patched, no sigil on his chest, no sword at his hip. Yet he moved with such quiet presence that even the knights gave him space, unsure whether to call him master, monk, or madman.

---

Smallfolk on the Road

Near midday, they passed a village where smoke curled from low chimneys and children played barefoot in the dust. Farmers bent their backs in the fields, but their eyes lifted as the retinue passed. Most bowed, some only watched warily.

A little girl stumbled on the roadside, scraping her knee. She cried out, clutching at her torn hem. The retinue rode on, as lords often did, but Jin paused.

He knelt before her, staff across his knees. "Does it hurt, little one?"

The girl sniffled, nodding.

Jin's palm hovered above the wound. He drew a thread of qi, guiding it gently into her flesh. The bleeding slowed, the raw scrape knitting into pink skin. She gasped, blinking at her unbroken knee.

Her mother rushed forward, pulling her close, bowing awkwardly. "Seven bless you, ser!"

Jin only smiled faintly. "No blessing needed. A wound is not meant to linger."

Ashara, watching from horseback, shook her head with a smirk. "You'll have them singing you as a healer, if you keep stopping for every scraped knee."

Jin rose smoothly, dusting his robes. "Better that than sung as a butcher."

Her smile faded into thoughtfulness, though her tone remained light. "Strange man. Stranger words."

---

Campfire Conversations

That night, they camped in a clearing by the road. The knights clustered around fire, boasting of the tourney to come.

"I'll unhorse half the North, you'll see," one bragged. "Lord Whent will fill my purse with gold."

Another laughed. "Not if Ser Jaime Lannister rides. The boy's half a legend already."

"And what of Prince Rhaegar?" a third murmured, voice dropping. "They say he sings to the moon and fights like dawn itself."

Jin listened silently, gaze upon the flames. These names meant little yet, but the weight they carried was clear in the men's voices.

Ashara sat across from him, her cloak drawn close. She leaned forward, eyes sharp. "You don't ask about them. Not curious who rules this realm you've stumbled into?"

Jin tilted his head. "Powerful men are the same everywhere. They chase glory, or vengeance, or crowns. It is the common folk who pay the price."

Ashara arched a brow. "And yet you travel with nobles now."

A faint smile touched his lips. "Perhaps because among nobles, there are some who do not forget the common folk."

For the first time, Ashara faltered, her eyes dropping briefly to the fire.

---

A Knight's Cruelty

The next day, as they rode past a hamlet, they found a knight berating a farmer who knelt in the dust, trembling.

"You owe your lord three bushels!" the knight snarled, striking the man across the face. "You'll pay, or I'll take it from your hide."

The farmer stammered, "The blight took half, ser, I beg—"

The knight raised his gauntlet again — and Jin's staff blocked the blow.

The knight blinked, stunned at the sudden presence of the tall stranger. "Who in the seven hells are you to bar my hand?"

Jin's voice was calm, but steel lay beneath. "A man who has seen too many beaten for less. The grain may be gone, but the man is still here. Starve him, and no field will grow next year."

The knight sneered. "Dornish cur. This is Crownlands law, not—"

Jin's staff flicked, not striking but shifting the knight's wrist with such precision that the sword clattered from his grip. The retinue murmured. The farmer gaped.

Jin's eyes narrowed. "Law without mercy is only cruelty dressed in gold."

Ashara rode forward then, her voice cold as steel. "This man travels under my protection. If you would quarrel, ser, quarrel with House Dayne."

The knight paled, retrieving his sword in silence. He spat on the ground and retreated, muttering curses.

Ashara looked at Jin, something unreadable in her eyes. "You'll make enemies quickly, speaking so boldly."

Jin's gaze was steady. "Then let them come. Better their enmity than my silence while men suffer."

---

The River's Edge

That evening, Jin walked alone to the river's edge. He knelt, washing his hands in the cool water, the blood and dust flowing away. His reflection stared back — a man scarred, weary, but still standing.

Ashara approached quietly, cloak trailing in the grass. "You're reckless," she said softly. "That knight could have cut you down. My name won't protect you everywhere."

Jin chuckled faintly. "Where I come from, I faced men who could burn valleys, split mountains, command beasts of shadow. A knight with an angry fist is a small danger."

Ashara knelt beside him, her violet eyes searching his. "And what did you gain from all those battles?"

His gaze softened, distant. "Scars. Ghosts. And the knowledge that if I had not fought, more innocents would have been lost. It is enough."

Silence fell between them, broken only by the river's rush. For the first time, Ashara's teasing edge was gone.

"You're not like the men here," she murmured. "Perhaps that's why I can't look away."

Jin smiled faintly, dipping his hands once more into the river. "Or perhaps it is because you see in me the same thing you hide — a soul searching for purpose."

Her breath caught, and she looked away, the faintest flush coloring her cheeks.

---

Toward Harrenhal

By the end of the week, the towers of Harrenhal loomed on the horizon, black and jagged like broken teeth against the sky. The air buzzed with anticipation — banners from every kingdom fluttered along the roads, knights boasting, maidens gossiping, lords plotting.

Ashara rode at the head of her retinue, her face composed, but her eyes drifting often toward the stranger who walked with staff in hand, steady as ever.

Jin Mu-Won, once Sword Saint of a distant world, now a nameless wanderer in Westeros, walked toward destiny he had not sought — but would not turn from.

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