20th Day of the Sixth Moon, 281 AC – Harrenhal
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Epigraph
"When the mighty gather, the air itself grows heavy. Some see only feasts and banners. I see the weight of choices yet unmade, and the shadow of blood not yet spilled."
— Jin Mu-Won
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The towers of Harrenhal rose like blackened bones against the sky. Once a monument to pride, now a ruin scarred by dragonfire, they loomed over the festival grounds like silent sentinels. Beneath them sprawled a city of tents — silks of Reach lords, banners of the North, storm-colored pennants, lion-gold streamers, the red and black of the crown.
Jin Mu-Won stood at the edge of it all, his staff steady in the dust. To his eyes, it was not merely a tourney ground. It was a crucible.
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The Festival
Smallfolk thronged the lanes, hawking roasted meat, candied figs, spiced wine. Children darted between knights polishing armor, jugglers tossed knives, minstrels sang of heroes old and new.
Jin moved quietly through them, his gaze neither disdainful nor enraptured, but steady. He saw the joy, but also the hunger — the men-at-arms eyeing purses too heavy, the children begging with hollow cheeks. He heard laughter, but beneath it, whispers sharp as blades.
"Robert Baratheon will smash all challengers in the mêlée."
"They say Prince Rhaegar has brought his harp… and his crown."
"And the Lady Lyanna Stark — gods, have you seen her? A wolf-maid from the North, fiercer than half the knights here."
Jin listened, each word another stone in the storm he already felt gathering.
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Ashara Among the Nobles
Ashara Dayne walked at his side, violet eyes keen. Unlike Jin, she was at home here — nobles called her name, lords bowed, maidens whispered enviously. Yet she glanced often at him, amused by how he moved through the throng untouched by spectacle.
"You look at Harrenhal," she said, "as if you see ghosts instead of banners."
Jin's lips curved faintly. "Every tower has its ghosts. But these—" he gestured to the ruined spires "—speak louder than most. A fortress built too proud, undone by fire. Pride leaves scars longer than steel."
Ashara tilted her head. "You speak as if you knew Harren the Black himself."
"I know men like him," Jin said softly. "I fought them all my life. And their pride always ended the same way."
Ashara's smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. She studied him a moment, then looked away. "You unsettle me, Jin Mu-Won. You look at the world as if you already know its ending."
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The Princes
The crowd parted then, voices rising. The royal party entered, banners of red and black snapping in the wind. At their head rode Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, silver hair gleaming, violet eyes distant. His presence drew gasps — women swooned, men whispered. Beside him, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, shone like dawn incarnate.
Elia Martell rode near, her smile warm though her body frail, her children left behind at Dragonstone. She waved gracefully to the crowd, her eyes soft.
Jin's breath caught. He did not yet know her fate, but he felt her qi — fragile, trembling, yet luminous. A woman already bound by sorrow.
His staff tightened in his hand.
Ashara's voice softened. "That is my brother beside the prince. Arthur Dayne. No finer knight in the realm."
Jin nodded once, his eyes on Arthur's calm poise. "I see it. His breath flows like a river. Controlled. Balanced."
Ashara blinked. "You… see his breath?"
Jin only smiled faintly. "In a way."
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The Shadow Beneath
That evening, the feasting hall roared with song and wine. Knights boasted of tilts, maidens laughed, lords plotted quietly. Jin sat at the edge, more shadow than guest.
He watched Robert Baratheon lift a cask as though it were a goblet, roaring with laughter. He saw Brandon Stark burning with restless pride. He saw Lyanna Stark slip from her seat, her wolf's spirit too wild for courtiers' chains.
And he saw Rhaegar — sitting apart, his gaze fixed upon Lyanna with an intensity that made Jin's stomach tighten.
Qi told him what words did not: Rhaegar's breath was heavy with purpose, with obsession, with something more dangerous than mere desire.
Ashara leaned close, whispering, "You see too much. What do you make of our prince?"
Jin's reply was quiet, solemn. "A man who stands upon a precipice. One step forward, and the world will bleed."
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Quiet by the Lake
Later, when the feasting waned, Jin walked to the lake beyond the castle. The moon rippled across the still waters, reflecting towers broken and whole.
Ashara found him there, her cloak wrapped close. For once, no nobles called her name. She stood at his side, silent a long while.
Finally she said, "You speak of storms, of bleeding, of ghosts. Yet you also heal scraped knees, and soothe beasts, and smile at children as if you've never known war. Which is the true Jin Mu-Won?"
He turned to her, his gaze deep. "Both. I have seen the worst of men. I have been the shield against it. And if I smile at a child, it is because I know what it costs to keep that smile alive."
Ashara's eyes softened, her breath catching. She whispered, almost against her will, "Then gods help me… I hope you never leave this land."
Jin said nothing, but his hand tightened on his staff. Above them, the ruined towers of Harrenhal loomed, shadows long upon the water — silent witnesses to a gathering storm.