21st–23rd Day of the Sixth Moon, 281 AC – Harrenhal
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Epigraph
"The clash of steel is loud, but it is not the true sound of war. War begins in whispers — in glances that linger too long, in words left unsaid, in pride that cannot bend."
— Jin Mu-Won
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The Jousts Begin
The first morning dawned bright, the mist rising from the lake as banners snapped in the wind. Harrenhal's grounds teemed with life — nobles in silks, knights in gleaming armor, smallfolk perched on rooftops just to glimpse the lists.
Jin sat among Ashara's retinue, his staff across his knees. The jousting lists stretched before them, two long lanes of packed earth, railings gleaming.
The trumpets blared, and the first tilts began.
Knight after knight thundered forth — shields splintered, lances shattered, crowds roared. Ser Jaime Lannister, golden-haired and barely a man grown, unhorsed a stormlander to cheers. Ser Yohn Royce of the Vale, heavy in runed bronze, endured tilt after tilt.
Jin watched, quiet, his eyes narrowing. To the crowd, it was spectacle. To him, it was wasteful chaos — power and pride clashing for no purpose but applause. Yet he could not deny the grace: the surge of horses, the flash of lances, the skill in every measured strike.
Ashara leaned toward him, smirking. "Well? Do these knights of Westeros impress the stranger from far-off lands?"
Jin's lips curved faintly. "They ride well. But they ride for glory, not for life. In Murim, a fight without purpose is only vanity."
She tilted her head. "And yet you watch."
"I watch," he admitted softly, "because sometimes vanity sets fire to the world."
Her smile faltered, her gaze flicking toward the royal pavilion.
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Rhaegar and Elia
When Prince Rhaegar rode forth, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Silver hair gleamed beneath his helm, his armor black and enameled with rubies that caught the sunlight like drops of fire. He sat his horse with perfect poise, not as a warrior eager for glory, but as a man fulfilling a duty written in the stars.
The crowd roared his name.
Elia Martell, seated in the royal box, clapped softly, her face pale but her eyes alight with pride. Yet Jin, watching with qi-sense sharpened, felt the strain in her breath, the way her body sagged slightly even as she smiled.
She loved him, Jin thought. But she suffered for him.
When Rhaegar lowered his lance and charged, his form was flawless. He struck with precision, unhorsing every challenger, his poise unbroken. The crowd exalted him, voices rising in awe.
Jin's staff tightened in his grip. "Such power," he murmured. "But his heart… his heart beats not for the woman beside him."
Ashara shot him a sharp look. "And how would you know that?"
"Because breath cannot lie," Jin said quietly. "And his flows toward another."
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Whispers in the Crowd
In the crowd, Jin overheard whispers sharp as daggers.
"Did you see how he looked at her? Lady Lyanna Stark."
"She's betrothed to Robert Baratheon, isn't she?"
"Betrothal means little to a prince."
Laughter, cruel and eager.
Jin's jaw clenched. He looked to the northern maid — wild-haired, laughing as she tried to still her restless spirit among the seats. Her qi burned bright, fierce, untamed. A wolf indeed.
And Rhaegar's eyes, again and again, drifted to her.
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The Feast
That night, the hall blazed with torches, music rising above the clatter of cups and plates. Robert Baratheon roared drunken songs, Ned Stark laughed more quietly, Brandon Stark boasted loudly of his sister's unmatched spirit. Lords whispered, ladies gossiped.
Jin sat apart, observing.
Ashara joined him with a cup of wine, her smirk softer tonight. "You sit as though you've seen this feast before."
Jin's gaze was steady. "I have. Different faces, different banners, but the same pride, the same hunger. And always, it ends in ashes."
She tilted her head, searching him. "Then why stay? Why not walk away into the hills and leave us to our pride?"
His eyes softened, his voice deep. "Because if I walk away, who shields those who cannot shield themselves? I have seen too many children weep because no one stood between them and the storm. I will not watch it happen again."
Ashara's breath caught, her teasing gone. She looked at him for a long moment, then whispered, "You carry too much."
"And yet I live," Jin said softly. "So perhaps I can carry a little more."
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The Final Day
On the last day of the tourney, the final tilt came — Rhaegar Targaryen against Ser Brandon Stark. The crowd roared, voices split between wolf and dragon.
The lances shattered in thunder. Brandon fell. Rhaegar remained, unbroken, flawless.
The field erupted in cheers, the air electric. The prince raised his lance high, his horse trotting toward the stands. All eyes followed.
He rode past his wife. Past Elia Martell, who smiled bravely though her breath stilled in her chest. Past Ashara, who gasped softly. Past lords and ladies who rose in expectation.
And then he stopped before Lyanna Stark.
The maid of the North froze, her wild spirit caught for the first time. The prince lowered his lance, and upon it hung a crown of blue roses, pale as winter sky.
He placed it in her lap.
The crowd erupted — cheers, gasps, shouts of outrage. Robert Baratheon roared in fury, Brandon cursed, Elia's eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
And Jin Mu-Won, staff in hand, felt the storm break.
His qi surged, telling him what none could yet see. This was not a gesture of courtly love. It was obsession, a spark thrown upon dry kindling.
He whispered, his voice lost in the chaos, "The storm begins."