18th Day of the Seventh Moon, 281 AC – The Eyrie & Winterfell
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Epigraph
"A sword can win battles, but it is oaths that start wars. Once spoken, they bind men tighter than chains, and loose blood more freely than blades."
— Jin Mu-Won
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The Eyrie
Ravens flew swift as arrows across the Vale, bearing the king's commands. Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, fostered at the Eyrie, were to be delivered to King's Landing as hostages for their fathers' loyalty.
But Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, called his bannermen instead.
"I will not hand over these boys to a king who burns fathers and strangles sons," he declared in his hall, his voice echoing off pale stone. "If Aerys Targaryen calls it treason, then let him. I call it honor."
His lords raised swords in answer, their oaths filling the chamber.
"Robert is our storm!"
"The North remembers!"
And thus, rebellion was no longer whisper but fire.
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At Winterfell
Far in the North, Rickard Stark gathered his bannermen. Lords from the Wolfswood, from the Rills, from the Neck rode through Winterfell's gates, their banners flapping in the summer wind. Direwolves, mermen, pine trees, bears — the North stirred as one.
Jin Mu-Won walked among them, his staff in hand, his gaze steady. He watched farmers turned spearmen, smiths turned sword-bearers. He saw fear in their breath, trembling beneath their oaths.
That night, as the hall feasted, Jin stood apart, watching flames dance in the hearth. Eddard Stark approached quietly, his face solemn.
"You saved my father and brother," Ned said, his voice low but firm. "For that, I owe you more than thanks. Yet I do not understand you. You are no bannerman, no lord. Why risk yourself for men you did not know?"
Jin turned, his eyes calm but deep. His reply was long, flowing, his voice carrying both grief and hope.
"Because I know what it means when a man burns while others watch. I have seen whole valleys turned to ash because no one stood between cruelty and the helpless. I came to this world with nothing — no house, no banners, no name your lords would honor. But I came with this vow: wherever I stand, no innocent will burn if I can stop it. Titles matter nothing. What matters is breath, and life, and the children who must laugh tomorrow."
Ned was silent for a long moment. Then he bowed his head slightly. "Then we are alike, Jin Mu-Won. I too would rather shield than conquer. Perhaps that is why Robert needs me."
Jin's lips curved faintly. "Or why you will need me."
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The Training
Days later, Jin stood in the yard as northern men gathered, spears in hand. He moved among them, correcting grips, guiding breath.
"Do not hold the spear as if it were a stone," he instructed, his staff tapping shoulders, shifting stances. "Breathe with it. Each strike begins here." He touched his chest. "Not here." He tapped a man's hands.
The soldiers grumbled at first, but as he showed them, their strikes grew steadier, their endurance longer. They began to understand.
Rickard Stark watched from the walls, arms crossed. "You teach them strange ways, stranger. But I see no harm in it. If it steadies their hands, so be it."
Brandon scoffed openly. "Northern steel needs no tricks of breath. We fight as wolves, not monks."
Jin only smiled faintly. "A wolf that tires will still fall to a patient hunter. Better a wolf that endures."
Some men chuckled, others nodded. Brandon scowled, but Ned said nothing, only watched with a thoughtful gaze.
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The Oaths
By late summer, ravens carried word of Jon Arryn's defiance. The Vale, the North, and the Stormlands stood against the Iron Throne.
At Winterfell's great hall, lords and bannermen gathered. Robert Baratheon himself rode north to swear his oath with the wolves. He was broad-shouldered, his voice booming, his laughter loud even in the shadow of war.
"They've taken my Lyanna!" he roared, slamming his hammer upon the table. "And by the gods, I'll tear their dragons down stone by stone until I have her back!"
The hall roared with him. Cups clashed, oaths shouted.
Only Jin sat quiet, his staff steady.
Ned noticed, and later asked, "Why did you not cheer, Jin? Do you not believe in our cause?"
Jin's gaze was calm, his words long, deliberate. "Your cause may be just, Ned Stark. But no cause worth shouting should begin with vengeance alone. Vengeance blinds. Already I see men cheering for blood, not for peace. If you win this war, but lose the mercy of your hearts, then the war is already lost."
Ned frowned, troubled. "You speak truths I do not wish to hear."
"Truths rarely come when we wish," Jin said softly. "But they come when they must."
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The Rising Storm
By autumn, the banners were called in earnest. The Vale, the North, the Stormlands, and soon the Riverlands rallied beneath Robert's cause. The realm trembled.
In King's Landing, Elia Martell rocked her children to sleep, whispering lullabies though her heart was heavy. In Starfall, Ashara looked northward, her violet eyes searching horizons she could not see.
And Jin Mu-Won, once Sword Saint of Murim, stood with the wolves of Winterfell, his qi burning brighter with each passing day. He had walked into their war, not by choice but by fate.
He looked upon the gathering banners, the steel and the oaths, and whispered to himself, long and low:
"I have seen war consume worlds. If this storm must break, then I will not stop it. But I will be the shield within it. Wherever fire falls, I will stand — so that when the ashes clear, there will still be laughter left to save."
The direwolf banners snapped in the wind, and the rebellion began in earnest.