12th Day of the Eighth Moon, 281 AC – Moat Cailin, The Kingsroad, King's Landing, and The Reach
The wind blew sharp and cold across the Neck. At Moat Cailin, the marshes stretched endless and foul, their stench carried even into the camps where northern banners flapped. Direwolves, pine trees, bears, and tridents fluttered together now, for ravens had flown swift and grim: the Stormlands and the Vale had already marched, and Robert Baratheon had struck the first blow.
The rebels had seized Gulltown after a hard fight, Robert's hammer smashing through the Vale's foes, his laugh carrying over the din like a man born for battle. Tales of his strength spread with every raven — a warrior as mighty as the old kings of legend.
Jin Mu-Won listened in silence as the northern lords retold the victories, their cups clashing in celebration, their voices loud with pride. But when he looked beyond the walls, he saw the huddled shapes of families clinging to wagons, too tired even to cheer.
It was there that Jin sat, staff across his knees, tending a boy whose fever had not broken. The child whimpered as his mother dabbed his brow with water. Jin placed a hand gently upon the boy's chest, letting qi flow steady, easing his lungs, calming the tremor of his breath. Slowly, the child quieted, his fever breaking.
The mother wept, clutching Jin's hand. "Bless you, ser. Bless you a thousand times. No lord spares us a thought, but you—"
Jin shook his head. "Do not thank me. Thank your son's strength. His breath still held him. I only gave it room to rise again."
But the whispers spread all the same. The Nameless Shield, who turned back fever with a touch, who bent fire and steadied chains.
---
That night, Ned Stark found him again. The hall behind them roared with drunken boasts, but Ned's face was grave.
"Robert's victories are real," Ned said quietly. "But so too are the costs. Already the smallfolk flee by the thousands. Armies strip villages bare, whether for the crown or for rebellion. And more blood will follow."
Jin's eyes were calm, but his words long, heavy. "War is a beast that does not care who rides it. Robert may think he holds its reins, but the beast will trample fields and hearths alike. If you fight, Ned Stark, then remember: you do not fight only for crowns or sisters. You fight for these people. For every hearth that will be broken if you lose sight of them."
Ned's jaw tightened. "And if Robert does not see that?"
Jin looked toward the firelight spilling from the hall. "Then perhaps someone must show him."
---
Far to the south, in the halls of the Red Keep, Elia Martell sat with her children. Rhaenys played with wooden knights, Daenerys's name never far from her lips — she had heard whispers of a babe soon to be born on Dragonstone, though no raven had confirmed it. Aegon, still swaddled, slept against her breast.
When the door opened and a servant brought word from the king, Elia stiffened.
"The king commands more wildfire prepared," the servant whispered, fear thick in his voice. "And he demands the heads of Stark and Baratheon brought to him."
Elia dismissed him with a smile too thin to be real. When the door closed, her hands trembled. She pressed her lips to Aegon's brow.
"Sleep, my little dragon," she murmured. "Sleep, though the world burns."
In the shadows of her chamber, her maid wept silently.
---
Meanwhile, in the Reach, Lord Mace Tyrell hosted feasts in honor of his banners gathering, though his heart was torn between crown and peace. Tywin Lannister remained silent in Casterly Rock, his golden lions neither roaring nor sleeping, only waiting. The realm held its breath as if the very land feared to choose a side.
And through it all, ravens flew — carrying tales of Robert's hammer, of Ned's quiet resolve, and of a nameless man with a staff who had walked into the Red Keep itself and defied fire.
---
When the northern host moved south, Jin moved among the camp followers. He patched wagons with his hands, he taught boys how to breathe steady when fear threatened to choke them, he soothed a crying girl with a story from Murim of a tiger cub who had grown so strong it frightened the stars. The children laughed, their fear easing for a little while.
Ned watched him often, his grey eyes thoughtful. One night, he said, "You give them more than I can, Jin. My oaths bind me to banners, to war. You… you carry only your vow, and it seems greater than all of ours."
Jin's staff tapped the earth softly. "Oaths to kings and lords bind men. Oaths to the helpless free them. That is the only vow I carry, Ned Stark. And if I must, I will carry it into the fire itself."
The northern lord nodded slowly, respect unspoken but clear.
---
Far away, in Storm's End, Robert raised his hammer high. "They will call it Robert's Rebellion!" he bellowed, his laughter echoing. "And the dragons will fall beneath my hammer!"
But in the shadows of his halls, a quiet name spread among the smallfolk and servants: not Robert's, not Eddard's, not even Rhaegar's.
The Nameless Shield.
The one who bent fire.
The one who saved wolves from ash.
The one who walked with the forgotten.
And so, even as war spread like wildfire across the Seven Kingdoms, another fire began — quiet, unseen, carried in whispers and grateful tears.
A fire not of conquest, but of protection.