3rd Day of the Ninth Moon, 281 AC – The Wolfswood, Winterfell, King's Landing, and Starfall
The smoke of the skirmish still lingered in the trees. The village was quiet now, save for the crackle of burned wood and the cries of the wounded. Stark men had won their day, but victory tasted of ash when the bodies of children lay among the fallen.
Jin Mu-Won sat by the smoldering ruins, his staff resting across his knees. His eyes were steady, but within them burned the memory of Murim's fields — villages razed by sect wars, children orphaned in the name of pride. The faces here were no different.
Ned Stark stood beside him, silent for a time. Then he spoke softly. "You cannot save them all, Jin."
Jin looked up, his voice slow, heavy with the weight of truth. "No. But I can teach them to save themselves."
Ned's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Jin rose, his staff tapping softly on the ground. He gestured to a group of men nearby — Stark soldiers, battered but alive, watching him with wary eyes. He called one forward, a young man still trembling from the fight.
"Hold your spear," Jin said.
The man lifted it, awkward and stiff. Jin shook his head. "You clutch it as though it were your only life. But it is only wood and steel. Your true weapon is here." He touched the man's chest. "Your breath. Your balance. Without it, the spear is nothing."
He stepped back, breathing deep, his stance rooted. "Watch."
He thrust his staff forward in a smooth arc. The air itself seemed to ripple. His movement was simple, but it carried a weight that made the men watching straighten unconsciously, their own breaths falling in rhythm with his.
"Do not fight with fear," Jin said. "Breathe. Flow. Each strike begins before the weapon moves. Learn this, and you will not break when steel meets steel."
The young man tried again, awkward but steadier. Others murmured. Some scoffed, but more leaned closer, eager.
Rickard Stark watched from the distance, arms folded. Brandon scowled openly. "He fills their heads with strange tricks. Northern steel needs no foreign breathing."
But Ned only said, "Perhaps foreign breathing is better than choking on fear."
---
That night, by firelight, Jin sat with a circle of soldiers. He spoke not of glory or banners, but of discipline.
"In my world," he said slowly, "men fought for pride, as they do here. But those who endured were not the strongest or the fiercest. They were those who breathed steady, who knew their body and spirit as one. I will teach you not to be killers, but to be shields. For a man who shields his brother is worth ten who chase glory."
The men listened, some skeptical, others enthralled.
One older soldier asked, "And what of you, stranger? You say you come from another land. Why should we trust what you teach?"
Jin's gaze met his, calm but piercing. "Because I have walked through fire and ash, and I still stand. Not because I sought glory, but because I learned that one man alone cannot shield the world. Only when many learn to stand as shields together can war be endured."
The fire crackled. Slowly, the soldier nodded.
---
Days turned to weeks. As the northern host marched south, Jin's presence became a quiet constant. Soldiers rose earlier, practicing their stances. Young squires mimicked his breathing, standing straighter when fear pressed close. Even children among the camp followers copied his movements, giggling as they tried to balance like the Nameless Shield.
It was not sorcery. It was not even battle. But it was the first seed of Murim planted in Westeros.
---
Far to the south, in the Red Keep, Elia Martell held her children close as rumors of rebellion grew louder. She remembered the stranger's calm eyes in the hall where fire had nearly claimed her husband's allies. She remembered the way his words had steadied her when she thought she would break.
In her prayers, she whispered his name. "Shield us, Jin Mu-Won. If you live still, shield us from the storm."
---
And in Starfall, Ashara Dayne walked the halls, her violet eyes turned northward. Letters arrived with whispers of the rebellion, of the nameless man who taught even the lowest soldier how to stand steady. She traced the words with her fingers, her lips curving faintly.
"You carry the weight of worlds, Jin," she murmured. "And still you walk among them as if it were nothing. How long before you break again?"
Her heart gave no answer, only a steady pull toward the north.
---
As autumn deepened, Jin stood upon a ridge, watching the host march below. His staff rested in the crook of his arm, his breath steady. Around him, soldiers he had trained breathed in rhythm, their steps more sure, their fear lessened.
Ned joined him, silent for a time before speaking. "You've given them more than I thought possible. Not just strength, but calm. They call you Shield. Some even whisper you are no man at all, but a spirit sent to guard the North."
Jin's lips curved faintly, though his eyes were grave. "I am no spirit. Only a man. But if I can be the shield they believe in, then perhaps that is enough."
Ned looked at him long, then nodded. "Enough for them. And perhaps… enough for me."
Below, the banners of the direwolf streamed against the wind. The rebellion was a fire now, spreading fast, consuming everything in its path.
But among the ashes, Jin Mu-Won planted seeds — seeds of discipline, of balance, of hope. And though the storm would rage, he swore they would not be uprooted so long as he still drew breath.