18th Day of the Ninth Moon, 281 AC – The Kingsroad & King's Landing
The northern host marched slow but steady, the chill of autumn creeping into their cloaks. Banners flapped in the wind — the direwolf of Stark, the merman of Manderly, the bear of Mormont, the pine of Tallhart. The drums of war beat through the woods and fields, yet among the men there was a strange calm that had not been there before.
Jin Mu-Won walked at the column's edge, his staff steady, his robes patched by camp women. He moved quietly, yet wherever he passed, men straightened their backs, breathed more evenly, steadied their steps. Even in silence, he carried a gravity that spread like ripples across a pond.
That evening, they camped near a ruined watchtower. The fires burned bright, and songs rose — crude songs of Robert's hammer, of Lyanna's beauty, of the dragon prince they swore to kill. But Jin sat apart, mending a child's ragged shoe by lamplight.
Ned Stark came to him, sitting on the stone beside him. For a long while they listened to the men's laughter. At last, Ned spoke.
"They cheer as though war is already won. But I saw the village in the Wolfswood. I saw the boy who did not rise again."
Jin tied off the shoe's leather thong, handing it gently back to the child, who scampered away. Then he turned his calm gaze on Ned. His voice was long, slow, carrying weight.
"That is why they cheer. To forget the boy. To forget the cost. Men would rather drown in song than sit with truth. But the truth will find them, Ned Stark. It always does."
Ned's jaw tightened. "And when it does?"
Jin looked into the firelight, his eyes steady. "Then they will need shields more than swords. And that is why you must remember. So you do not drown with them."
Ned was silent, but he bowed his head, as though Jin's words had carved themselves into stone.
---
Far to the south, the Red Keep seethed with whispers. King Aerys sat upon the Iron Throne, his fingers blackened from where he had clawed too deep at the steel, his eyes wild with sleepless madness.
"Traitors," he muttered to his council, his voice sharp as breaking glass. "Wolves and stags and falcons, circling like vultures. Burn them. Burn their halls, their kin, their fields. Burn them all."
His council shifted uneasily. Grand Maester Pycelle coughed, his eyes flicking to the shadows where Tywin Lannister sat silent, his face unreadable.
"My king," Pycelle said softly, "the Lord of Casterly Rock waits only for your command. Call upon him, and his lions will bare their fangs for the crown."
Aerys's laughter broke shrill. "Lions? Lions who sulk in their caves while wolves howl? Tywin waits because Tywin is a traitor too. He envies my crown, envies my fire. But fire is mine! The throne is mine! Let him wait, and let him burn!"
Elia Martell sat at the edge of the hall, her children beside her, her face pale but proud. Her eyes lingered not on the king, but on the empty doorway where her husband's shadow should have been. She thought of Harrenhal, of the roses, of the stranger who had steadied her breath when she thought it would break.
Where are you now, Shield? she thought. And will you come when fire reaches my door?
---
The northern host crossed the Neck. The swamps slowed them, but Jin guided them through, his qi sensing the safer ground where others would sink. Soldiers who once scoffed at his "tricks" now watched him closely, imitating his measured breaths, steadying their own steps.
When one man slipped into the bog, Jin's staff flicked out, hooking his cloak and pulling him back before the mire swallowed him. The men murmured, some whispering blessings, others shaking their heads in awe.
That night, as the fires burned low, a young soldier approached Jin shyly. "Ser… they say you can mend wounds with a touch. My brother was cut yesterday. It festers."
Jin nodded. He followed the boy to a tent where the wounded man lay pale and sweating. Jin knelt, placing his hand upon the wound. His qi flowed steady, drawing the infection, calming the fever. Slowly, the man's breath steadied, color returning to his cheeks.
The brother wept, falling to his knees. "What are you, ser? A maester? A sorcerer?"
Jin's gaze was calm. "I am neither. I am only a man. But a man who will not turn away when breath falters."
The whispers grew louder in the camp: Shield, healer, sorcerer, saint.
---
In King's Landing, the whispers were darker. Lords gathered in corners, fearful of Aerys's raving. Some spoke of Prince Rhaegar, vanished with Lyanna Stark, and what his return might bring. Others spoke of Tywin, his silence more dangerous than daggers.
But Aerys only muttered of fire. He demanded more wildfire brewed, great casks rolled into the cellars beneath the city. "If they come," he hissed, "if they dare set foot in my gates, I will burn them all. Men, women, children, all of them. Burn them all!"
Elia's heart froze as she overheard. She clutched Rhaenys to her breast, the girl's violet eyes wide. She kissed her daughter's brow and whispered a prayer, though she knew not if any god listened.
---
On the Kingsroad, autumn rains fell. The army slogged south, mud sucking at boots and hooves. Yet amid the misery, Jin's presence carried steadiness. He walked barefoot through the muck, staff steady, robes soaked, but his breath even, his gaze calm. Soldiers followed his rhythm without thinking, their steps steadier, their complaints quieter.
One evening, Brandon confronted him, anger still sharp. "You shame us, stranger. You walk with peasants, patching shoes and soothing children, while men of Winterfell fight for honor."
Jin's reply was long, slow, each word deliberate. "Honor is not found in the roar of victory, Brandon Stark. It is found in the eyes of a child who still laughs because you stood where no one else would. If you seek honor in glory, you will find only ashes. If you seek it in mercy, you will find it in every life that endures because of you."
Brandon sneered, but Ned, listening nearby, bowed his head.
That night, as rain pattered on canvas, Ned spoke quietly. "My brother will never see as you do. But I… I cannot unsee it now. I will remember."
Jin's hand tightened on his staff. "Then perhaps one day, when the storm is darkest, that memory will be the shield that saves you."
---
In the Red Keep, Aerys raved louder. Tywin Lannister remained silent, his golden eyes cool, his mouth a thin line.
The king's laughter echoed against blackened steel. "Let them come! Let the wolves howl, let the stags charge. I am fire, and fire consumes all!"
But in the shadows of King's Landing, servants whispered another name — a stranger who had once stood in this very hall, who had bent fire with his hand and broken chains with a touch.
The Nameless Shield.
And though Aerys laughed, though Robert roared, though banners clashed, the whispers carried in secret corners, in kitchens and cellars, in smallfolk prayers.
A man walks the roads who shields the forgotten. A man who defied fire.
---
The war burned brighter with each passing day. Armies marched. Kings raved. Lords schemed.
And Jin Mu-Won walked southward still, his staff steady, his vow unbroken.
Where others sought crowns, he sought only to shield.
Where others dreamed of victory, he dreamed only of laughter after storms.
And though he did not know it yet, every step he took was drawing him closer to the moment when his vow would be tested in fire greater than any he had ever known.