20th Day of the Tenth Moon, 281 AC – The Stormlands & The Riverlands
The sun rose blood-red over the fields of Summerhall. Robert Baratheon stood among his men, his warhammer resting across his shoulder, his laughter booming even before the battle began. His eyes burned with fury and fire, his great frame towering above the lines.
"Today we break them!" he roared. "For Lyanna! For the Stormlands! For freedom!"
His men cheered, pounding their shields, their voices shaking the morning air. Across the field, loyalist men-at-arms arrayed themselves beneath banners of flame and stag. The clash was sudden, brutal, bloody.
Robert was in the thick of it from the first charge, his hammer smashing through shields and skulls with bone-breaking force. His men followed him like a tide, swept forward by his fire. Every blow he struck left foes shattered, every roar drew his men to new frenzy.
The loyalists broke before him. They fled, scattered, leaving the field to the stag and his thunder.
Robert stood upon the hilltop, his hammer dripping red, his chest heaving with laughter. His men raised him high, cheering, their voices echoing into the sky.
But below the hill, the fields smoldered. Huts burned. Fields trampled. Families fled in silence, their tears drowned by the roar of victory.
---
Far to the north, the Stark host marched steady along the Kingsroad. Their banners flapped, but their voices were quieter, steadier. For among them walked a stranger whose calm spread like ripples in a pond.
Jin Mu-Won strode barefoot in the mud, staff steady, his robes damp with morning mist. He walked not at the head, but at the edge, among the camp followers and wagons, where children clung to their mothers and old men hobbled behind.
When a wagon broke upon a rut, Jin knelt, his qi flowing through his hands, wood knitting enough to carry the family onward. When a child stumbled, he lifted them onto his shoulders, their laughter rising as he carried them. When men muttered of fear, he spoke softly of breath, of balance, of shields stronger when raised together.
Ned Stark watched him often. In the hall at Winterfell, Robert had roared of vengeance. On the march, Jin spoke only of mercy. Yet both men inspired. Robert's fire burned hot and fast, Jin's steadiness deepened like roots.
---
At Ashford, Robert's hammer fell again. He led the charge through loyalist lines, his fury unstoppable. His men loved him all the more, though many fell in his wake. Fields blackened, rivers ran red. Robert did not look back.
In King's Landing, word of his victories reached Aerys. The king clawed his throne, his voice shrill. "Burn them all! Burn them all!"
Elia Martell wept in silence, her children clinging to her gown.
At Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister sat in his golden chair, his silence deeper still. "Let them bleed," he whispered. "Let the storm break. The lions wait."
---
On the Kingsroad, the Stark host faced ambush by crown loyalists. Arrows hissed from the treeline, men shouting, charging. Panic rippled — until Jin's voice rang out.
"Breathe! Steady your stance! Shields together!"
The men, who had once scoffed at him, now fell into rhythm. They breathed as one, their shields rising in unison, arrows glancing harmlessly from the wall. When the loyalists broke upon them, they met steel with steadier steel.
Jin himself moved like water, his staff sweeping, qi rippling. He disarmed rather than slew, striking hands, knees, shoulders. Those who raised blades against children found themselves flung into mud by force they could not see.
When it was over, the loyalists fled. The Stark men cheered — not for slaughter, but because they had not broken. Because they had stood.
Ned turned to Jin, his eyes grave. "You saved them again. More than steel, more than banners — you saved them."
Jin's gaze was calm. "I only showed them what they already carried. A shield does not win battles. But it saves lives. That is enough."
Ned bowed his head. "And perhaps… more than enough."
---
That night, fires burned in both camps. In Robert's camp, men drank deep, roaring songs of victory, their cups raised to the hammer that had shattered foes. In the Stark camp, men sat quieter, their breaths steady, their eyes brighter. They whispered of the Shield, who bent arrows, who steadied hearts, who walked among them like no lord had ever done.
Two leaders, two paths. One of fire, one of steadiness. One who broke, one who shielded.
And though the war roared louder with each passing day, the whispers carried softly through the realm.
Of a hammer, born to shatter.
And of a shield, born to endure.