17th Day of the Eleventh Moon, 281 AC – Across the Seven Kingdoms
The wind carried whispers swifter than ravens. From the Wall to the Summer Sea, from the Fingers to the deserts of Dorne, men spoke of rebellion, of fire, of blood. And among the whispers, another name carried quiet as breath: the Nameless Shield.
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In the Vale, Lord Jon Arryn sat in his high hall at the Eyrie, his banners bright above him. He had defied the king, raising his falcon against the dragon, and the young men fostered beneath his roof — Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark — had flown to war. Now the Vale itself seethed. Some lords marched gladly, others hesitated, fearing what dragons might do if they returned.
But in villages scattered among the mountains, smallfolk spoke not of falcons or dragons, but of a stranger who had stood in the throne room itself and defied fire. They called him the Shield, and in their prayers, his name mingled with those of the Seven.
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In the Stormlands, Robert's victories piled. His hammer was legend already, his laughter carrying across battlefields. Lords flocked to him, eager for his strength, eager for vengeance. But behind him, fields lay scorched, villages emptied, and the wailing of widows carried in the night.
In taverns, bards sang of the hammer. But in whispers, servants and mothers spoke of something else: of a man who healed with a touch, who carried children from fire. They whispered that Robert might win crowns, but the Shield won hearts.
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In the Riverlands, the war was fiercest. Lord Hoster Tully had bent his knee to the rebels, binding his house with marriages. But his lands burned for it. Loyalist raiders swept through, and villages bled in endless skirmishes.
Yet among the ashes, survivors told tales. Of a barefoot man with a staff who had stood before arrows and made them bend. Of a shield that moved like water. Of a stranger whose calm had steadied even the fiercest storm.
The Riverlands wept, but it whispered too. And the whispers all carried one name.
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In the Reach, Lord Mace Tyrell feasted in Highgarden, his banners gathered but his heart uncertain. The king had called for him, yet the storm and wolf grew stronger each day. To side with dragons was to risk ruin. To side with rebels was to risk a king's vengeance if they failed.
His bannermen pressed him, his maesters counseled caution. Yet even in Highgarden's kitchens, the servants whispered of the Shield. "If such a man stands with the rebels," they said, "perhaps the gods have already chosen their side."
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In the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister waited. His lions did not roar. They only watched. Some said he was loyal still. Others said he weighed which crown would shine brighter in his hall.
In Lannisport, merchants told stories of a foreigner whose staff struck down knights like children. Tywin listened to such tales without expression, but his golden eyes gleamed with thought.
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In Dorne, the news struck like spears. Elia Martell was a hostage in King's Landing, her children's lives hanging by threads. The Dornish lords raged, calling for vengeance, calling for fire to be answered with fire. But Prince Doran counseled patience, while Oberyn's fury burned too bright to still.
Ashara Dayne sat by the Torrentine at Starfall, her violet eyes on the horizon. Letters had come, carrying whispers of the Shield. She remembered him still, the calm man who had steadied her brother, who had spoken as though he carried centuries of sorrow. She whispered his name to the river, though none heard.
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In the Iron Islands, Balon Greyjoy watched from his halls at Pyke, his heart bitter, his eyes cold. The dragons bled, the stags roared, the wolves howled. And the krakens waited, restless beneath the waves.
Even there, in smoke-filled longhouses, raiders told drunken tales of a shield that bent fire. They laughed, but they listened.
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And in Dragonstone, Queen Rhaella labored beneath storm and sorrow. Her children clung to her skirts — Viserys fierce and frightened, Daenerys still stirring in her womb. She prayed to gods old and new, her heart breaking with each raven that told of fire and madness in King's Landing. She prayed for deliverance, though she knew not from where it might come.
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And in King's Landing, the fire burned brightest of all. King Aerys raved upon his throne, his fingers bleeding, his eyes wild. He demanded more wildfire, demanded more heads. He muttered of traitors, of fire, of crowns.
Elia Martell sat with her children in silence, her heart heavy, her prayers unspoken. When she closed her eyes, she saw a man with calm eyes and a staff of wood, standing where fire had raged.
Shield us, she prayed in silence. Wherever you walk, shield us still.
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The realm trembled. Wolves, stags, falcons, and fish marched against the dragon. The lion watched. The rose hesitated. The kraken stirred. The sun wept.
And through it all, whispers spread. Whispers of a man who did not march for crowns or vengeance, but who walked barefoot in mud, whose staff bent fire, whose vow shielded even the forgotten.
The Nameless Shield.
A name soft as breath, carried on the wind, carried in prayers, carried in hope.
And though Jin Mu-Won did not seek crowns, did not seek songs, the realm was already writing both around him.