"Wars do not begin with swords drawn. They begin with pride, with fear, with a thousand small cruelties left unchallenged."
— Jin Mu-Won
The Tourney at Harrenhal was still spoken of on the road, even weeks after its end. Songs spread faster than soldiers: how Prince Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark with winter roses; how the realm gasped; how Robert Baratheon's laughter turned to thunder. Jin did not know the names well, but he listened, piecing together the tensions as a monk pieces threads into cloth.
What he heard was not strange to him. In Murim, wars had begun in similar ways — not with blades, but with insults, with honor trampled, with pride goaded into rage.
Ashara was quieter as the stories grew. She rode beside him one evening, her eyes on the horizon. "It will come soon," she said. "Rebellion. The great houses will march. Men will die by the thousands."
Jin's grip on his staff tightened, though his face remained calm. "And the smallfolk?"
"They will burn," Ashara replied, her voice flat. "They always do."
Jin said nothing. His silence was heavier than words.
---
The Flames of War
News traveled quickly: Lord Jon Arryn had raised his banners against the Crown. The Vale, the Stormlands, the North — they were joining him. Whispers of Robert Baratheon's fury echoed in every tavern, while others swore Eddard Stark would march for his sister.
In the villages, men vanished as levies were called. Fields lay untended, hearths cold. Wives wept quietly in doorways, children clung to their mothers, and old men stared at empty roads.
Jin walked among them, feeling the weight of it. War was coming like a storm, and once again it would fall first upon those least able to endure it.
---
The Soldiers
They came in the night — soldiers wearing the stag of Baratheon, marching north to join their lord. Drunk on power and wine, they demanded bread, coin, women.
The villagers tried to comply, but fear only emboldened cruelty. A girl was dragged screaming into the square. An old man was struck down for raising his voice.
Jin stepped forward.
The captain squinted at him, lip curling. "And who are you, foreigner? A sellsword without a master? This is Robert's levy. You'll bow, or you'll bleed."
Jin's staff touched the earth. His voice was calm. "Leave these people."
Laughter met his words. The captain drew his blade. "Then you die first."
The strike never landed. Jin's staff swept upward, faster than sight, knocking the sword from his hand. The second strike sent him sprawling, breathless.
The others hesitated, their bravado faltering. They had faced peasants before, not storms in human shape. Jin's staff moved again, precise and merciless. Knees cracked. Arms twisted. In moments, the square was filled with groaning men, their courage broken.
The villagers watched in stunned silence.
Jin looked at them, his eyes steady. "This war is not yours to fight. But you will be dragged into it all the same. Remember — together, you are not powerless. Alone, you are prey. Stand with one another, and you may yet endure."
His words were not lofty, but they rooted in the soil of their fear. The villagers bowed, murmuring thanks, though Jin did not wait for praise. He turned, his robe stirring in the wind, and walked away.
---
Ashara's Reflection
That night, Ashara sat across from him, her face half-lit by the fire.
"You speak to them as if you were born to lead," she said quietly.
Jin shook his head. "No. I speak because silence is worse. If they see me as more than I am, that is their choice. I am only a shield."
Ashara's lips curved, though her eyes were serious. "You remind me of Arthur," she said. "My brother. He, too, believed in more than himself. He carried honor as if it were a sword heavier than steel. And it killed him."
Jin met her gaze across the flames. "Then let me be different. Let my burden kill me, not those behind me."
Ashara looked at him for a long time. Then she nodded, the firelight catching in her violet eyes.
"You are strange, Jin Mu-Won," she said softly. "Strange… and needed."
---
The Spark
By dawn, the road was alive with marching men. Smoke rose in the distance — keeps burning, villages abandoned, banners unfurled. The Rebellion had begun in earnest, and Jin could feel its weight pressing upon the land like a storm cloud ready to burst.
But beneath that storm, he walked steadily, staff in hand, Ashara at his side.
The world was unraveling around them, but Jin's resolve did not falter.
He had not chosen this war. But he had chosen his vow.
And so long as innocents suffered, he would not stand aside.