Jon
The courtyard entrance stood empty, as if Feng Huang had never been there at all.
Jon couldn't move. His mind kept cycling through what had just happened, the same loop repeating like water trapped in a drain.
He said no.
He asked a question, and I had no answer.
It's over.
His legs felt weak. His hands—the damaged hands he'd come here to heal—hung at his sides, useless. The shirt he'd removed for examination lay crumpled on the stone. He should pick it up. He couldn't make himself move.
Why do you want strength?
The question echoed in the silence Feng had left behind. Jon had answers. He'd thought he had answers.
To be like Arthur Dayne. To be worthy. To never be helpless again.
But when Feng asked, the words wouldn't come. Because somewhere deep down, Jon had known they weren't enough. They were true, but they weren't the truth.
"That's it?"
Mei Ling's voice cut through the silence, sharp with outrage. She was on her feet, glaring at the empty entrance as if she could summon Feng back through sheer force of will.
"He just—he asks one question and walks away? Jon crossed the world. He survived things that would have killed anyone else. And this old man takes one look and says no?"
"Mei Ling—" Zhi began.
"Don't. Don't tell me to be calm. This isn't fair."
"Fairness is not Master Feng's concern. Purpose is."
"What does that even mean?"
Zhi's gaze found Jon's. His expression was sorrowful but not surprised—as if he'd expected this might happen. As if he'd hoped it wouldn't but prepared himself for it anyway.
"It means Jon must find his answer. Or accept that there isn't one."
Jon finally spoke. His voice came out rough, barely audible.
"He's right."
Mei Ling turned to him, startled. "What?"
"He asked why I want strength. I didn't have an answer. Not a real one."
He forced himself to move—bent down, picked up his shirt, and pulled it over his head. The familiar motions helped him think. Gave his hands something to do while his mind raced.
"I said I wanted to be like Arthur Dayne. That's not a reason. That's... a fantasy. A story I told myself."
"You want to protect people," Mei Ling protested. "You told me that. In the garden, when you gave me the swords—"
"I know what I said. But when he asked... I couldn't say it. Because I don't think I believed it. Not all the way."
He looked at her—really looked. Her face was flushed with anger on his behalf, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She was ready to fight the Stone Tiger himself if it would help.
But it wouldn't help. This wasn't a battle anyone could fight for him.
"What do I actually want?" he asked, more to himself than to her. "Why did I really come here?"
The silence stretched. Mei Ling didn't have an answer. Neither did Zhi.
Only Jon could find this.
He looked at the courtyard entrance. Feng was somewhere beyond it, having dismissed him as unworthy.
I could leave. Go back to the fortress. Accept that this path is closed.
Or.
"Where did he go?"
Zhi blinked. "What?"
"Master Feng. Where did he go? Is he still in the monastery?"
"Jon, he refused you. Pursuing him would be—"
"I know what it would be. Where is he?"
The old scholar studied Jon for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps. Or perhaps he recognized something he hadn't expected to see.
"The eastern terrace. He watches the sunset there. But Jon—"
"I have to try. If he refuses me again, at least I'll know I gave him a real answer."
He started walking toward the entrance.
"Jon!" Mei Ling called.
He paused. Looked back.
"What are you going to say?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll know when I get there."
He walked through the entrance, leaving them behind.
Jon
The stone path wound upward, past meditation alcoves and training platforms, until the monastery fell away below him.
Jon ascended the path without considering the effort involved. His lungs burned in the thin air, his legs ached from the days of travel, but none of it mattered. His body was just a vehicle carrying him toward something he didn't yet understand.
Why do you want strength?
The question accompanied him like a second shadow. He turned it over in his mind, examining it from every angle, but the answers that surfaced felt hollow. Rehearsed. The kind of things a boy might say to impress a master, not the kind of things that came from somewhere real.
The eastern terrace opened before him—a flat expanse of rock jutting from the mountainside like a shelf. Nothing ornamental. Just stone and sky, and the dying sun is painting everything gold and crimson.
Feng Huang stood at the terrace's edge, his back to Jon, watching the sunset. He didn't turn when Jon approached.
"You followed me."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"I told you to leave."
"I know."
Silence. The sun sank lower, touching the distant peaks. The light caught Feng's grey robes, turning them to bronze.
"You have something to say. Say it."
Jon's mind raced. He had seconds. Maybe less. Feng's patience wasn't infinite.
Why do I want strength?
Think. Really think.
The easy answers came first, and he rejected them as quickly as they surfaced.
To be like Arthur Dayne—no. That was a fantasy, not a purpose. Chasing a dead man's shadow was easier than standing still.
The goal was to never feel helpless again. — Closer. But he's still about himself. Still about what he lacked, what he feared, and what he needed to feel whole.
I need to demonstrate my worthiness. — Worthy of what? To whom? The answer was ego dressed up as aspiration.
Why do those answers feel hollow?
The hollowness stems from the fact that those answers were centered around him. They focused on what he desired. The focus was on what he lacked. What he needed.
Feng had seen through that. He'd probably seen a hundred boys who wanted power for themselves—boys who dressed their ambition in noble language but couldn't hide the hunger beneath.
What makes me different?
Am I different?
The memories came unbidden.
They did not appear as flashbacks, nor did they evoke the overwhelming terror of trauma. As remembering. The memories are clear and sharp, akin to the light streaming through a window.
Alya.
The cross. The nails pierced through her wrists and ankles. The way she'd hung there for three hours, each breath a battle, her body fighting to live while the wood and iron slowly killed her.
Jon had been chained ten feet away. Close enough to see every moment of her suffering. He was too far away to touch her, comfort her, or do anything except watch.
She'd found his eyes at the end. She endured pain, exhaustion, and the knowledge that she was dying while no one would save her.
"Not... your fault... Jon Snow. Be... free."
She'd died for him. He had attempted to flee but failed. He couldn't muster the strength to save her.
Be free.
He hadn't been free. He'd been chained in the dirt, watching her suffocate, and the only freedom he'd found was in surviving long enough to run.
Robb.
The training yard at Winterfell. Wooden swords crossed between them, both boys breathing hard, grinning despite the bruises.
"You're my brother, Jon. I don't care what anyone says."
He'd said it so simply. So certainly. As if the world's opinion didn't matter, as if Lady Catelyn's hatred couldn't touch them, as if family was something you chose rather than something that chose you.
Jon had left him. Ran away in the night, leaving only silence and questions behind.
To protect him, he'd told himself. He believed that the people who hated him might hurt the boy in order to reach him.
But that wasn't entirely true. He'd also left because he was scared. Because staying meant facing what he was becoming, and running was easier than standing still.
Now Robb was half a world away. Jon didn't know if he was safe. I didn't know if he'd survived the wars and politics and dangers of Westeros. I didn't know if he still remembered the brother who'd vanished one night and never returned.
Does he think I'm dead? Does he still wonder where I went?
Does he hate me for leaving?
Mei Ling.
The beach. A girl's face swam into focus, with dark hair and worried eyes and a voice that cut through the fog of fever and exhaustion.
"I'll get help. Don't worry. You're going to be okay."
She hadn't known him. Hadn't owed him anything. He was a foreign boy with white hair and slave brands, washed up from a storm that had killed better men.
She'd saved him anyway.
The garden. Her hand in his was an anchor and a comfort. "You're stuck with me forever."
Last night under the stars. Her fingers intertwined with his in the darkness. "Whatever happens, you're still Jon. Still my friend. That doesn't change because some old man on a mountain says yes or no."
She'd found him when he had nothing. She decided he was worth saving and never changed her mind. Not when he flinched at sudden noises. Not when he woke screaming from nightmares. Not when his body broke in the training yard and everyone whispered that he was cursed.
What happens to her if the wars come to Tianlei? If enemies breach the walls? What will happen to her if someone hurts her while I am too weak to stop it?
Jon spoke.
His voice was rough. He hadn't planned these words—they were coming from somewhere deeper than thought, dragged up from a place he'd never shown anyone.
"When I was a slave, I knew a woman named "Alya."
Feng didn't turn. But he was listening. Jon could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
"She helped me try to escape. She died for it. Crucified. I watched her die for three hours because I couldn't do anything to stop it."
The words hurt coming out. It felt like pulling thorns from flesh—necessary, but painful.
"She told me to be free. She uttered these words with her final breath. 'Be free.' But I wasn't free. I was chained ten feet away, watching her suffocate."
Jon's voice cracked. He didn't try to hide it.
"Before that, in Winterfell—the place I came from—I had a brother. Robb. Although we were not related by blood, he was still my brother. He told me I was family when everyone else said I was nothing."
He paused. Breathed. Kept going.
"I left him. Ran away in the night. To protect him, I told myself. I feared that the people who hated me might hurt him in order to reach me. But really... I left because I was scared. Now that he is half a world away, I am unsure of his safety, and he is unaware of whether I am alive.
The sun touched the horizon. Gold became crimson.
"After the storm, when I washed up on this coast, I encountered a girl who was there to help me. Mei Ling. She found me on the beach. Pulled me out of the sand. Sat with me when I couldn't speak, when I woke up screaming, and when I flinched at every sound."
Jon's throat tightened. He pushed through.
"She's the reason I'm standing here. Not because she trained me or gave me power. Because she stayed. Because she decided I was worth saving and never changed her mind."
The core. The truth lies underneath all the other truths.
"You asked why I want strength. What I'll do with it."
Feng still hadn't moved. Feng had not yet turned.
"I don't have a plan. I don't have a destiny or a prophecy. I'm not the hero of a story."
Jon's voice steadied. Hardened.
"But I know what I won't do."
"I won't watch another person die because I was too weak to save them. I won't lose someone else because my body broke before my will did. I won't be the one who survives while everyone around me falls."
The words came faster now, surer.
"I want strength so that the next time someone I love is in danger, I can do more than watch."
Silence.
The sun slipped below the horizon, leaving only crimson staining the sky.
"That's my answer," Jon said. "It's not about being Arthur Dayne. It's not about revenge or glory or proving I'm worthy of anything."
"It's about them. Alya. Rob. Mei Ling. Everyone I've lost and everyone I might still lose."
"I want to be strong enough to keep them safe. That's all. That's everything."
The silence stretched.
Jon's heart pounded. He'd said everything he had—laid himself bare in a way he'd never done before, not even with Mei Ling. If it wasn't enough...
Then it's not enough. And I'll find another way. Alternatively, I might end up dying in the process.
But at least I told the truth.
Feng turned.
Slowly. Deliberately. His face was still unreadable—but something had changed. The dismissiveness was gone. In its place: assessment. Consideration. The look of someone weighing something precious on a scale.
"Most who come here want power for themselves. Revenge. Glory. The pleasure of being strong."
He walked toward Jon, each step deliberate, and his footfall silent on the stone.
"They speak of protecting others, but beneath the words, they mean protecting their pride. Their legacy. Their image of themselves as heroes."
He stopped an arm's length away. Those ancient eyes, black as deep water, studied Jon's face with an intensity that made Jon want to look away. He didn't.
"You mean what you say."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"You have lost people."
"Yes."
"And you will lose more. Strength does not prevent loss. It only changes its shape."
"I know."
"Do you? Truly?"
Jon met the old man's gaze. "I watched Alya die. I couldn't save her. Strength wouldn't have changed that—I was chained, and there were too many guards, and she was already dying."
He paused. Breathed.
"But I also watched sailors drown because I couldn't pull them from the water fast enough. My hands cramped. My body failed. I survived because of the breathing techniques, and they died because I couldn't share that survival with them."
"Maybe strength can't prevent all loss. But it can prevent some. And some is more than none."
Feng was silent for a long, measuring moment. The crimson light faded toward purple. The first stars appeared, pale and distant.
Then:
"Come with me."
Jon
They walked back together. Feng led. Jon followed. Neither spoke.
The monastery was different in the evening light—lanterns flickering to life along the paths, monks moving to evening duties in their silent, rooted way. The smell of cooking drifted from somewhere distant. The mountain cold was settling in, raising gooseflesh on Jon's arms.
Zhi and Mei Ling waited in the courtyard where Jon had left them. Mei Ling's face was tight with anxiety, her hands clasped so hard her knuckles had gone white. Zhi's composure was carefully neutral, but Jon saw the tension in his shoulders.
They both straightened when Feng appeared.
"I will train him."
Mei Ling's breath escaped in a rush. Zhi's composure cracked—just slightly—into something like relief.
Jon didn't react. He wasn't sure he believed it yet.
"But understand what the phrase means."
Feng addressed Jon directly, his voice flat with warning.
"The Bone Washing stage is painful beyond what you imagine. Your skeleton will be broken down and rebuilt from the marrow out. You will feel your bones burning inside your flesh. You will beg for it to stop."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Many quit. Many breaks. If you begin and fail, the damage may be worse than if you'd never started."
Jon nodded. He'd expected this. Zhi had warned him on the journey.
"Training begins tomorrow at dawn. You will remain at the monastery until Bone Washing is complete—two to three months, depending on how your body responds."
"During this time: no visitors. No letters. No distractions. The mind must be as focused as the body."
He looked at Mei Ling.
"The girl leaves tonight."
"I could wait in the village below," Mei Ling said, her voice tight. "I wouldn't interfere—"
"No."
Feng's voice was flat, final.
"If he knows you're waiting, he'll rush. He'll push through pain; he should rest through it. He'll damage himself trying to return to you faster."
His gaze returned to Jon.
"The training requires isolation. Complete focus. Anything less, and you risk destroying what we're trying to build."
"When the first stage is complete, you may return to the fortress briefly. Then you'll come back for the next stage. This will be your life for years. Do you accept?"
Jon considered.
Years. Isolation. Pain beyond imagining.
No, Mei Ling. No letters. He was unable to communicate with anyone he held dear.
This is what it costs. This is what strength requires.
He looked at Mei Ling. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her chin was raised. Stubborn. Proud.
She gave him the smallest nod. Do it.
"I accept."
Something crossed Feng's face—not quite approval, but something close to it.
"Then say your goodbyes. The girl and the scholar leave at first light. Your old life ends tonight."
He turned to go, then paused.
"One more thing."
Jon waited.
"The dead knight. Arthur Dayne. The two swords."
Jon's chest tightened.
"That path may still be open to you. When your foundation is strong—when your bones can bear the weight—you may return to it."
A pause.
"But you must walk this path first. The internal path must come before the external one. Foundation before tower. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master Feng."
"Good. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we begin."
He walked away—silent as a shadow, solid as stone.
Jon
Zhi approached while Mei Ling hung back, composing herself.
"You did well. Better than I expected."
"I almost failed."
"Almost failing is not failing. Remember that."
He gripped Jon's shoulder—a firm, fatherly gesture that reminded Jon, painfully, of Lord Stark.
"I'll send reports to General Kai. He'll want to know of your progress."
"Thank you. For everything."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you've survived the training."
He released Jon's shoulder and stepped back.
"I'll give you two a moment."
He moved toward the monastery's guest quarters, leaving Jon and Mei Ling alone in the lantern-lit courtyard.
They faced each other in the flickering light. The distant sounds of monks chanting and wind through mountain peaks filled the silence between them.
Mei Ling spoke first.
"Two to three months."
"Yes."
"That's a long time."
"I know."
"No letters. No messages. Nothing."
"Feng says it's necessary."
"Feng is a mean old man, and I don't like him."
Despite everything, Jon almost smiled.
"He's going to teach me. That's what matters."
She was struggling. Jon could see it—the words she wanted to say, trapped behind the composure she was forcing. Her jaw was tight, her eyes too bright.
"Mei Ling—"
"Don't."
Her voice cracked.
"Don't say something kind. If you say something nice, I'll cry, and I would rather not cry in front of monks."
Jon swallowed. He understood. He felt the same tightness in his throat, the same pressure behind his eyes.
"Do you remember what you're keeping for me?"
The twin swords. Arthur Dayne's shadow.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
"When this is done—all of it, however long it takes—I'm coming back for them. And I'm going to show you what I can really do."
"You better."
"I promise."
She drew a shaky breath. "And I promise to practice my sword work while you're gone. So when you come back with your fancy bone training, I can still beat you."
"You've never beaten me."
"I've never seriously tried. You'll see."
The banter was familiar. Safe. But beneath it, something else—something that had been growing between them since she'd found him on a beach, something neither of them had words for yet.
She stepped forward without warning. Without hesitation.
She wrapped her arms around him and held tight. She was fierce and desperate, just as she approached everything in her life.
Jon froze for a moment—physical contact still triggered wariness sometimes, the ghost of chains and guards and hands that meant harm. Then his arms came up to hold her back, and the wariness dissolved into something warmer.
"Don't die on some stupid mountain."
Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.
"I'll try not to."
"Try harder than that."
"I'll try as hard as I can."
They held each other in the lantern light—two children who had found each other against impossible odds, about to be separated for the first time since the beach. Jon memorized the feel of her arms around him, the smell of her hair, and the way she fit against him like she'd been made to be there.
Remember this, he told himself. When the pain comes, remember this.
"Jon?"
"Yes?"
"When you're in pain—when the training gets bad—remember that I'm waiting. I am waiting at the bottom of this stupid mountain. Annoyed at you for taking so long."
"I'll remember."
"Good."
She stepped back. Her eyes were wet, but she hadn't let the tears fall. Pride. Stubbornness. The same fierce determination that had made her drag a half-dead foreign boy out of the sand and refuse to give up on him.
"I should go. Before I change my mind and refuse to leave."
"Feng would probably throw you off the mountain."
"I'd like to see him try."
She would, too. That's what made it funny and frightening at once.
She reached out one last time and touched the jade wolf pendant through his shirt.
"Keep this safe. It's supposed to bring you luck."
"I will."
"And keep yourself safe. That matters more than the luck."
"I know."
She turned and walked away. Toward the guest quarters. Toward Zhi. Toward the morning and the journey down the mountain.
She didn't look back.
Jon watched until she disappeared through a doorway.
Then he was alone.
Jon
The monk who led him to his cell was silent and efficient—the same grey robes, the same unhurried movements, the same utter lack of curiosity about the foreign boy who would be living among them.
The cell was small. Stone walls, unadorned. A sleeping mat on the floor, thin but clean. A small towel and a basin of water are also present. A single narrow window showing a rectangle of star-filled sky.
Nothing else.
"The dawn bell wakes you. Be in the eastern courtyard."
The monk left. The door closed.
Jon stood in the center of the room and let the silence settle over him.
It was immense, that silence. Not empty—full. It was full of stone, age, and the weight of generations who had previously slept in this room. How many students had lain on that mat, staring at that window, wondering if they would survive what was coming?
This apartment is where I'll live for months. This small space. The walls are stark and unadorned.
No, Mei Ling. No, Zhi. No garden.
Just me and the training and whatever pain Feng has planned.
He moved. Unpacked his meager belongings—there was almost nothing to unpack. The jade wolf pendant went under the sleeping mat, positioned where his heart would rest when he lay down.
He washed his face in the basin. The water was cold. Mountain-fed.
He sat on the mat, cross-legged, and tried to find stillness.
What am I leaving behind?
What am I leaving behind? The fortress, the safety, and the comfort.
I am leaving behind Mei Ling's presence. Her voice. Her hand was clasped in his.
Master Zhi's lessons. The garden. The familiar.
The twin swords wait for him at the bottom of the world.
What am I carrying?
His body, damaged but still fighting.
Marcus's memories, fragmented but present.
The breathing techniques are dangerous but powerful.
A jade wolf is present. A promise. A purpose.
What am I becoming?
He didn't know. That was the point.
The boy who washed up on a beach is going to die in this room. Something else will be born.
Jon lay down on the thin mat. The floor was hard beneath him. His body ached from the journey, from the emotional weight of everything that had happened.
But the window showed stars. These are the same stars that shone over Westeros. Over Winterfell. Over wherever Robb was sleeping tonight.
We're under the same sky. That has to mean something.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the pain would begin. Feng had promised he would beg for it to stop.
I've begged before. In the slave pits, when they broke my fingers. In the storm, when the sea tried to swallow me.
I begged, and I survived anyway.
I can beg again. I can hurt again. I can break again.
I will continue to rise as long as I keep getting back up.
The faces came to him in the darkness behind his eyes.
Alya, telling him to be free.
Robb, calling him brother.
Mei Ling is seen holding his hand in the darkness.
For you. All of this is for you.
Wait for me.
Sleep came slowly. His mind didn't want to quiet—it kept circling back to Mei Ling's embrace, Feng's warning, and the pain that was coming.
But exhaustion won eventually, the way it always did.
Somewhere below the mountain, Mei Ling lay awake in a guest room, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. In a few hours, she would ride down the mountain with Zhi, carrying a bundle of wooden swords and a heart full of worry.
"She's waiting for me," Jon thought, the words growing soft and distant as sleep pulled him under.
They're all waiting.
Don't let them down.
Sleep took him at last—deep and dreamless, the last peaceful rest he would know for months.
Outside his window, stars wheeled in their ancient patterns, indifferent to the boy below. The mountain stood as it had stood for millennia, patient and cold. And in the silence of the monastery, where generations of students had suffered and transformed, Jon Snow began the long process of becoming someone new.
The old life was over.
The new one had not yet begun.
In between, there was only the waiting, and the stars, and the quiet certainty that everything was about to change.