Jon
Three months into the training, the rhythm had become as natural as breathing.
Jon woke before the bell now—his body anticipating the dawn meditation the way it had once anticipated danger. The thin mat beneath him, the cold stone walls, the particular quality of pre-dawn silence: all of it had become home in a way the monastery never was during the Bone Washing. Then, he had been enduring. Now, he was becoming.
The golden light came more easily with each passing week. Not effortlessly—nothing with Feng was effortless—but reliably. Jon could find his bone-sense within three breaths, could summon the visualization within ten, and could hold the warmth for minutes at a time. The skeleton that had been invisible to his inner awareness now glowed in his mind's eye, a framework of golden fire that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
Subtle changes accumulated, too small to notice day by day but undeniable when he paused to take stock.
His posture had shifted. He stood differently and sat differently—rooted in ways he hadn't been before. When he walked, his feet seemed to know the ground beneath them, to feel it through the leather of his boots. The nervous energy that had always hummed beneath his skin had quieted, replaced by something steadier.
His hands were certain. Not just healed, but confident. When he reached for something, his fingers closed without hesitation, without the ghost of trembling that had haunted him since the slave pits. The hands that had betrayed him in the training yard now felt like they belonged to him completely.
His breathing had deepened. Not the explosive power of his techniques—he still couldn't safely use those—but the slow, patient breath of cultivation. Each inhale drew air to the bottom of his lungs. Each exhale released tension he'd forgotten he was holding. Master Zhi would have approved.
"I'm becoming what Feng is," Jon realized one morning as he sat in meditation, the golden light steady within his bones. Slowly. Incompletely. But becoming.
Letters flowed between mountain and fortress now—not frequently, but steadily. Every two weeks, sometimes three, a monk would appear at Jon's door with a scroll bearing Mei Ling's bold, impatient handwriting.
She told him about the fortress. Sun Cao continued sword lessons, grudging but genuine—he'd stopped claiming she let him win, which Mei Ling interpreted as progress. Zhi's health was declining slightly, though the old scholar wouldn't admit it, his steps slower in the mornings, his cough more persistent. The political situation was tense and growing tenser as the tournament approached and the great houses jockeyed for position. Her father, distant as ever, consumed by war councils and border skirmishes.
And smaller things, too. Personal things that made Jon smile in the solitude of his cell.
A cat has taken up residence in the garden. Orange and white, with one torn ear. I've named him Ghost because he appears without warning and vanishes when you try to touch him. Also because I thought you'd appreciate the irony of naming a cat after a wolf.
I'm reading a book about the history of the internal arts. Most of it is incomprehensible—meridians and qi flows and cultivation stages. But there's a chapter about the Stone Tiger monastery that mentions a "trial of silence" lasting three years. Please tell me Feng isn't planning to make you do that.
I had a dream where you returned with golden bones that glowed through your skin. You looked ridiculous, like a lantern shaped like a person. I woke up laughing.
Jon wrote back. Told her about the training—what he could put into words, which wasn't much. The golden light defied description; it had to be felt to be understood. He told her about the monastery's rhythms, the monks who'd become familiar faces if not friends, and the view from the eastern terrace at sunset when the mountains turned to fire and shadow.
And other things. Things he wouldn't have admitted to anyone else.
I'm learning to be still. It's harder than any of Feng's exercises—harder than the basins, harder than the pain. But I'm learning.
The stillness isn't death anymore. It used to feel like dying, like being prey, like waiting for something terrible to find me. Now it feels like... rest. Like the moment between breaths. Like the godswood at Winterfell, before everything went wrong.
Feng says the mind should be empty during meditation. Mine isn't. It's full of you. I haven't told him that. I think he knows anyway.
In the fifth month, Feng summoned Jon to the eastern terrace for assessment.
"Show me."
Jon sat. Closed his eyes. Found his bones.
The golden light came quickly—warm, bright, filling his skeleton from fingertips to skull. He held it steady, letting it pulse in time with his heartbeat, feeling the structure of his body from within. The rebuilt architecture that the Bone Washing had created was now strengthening under the Marrow Refinement's patient cultivation.
One minute. Two. Five.
When he opened his eyes, Feng was watching with something that might have been satisfaction. On anyone else, the expression would have been unmistakable approval. On Feng, it was merely the absence of disapproval.
"The visualization is strong. The cultivation is progressing."
"Am I ready? To try the breathing techniques?"
"No."
Jon's heart sank, though he'd expected the answer. He'd been asking the same question for weeks, receiving the same response.
"The golden light must be more than visualization," Feng continued, his voice patient but unyielding. "It must become reality. Your bones must actually change—not just feel different, but be different. The density must increase. The structure must strengthen. What you're doing now is preparing the ground. The transformation itself takes time."
"How long?"
"Three more months. Perhaps four. If you continue at this pace."
Three months ago, this answer would have frustrated Jon. Would have felt like failure, like delay, like time stolen from his real training. He would have wanted to argue, to push, to force the process faster.
Now, he simply nodded.
"Then I'll continue."
Feng studied him for a long moment, those black eyes seeing more than Jon was comfortable revealing.
"You've learned something."
"What?"
"Patience. The hardest lesson for someone like you."
It wasn't quite praise. But from Feng, it was close.
Jon
The problem started small.
A morning meditation that didn't quite work. The golden light came, but dimmer than usual. Harder to hold. The visualization that had been flowing smoothly for weeks now felt forced, like trying to remember a dream that was slipping away.
Jon dismissed it. Everyone had off days. Even Feng probably had mornings where the stillness didn't come easily.
But the next day was the same. And the next. The golden light that had become second nature now required effort to summon and concentration to maintain. Where before he had simply been the visualization, now he was performing it—and the difference was vast.
By the fifth day, Jon could barely find his bone-sense at all. His skeleton had become invisible again, hidden beneath flesh and muscle, inaccessible to his inner awareness. The warmth that had filled his bones was gone, replaced by ordinary sensation—skin, muscle, the surface layers that had always been easy to feel.
What's happening? What did I do wrong?
He pushed harder. Sat longer. Tried to force the connection that had been flowing naturally just a week ago. He stayed in meditation until his legs cramped and his back ached, searching for the golden light with increasing desperation.
Nothing worked. The harder he tried, the further the light retreated. Each failed session fed his frustration, and the frustration made the next session harder. A spiral, tightening with each turn.
I was doing so well. What changed?
Feng found him in the eastern courtyard after another failed morning session.
Jon sat with his head in his hands, the picture of defeat. His robes were damp with morning mist. His fingers were cold. The visualization that had been his constant companion for months was gone, and he had no idea how to get it back.
"You're struggling."
Jon looked up. Feng stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.
"I can't find it anymore. The light. The feeling. It's gone."
"It's not gone. You've pushed it away."
"Pushed it away? I've been trying to find it for days—"
"Trying is the problem."
Feng sat across from Jon—unusual. He normally stood during instruction, maintaining the distance between teacher and student. This felt different. More intimate.
"Tell me what you've been thinking. During meditation."
"About the technique. About doing it right. About not failing."
"And before? When was it working?"
Jon thought back. The sessions that had flowed. The golden light that had come easily, naturally, without struggle.
"I wasn't thinking about the technique. I was just... doing it. Or not doing it. Being it."
"And now you're thinking about thinking about it."
"Yes."
"That is the problem."
Feng's voice shifted, taking on the quality it had during evening sessions when he taught philosophy rather than technique.
"There is a stage in every student's development where progress becomes its own obstacle. You achieved something real—the golden light, steady and strong. You could hold it for minutes. You could summon it at will. And then..."
"And then?"
"You became attached to that achievement. Attached to the feeling of progress. Attached to the idea of yourself as someone who had mastered this much."
"I don't understand."
"You started protecting it. Monitoring it. Checking to see if it was still there." Feng picked up a pebble from the ground and held it loosely in his palm. "If I hold this loosely, it stays. I can feel it, move it, work with it."
He closed his fist around the stone, squeezing hard.
"If I grip it too tightly..."
The pebble shot from his grasp, pressure finding the gaps between his fingers, skittering across the stone courtyard.
"The same is true of mastery. Hold it too tightly, and it escapes. The more you try to protect your progress, the more surely you destroy it."
Jon stared at the pebble, lying motionless several feet away. The lesson was clear—devastatingly clear.
I was afraid of losing it. So I held too tight. And lost it anyway.
"What do I do?"
"Stop trying to do. Stop monitoring your progress. Stop protecting what you've achieved."
"Just... let go?"
"Yes. Trust that what you've built will remain. The foundation doesn't disappear because you're not watching it. The golden light doesn't vanish because you're not checking every moment to see if it's still there."
He rose, brushing dust from his robes.
"This is perhaps the hardest lesson I can teach you. Harder than stillness. Harder than patience. The lesson of letting go."
Jon
Letting go was harder than the initial learning. Harder than sitting still when every instinct screamed to move. Harder than the basins, in its way.
Jon sat. Breathed. Tried not to try.
Don't check. Don't monitor. Don't—
He was monitoring again. Checking to see if he was not checking. The harder he tried to let go, the more tightly he held on.
This is impossible.
Days passed. A week. Two weeks. Jon sat in meditation and felt nothing but his own frustration, his own desperate wanting, and his own need to reclaim what he'd lost. The golden light remained beyond his reach, glimpsed occasionally but never grasped, vanishing the moment he became aware of it.
He began to understand Feng's lesson in a different way. Not as instruction, but as truth. He could feel the grasping—could feel how his mind clutched at any glimmer of progress, how his awareness pounced on the faintest hint of golden light and immediately smothered it with attention.
I'm my own enemy here. The harder I fight, the more surely I lose.
But knowing didn't help. Understanding didn't translate into release.
The third week, something shifted.
Jon wasn't sure when it happened. One moment he was sitting, breathing, failing to not try. The next, he was just... sitting. Breathing. Being.
No effort. No monitoring. No checking to see if the golden light had returned.
Just presence. Just now. Just this breath, this moment, this body sitting on cold stone.
And the golden light was there.
Not because he'd summoned it. Not because he'd done anything at all. Because it had never left.
It was there the whole time, he realized with a shock that nearly broke the connection. I just couldn't see it because I was looking too hard.
He held the awareness loosely this time. Didn't grasp. Didn't protect. Just noticed, the way you notice the sound of wind or the feel of sunlight.
The golden light remained.
"You found it again."
Feng's voice came from nearby. Jon opened his eyes slowly, reluctant to break the connection—then caught himself. That reluctance was itself a form of grasping.
He let the visualization fade naturally, without clinging.
"I stopped looking for it."
"Yes." Feng's voice held something almost like approval. "That is the deepest lesson of the internal arts. The harder you grasp, the less you hold. The more you surrender, the more you receive."
"It doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense. You simply haven't lived long enough to see it yet."
Jon considered this. The paradox of effort and release. The way forcing had destroyed what allowing had created.
"Is this why the external arts don't work for me? Because I was grasping too hard?"
"Partially. Your techniques generate enormous power—but power without foundation is destruction. You were trying to force your body to do what it wasn't ready to do, grasping at abilities your skeleton couldn't support."
"And now?"
"Now you're building the foundation. When it's complete, the power will flow through you instead of destroying you. Not because you're stronger in the conventional sense, but because you're more open. Less resistant. The current flows around stones, but it flows through empty channels."
A letter arrived during the recovery weeks, at exactly the right moment.
Jon,
I had a terrible week. Father left for the front without saying goodbye. Just gone one morning, with a note that said he'd return when he could. Zhi says that's how military families work. I told Zhi that doesn't make it hurt less.
Then I tried to help a servant with a heavy load and dropped it. Broke three vases. Everyone was very polite about it, which made it worse. I could see them thinking "the general's clumsy daughter" behind their smiles.
Then I went to the garden to feel sorry for myself, and I thought about you on your mountain, sitting still for hours, trying to feel your bones or whatever it is you're doing.
And I thought: if Jon can learn to be still, I can learn to let things go.
I don't know if that makes sense. But it helped.
Write back. Tell me something that helps.
—Mei Ling
Jon read the letter three times. Then he wrote his response, the brush moving slowly as he chose each word.
Mei Ling,
It makes perfect sense.
I had a setback too. Lost something I thought I'd gained. Spent weeks trying to get it back, failing, and making it worse by trying.
Feng told me I was holding too tightly. That mastery escapes when you grip it. I didn't understand until I did.
I think maybe the same is true for other things. People. Moments. The things we love.
We hold them loosely, and they stay. We grip too hard, and they slip away.
Your father will come back. He always does. And when he does, maybe you can hold him loosely too. Let him be what he is—a general, a father, a man who doesn't know how to say goodbye. Don't try to make him something he isn't. Just let him be what he is, and love that.
I'm learning to hold things loosely. The training. The progress. Even you.
Not because I don't care. Because I care too much to crush what we have by gripping too tight.
Write back. I'll keep writing as long as you do.
—Jon
Jon
Feng's examination in the seventh month was the most thorough yet.
The old master spent an hour testing Jon's bones—pressing against joints, probing along limbs, and having Jon hold positions that stressed different parts of his skeleton. Each test was assessed with that unreadable expression, each result noted in some internal ledger that Feng never shared.
Finally, he stepped back.
"The Marrow Refinement is nearly complete. Your bones have changed—not just healed, but transformed. The density is remarkable for your age. The structure is sound."
Jon waited. There was always more with Feng.
"You are ready to try the breathing techniques again."
His heart stopped. Started. Pounded against his ribs with sudden, fierce hope.
"Really?"
"At minimal power. Controlled conditions. If anything feels wrong—any strain, any pain, any sense that your body is fighting itself—you stop immediately."
"I understand."
"We begin tomorrow."
The eastern terrace at dawn. The same place Jon had spoken his truth nearly a year ago, had revealed his reasons for seeking strength, and had earned Feng's acceptance.
The sun rose behind the mountains, painting everything gold—the stone beneath his feet, the ancient pines, and the mist that curled through the valleys below. Jon stood in the center of the terrace, his rebuilt body humming with nervous energy.
Feng watched from nearby, his posture relaxed but his attention absolute. Two monks stood at the terrace's edge, ready to intervene if something went wrong.
"Begin with Water Breathing. The calmest form. Minimal enhancement."
Jon closed his eyes. Found his center.
For the first time in almost a year, he reached for Water Breathing.
The technique answered.
It was different than before. Not the flood of power that had overwhelmed him in the training yard, the surge that had felt like drowning in his own strength. This was steadier. Gentler. Like a river that knew its banks, that flowed within its channel instead of breaking through.
The enhancement spread through him. His senses sharpened—the morning air grew crisp with detail, each scent distinct, each sound clear. His body responded with fluid grace, ready to move in any direction without hesitation.
And his bones—his rebuilt, transformed bones—held.
No cramp. No pain. No grinding protest from damaged structure.
Just power, contained and controlled.
It's working. The training is working. I'm not breaking.
Over the following days, Feng had Jon test each technique at increasing intensity.
Water Breathing first, again and again until Jon could summon it without thinking and could hold it for minutes at a time. The calm enhancement became familiar, comfortable—like wearing clothes that finally fit.
Then Thunder Breathing. The first spark of lightning in his limbs, energy crackling through channels that had once been too narrow to contain it. His ribs held. His spine channeled the force instead of cracking. The power flowed through his golden frame instead of shattering it.
Then Beast Breathing. Senses heightening, awareness expanding until he could hear heartbeats and smell emotions. His skull didn't ache. His eyes didn't blur. The enhancement that had once threatened to burn out his mind now settled into place like a key into a lock.
"Full integration," Feng said on the seventh day. "All three together. The combination that broke you in the training yard."
Jon's stomach tightened. The memory of that day—the three seconds of glory, the collapse, the flashback—remained sharp despite the months of training.
"I'm ready."
He closed his eyes. Reached for everything at once.
Water, Thunder, Beast. Layered enhancement, the techniques flowing together like rivers joining into a single current.
The power flooded through him—
And his body held.
His foundation held.
He moved through a basic form, swords of air cutting patterns around him. His bones sang with contained strength. His flesh channeled forces that would have destroyed him a year ago. The techniques that had broken him now worked for him, supported by the architecture the Golden Marrow Art had built.
When he stopped, breathing hard but unbroken, Feng was watching with an expression Jon had never seen before.
Something very close to pride.
"You've felt it working. Good. But understand: this is not completion. This is the beginning of integration."
Jon nodded, still catching his breath. The demonstration had taken more out of him than he'd expected—not because his body was failing, but because the power itself was exhausting to channel, even with proper support.
"What do you mean?"
"Your bones can support the techniques now. But supporting and enhancing are different things. The true fusion—internal and external arts working as one, each strengthening the other—requires the next stage."
"Jade Transformation."
"Yes. That is years away. Perhaps many years." Feng's voice held no judgment, only fact. "For now, you can use your techniques without destroying yourself. That is significant progress. But do not mistake progress for mastery."
Jon understood. The door had opened, but the journey beyond it was long.
"I'm not ready for the tournament."
"No. Not this tournament. But perhaps the next one. Or the one after. The Festival of Crossed Swords occurs twice yearly. You have time."
"How long until Jade Transformation?"
"That depends on many things. Your continued practice. Your integration of what you've learned. Your reasons for seeking strength." Feng's eyes sharpened. "Those must remain clear. Obsession leads to grasping. Grasping leads to failure. You've learned that lesson once. Don't forget it."
Jon
The announcement came during an evening session, the sun setting behind the mountains in shades of gold and crimson.
"The Marrow Refinement is complete."
Jon looked up from his meditation. Feng stood in the doorway of his cell, silhouetted against the fading light.
"Complete? You said three more months—"
"I said three months at your current pace. You accelerated after the setback. The struggle taught you something the smooth path couldn't."
Feng entered the cell, his footsteps silent on the stone floor.
"Your bones are transformed. Your marrow cultivates the golden light naturally now, without constant focus—it continues even when you're not meditating, strengthening you while you sleep. Your skeleton is the skeleton of someone twenty years into internal arts training, not one year."
A pause.
"You have talent. More than I expected. More than I wanted to admit."
The warning came next, as Jon knew it would.
"But talent is not mastery. Remember what I said: you can use your techniques without self-destruction. That is not the same as using them well."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Feng's eyes were sharp. "You glimpsed the golden frame during your training. You can reach it sometimes, in deep meditation. But you cannot hold it in combat. Cannot maintain it under pressure. That requires the integration that only comes with Jade Transformation."
"And that requires years."
"Years of continued practice. Years of returning here, learning, and growing. The path doesn't end because one stage is complete."
Jon met Feng's eyes directly. "I'll come back. As many times as it takes."
"I know you will."
Something shifted in the old master's expression—a softening that Jon had never seen before.
"You've done well, Jon Snow. Better than I expected. Better than you expected."
"I had a good teacher."
"You had a demanding teacher. The goodness came from you."
Feng reached into his robe and withdrew something small. A stone, smooth and pale, sized to fit in a palm. He held it out to Jon.
"This is a meditation stone from the monastery's deepest chamber. It has been used by masters for generations. The stone holds something of their practice—not power, exactly, but resonance. It will help you maintain the connection when you're away from the mountain."
Jon took it. The stone was warm—not from Feng's body heat, but from something within. A gentle pulse, barely perceptible, like a heartbeat.
"Thank you. I don't know what to say."
"Say nothing. Just use it well."
The next morning dawned clear and cold.
Jon packed his meager belongings. The jade wolf pendant, warm against his chest. The meditation stone, wrapped in cloth and tucked into his pack. A change of clothes, worn soft from months of use.
The monastery gate stood open. The mountain road descended before him, familiar now, almost friendly. He knew every switchback, every treacherous step, and every place where the view opened up to reveal the world below.
Feng stood at the gate, hands clasped behind his back, the same posture he'd held when Jon first arrived—desperate, broken, chasing a dead man's legend.
"Return when you're ready for the next stage. Or return when you need guidance. The mountain doesn't move."
"I'll return."
"I know."
A pause. Something almost like warmth in Feng's ancient eyes.
"Travel safely, Jon Snow. The world below is less patient than the mountain."
"I've survived the world before."
"Yes. But you were merely surviving then. Now you have something to lose."
The words stayed with Jon as he walked through the gate, as the stone steps descended before him. Something to lose. Mei Ling. The swords. The life waiting for him at Tianlei.
He's right. I have more to lose now. More to protect.
That's what makes me stronger. Not weaker.
The monastery shrank behind him as he descended. The mountain cold gave way to warmer air. The world below emerged from the mist—green and gold with late summer, alive and waiting.
Eight months. Bone Washing and Marrow Refinement. Two stages complete, and with them, a transformation that went deeper than bone. He had learned stillness. Learned patience. Learned to hold loosely what he loved.
Jade Transformation waited. Years of training waited.
But first: Mei Ling. The garden. The twin swords were wrapped in wolf-embroidered silk.
First: home.
Somewhere in that world, a girl with dark hair was probably looking at the road, wondering when he would appear. A scholar was probably preparing assessments and updates. An unlikely rival was probably practicing forms, waiting to see how much Jon had improved.
Soon, Jon thought, touching the jade wolf through his shirt. Very soon.
Wait for me. I'm coming.
The road descended. Jon descended with it. Behind him, the Stone Tiger's monastery disappeared into the mist—patient, eternal, waiting for his return.
Ahead, the world waited too.
He was ready to meet it.
End of Chapter 16, Part Two