Black Wolf, Golden Soul
Chapter 1: Born Again in the Snow
The cold was the first thing he felt.
Not pain. Not confusion.
Cold.
It wasn't the kind of chill that nipped at your fingers or crept under your clothes. This cold sunk into the bones, as if the gods themselves were trying to freeze the soul out of him.
Then came the memories.
Not of this place—but of another world. Of tall cities with steel skeletons. Of music pouring through earbuds. Of fists raised to the sky and rhythm pulsing through his chest. Of Frank Ocean on rainy nights, Kendrick on angry mornings, Michael Jackson on loud afternoons. His name had been Jordan. A nobody. A dreamer with calloused hands and a playlist longer than his bank account.
And now… he was Jon Snow.
He opened his eyes to a dim room lit by firelight. Shadows danced along the stone walls. His body was smaller—leaner—but there was a quiet strength in his limbs. His fingers twitched. There was no panic in him. No scream of disbelief. Just a sharp clarity.
He was in the body of Jon Snow… but he was not Jon Snow. Not truly.
He was more.
---
Castle Black smelled like smoke, steel, and sweat. Outside the chamber, men of the Night's Watch moved like ghosts in the snow. Brothers, they called each other. Most were thieves, bastards, and killers.
He dressed slowly, letting the familiar leather and fur settle onto his frame. The rough wool scratched his skin, but he didn't flinch. Jordan—no, Jon—looked into the cracked mirror.
Dark curls. Stark grey eyes. That solemn, brooding look that made women curious and men cautious.
"Damn," he muttered. "I'm fine as hell."
He grinned.
---
1st Person
I should've been freaking out. Another world, another life. A whole-ass medieval fantasy saga with dragons, magic, incest, and war. But instead… I felt calm.
No internet. No rent. No soul-sucking job.
Just snow, swords, and a second chance.
Bet.
---
Outside, the yard was alive with clashing steel. Jon stepped into the snow, each footfall crunching softly. Ser Alliser Thorne was barking orders, his face locked in permanent disgust.
"Snow!" he snapped. "You're late."
Jon raised an eyebrow, his voice smooth and confident. "You're ugly."
The training yard fell silent.
Alliser's face twisted. "What did you say to me, boy?"
"I said, you're ugly. And your breath smells like dead horse."
A few of the boys snorted. One outright laughed before quickly covering his mouth.
Alliser's face reddened. "You think this is a game?"
Jon stepped forward, steel in his eyes. "No. I think this is my life now. And I'm not taking orders from someone who looks like his face lost a fight with a frying pan."
The man moved quick—he always did. But Jon moved quicker. As Alliser reached for his sword, Jon sidestepped, swept his legs, and drove his fist into the man's ribs.
Thorne went down, gasping.
Jon stood over him.
"This is the new Snow," he said coldly. "Try to keep up."
He walked away as the other recruits stared in stunned silence.
---
That night, he stood atop the Wall. The wind howled, ancient and lonely. The stars blinked above, distant and uncaring.
And yet… he felt alive.
He sang softly, a tune that had no place in this world.
"I'm not brave… I just wasn't dying alone. If I ever forget myself, remind me who I was…"
– Frank Ocean, "Wiseman"
His voice carried in the wind, echoing over the snow. Ghost, the white direwolf, padded up beside him, silent as ever.
"You like that one, boy?" Jon murmured.
Ghost huffed quietly.
Jon scratched behind his ear. "Me too."
---
Later
Maester Aemon called for him the next day.
The old man's eyes were clouded, but his mind was sharp.
"You've changed," Aemon said simply.
Jon tilted his head. "Maybe I just found myself."
The old man smiled. "Good. The world needs men who know who they are."
Jon met his gaze, something wild and knowing in his eyes. "Then the world better hold on tight."
---
The weeks passed. He trained with the sword like it was an old friend. His movements were too clean, too sharp for a boy his age. People noticed. Whispers followed him. The boys respected him. Feared him. Some hated him. But no one dared challenge him again—not after he shattered Thorne's pride in front of everyone.
And when they asked him where he learned to fight like that, he just smiled.
"Earth."
They thought it was a joke.
They had no idea.
---
First Person – Night before the ranging
They think I'm a bastard. That I have nothing. No name. No power.
But I've got memories of a thousand songs. A life filled with noise, pain, love, and fire.
I've seen the world fall apart. I've walked through hell in Air Jordans.
So this place?
This frozen, blood-soaked land of lies and crowns?
I'm not scared of it.
I'm made for it.
End of Chapter 1