Black Wolf, Golden Soul
Chapter 2: Blood in the Snow
The sun was a pale coin in the sky, barely warming the frosted air as the gates of Castle Black groaned open. Jon Snow—reborn Jordan—stood tall among the black-cloaked men of the Night's Watch. His direwolf, Ghost, padded silently by his side, a white shadow in the snow. The ranging beyond the Wall was supposed to be routine. Nothing ever was.
He gripped Longclaw at his side, the Valyrian steel blade gifted to him not long ago. He'd earned it faster in this life. Strength, strategy, fearlessness—and a mouth that didn't hesitate to tear into fools. Even the Lord Commander had started to watch him with new eyes.
Samwell Tarly rode beside him, bundled in layers and still shivering. "I—I hate the cold," Sam muttered.
Jon smirked. "You hated walking. I figured riding would be an upgrade."
"Only if the horse hates me less than the ice."
Jon glanced ahead at the line of riders. The old world in his chest stirred. The rhythm of hooves, the crunch of snow—it was almost like a beat.
He hummed low. Then he sang.
"Alls my life, I has to fight...
Hard times like, 'Yah!'—bad trips like, 'Yah!'"
– Kendrick Lamar, Alright
One of the rangers turned in his saddle, confused. "What's that you're singing, Snow?"
Jon shrugged. "Something from home."
Sam blinked. "Winterfell?"
"No," Jon said, his tone softer. "Much farther than that."
---
They rode for hours into the forest. The trees grew closer together the farther north they went, black trunks rising like silent sentinels. The world beyond the Wall was still, too still. Not even the crows cried out.
They found the wildling camp just before nightfall.
Tents burned. Blood stained the snow. Bodies, torn apart—not by blades, but by claws.
The patrol leader, a grizzled man named Qhorin, crouched beside a body. "This wasn't men who did this."
Jon knelt beside him. The dead man's eyes were wide, mouth open in a silent scream. Throat torn. Ribcage cracked.
"Bears?" Sam asked, trembling.
"No," Jon said. "This is worse."
Qhorin looked at him. "You seen this before?"
Jon hesitated. "Not in this world."
---
That night, they made camp in the ruins of the wildling site. The fires were small, just enough to keep frostbite away. Ghost prowled the tree line, low growls rumbling in his throat.
Jon sat apart from the others, his breath fogging in the air, eyes distant. He pulled out a piece of wood and began to carve it absentmindedly. The others thought it was a hobby. Really, it was focus. Meditation. Calculation.
He was piecing the puzzle together.
Back on Earth, he'd read the books. Watched the show. He remembered the Night King, the White Walkers, the endless undead tide. But now, it was real. The blood was warmer. The screams were louder.
And he had to be ready.
He looked up to the stars and sang again, softer this time.
"You're just another part of me…"
– Michael Jackson
The trees whispered with the wind. The forest listened.
---
The next morning
They found tracks. Not human. Not animal. Something in between. Qhorin ordered a small scouting group ahead. Jon volunteered.
"You sure?" Qhorin asked. "Could be dangerous."
Jon looked him in the eye. "Good. I was getting bored."
He took Ghost and two other rangers—Dolorous Edd and a younger boy named Grenn. They moved fast and quiet, the snow muffling their steps.
The trail led to a cave hidden beneath a ridge.
The moment they stepped inside, the cold deepened. Unnatural. Like the air itself was dead.
They saw the first wight hanging from the ceiling by twisted sinew, eyes frozen open. Then it moved.
Jon shouted. "DOWN!"
The thing dropped, snarling. Jon met it mid-air with Longclaw. Steel rang against bone. Edd swung his axe and took off part of its leg. It didn't scream. It didn't feel pain.
Grenn panicked, stumbled back.
"Burn it!" Jon yelled.
But they had no fire. Only steel. And Valyrian steel—Jon realized—cut deep.
He sliced clean through the wight's neck. The head rolled. The body twitched, then went still.
Jon stood, panting. "We need to go. Now."
---
Back at camp
He told Qhorin everything. The cave. The cold. The wight.
The man listened with grim silence. "We'll ride back at dawn."
Jon shook his head. "Dawn might be too late."
"Are you giving me orders, boy?"
Jon didn't flinch. "I'm giving you sense. You've seen what they do. You think they'll wait politely for the sun?"
Qhorin stared at him. Then nodded. "We ride in an hour."
---
That night, the dead came.
They rose from the trees. Silent. Pale. Eyes glowing like frostbitten fire.
The first scream shattered the quiet. Then the camp was chaos.
Jon was already moving. Longclaw was a blur, slicing through undead flesh. Ghost leapt onto one, tearing at its throat.
Sam cowered by the fire, blade trembling in his hands.
Jon grabbed him. "The fire, Sam! Burn them!"
Sam thrust his torch into one wight's face. It howled and shriveled like paper.
Jon fought like a storm. He moved with purpose, cutting down enemy after enemy, humming under his breath.
"You take my money when I'm in need…"
"Yeah, she's a triflin' friend indeed…"
– Kanye West, Gold Digger
A ranger stared as Jon cut down three in one motion. "What the fuck are you singing?!"
"Motivation!" Jon shouted back, grinning.
They held the line until dawn. By the time the sun rose, half the camp was gone.
Jon stood amid the corpses, covered in black blood and ash.
Qhorin approached. "You saved us."
Jon didn't smile. "No. I slowed them down. That's all."
The others looked at him differently now. Like a wolf in man's skin.
He walked away, Ghost at his heels.
---
Later, atop the Wall
He looked out at the north. Endless. Cold. Filled with death.
Sam came up beside him. "What if they come again?"
Jon's voice was steel. "Then I kill them again."
"But we can't win."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "Not yet. But I've got plans. And I've got songs."
He pulled out a rough carving from his pocket. It was shaped like a microphone.
"I may be Jon Snow now," he whispered. "But I still remember who I was. And I'll burn the fucking world before I let it fall into darkness."
Sam blinked. "What?"
Jon smiled. "Nothing. Just thinking about a remix."
He began to hum again. A slow, soulful tune.
"I'm not alive, I'm not dead… I'm somewhere in between instead…"
– Frank Ocean
The wind carried the melody over the Wall.
The dead would return. The world would burn.
But Jon Snow—reborn, remixed, and ready—would be waiting.
End of Chapter 2