Chapter 1: The Cold Never Bothered Me
Waking up in the cold wasn't new. What was new was opening his eyes and seeing stone walls, fur blankets, and a sword hanging near a wooden bed.
His breath hung in the air like smoke. Frost lined the window, and beyond it—snow. Real snow. Heavy, untouched. The kind you only saw in movies or dreams.
He sat up slowly, head pounding like he'd just gone ten rounds in a cage match.
"Where the fuck am I?"
The words felt real in his mouth, like biting into something solid. The last thing he remembered was dying. Not in some grand, poetic way. Just a dumb accident. Headlights. Screeching tires. Then darkness.
And now—this.
He stood, legs shaky, and moved toward the cracked glass pane. It wasn't a dream. Outside, the godswood loomed. The weirwood tree bled its red sap beneath the snow. He knew this place.
Winterfell.
He looked down at his hands. Slimmer. Younger. Paler.
A knock on the door snapped him back.
"Jon?" It was Robb Stark's voice. Warm, confident. "Come on, we're late to the training yard. Ser Rodrik will have our heads."
Jon. That was his name now.
"Coming," he called, voice steady. He took a deep breath, shook out the last of the confusion, and grabbed the fur cloak at the end of the bed.
---
The yard was alive with the sound of wood and steel. Boys of noble blood clashed with practice swords, their laughter and grunts echoing off the stone walls. Snow crunched beneath their boots. The sky was a dull gray.
Robb stood beside him, red hair catching the light. He smiled wide. "You look like death, Snow."
Jon smirked. "Better than looking like you."
Robb laughed and clapped him on the back. "There's the bastard I know."
Jon stepped onto the field. The wood sword felt light in his hand. Too light. He adjusted his grip. Years of MMA, Krav Maga, jiu-jitsu—all in another life. He could disarm a man in seconds. Break a joint without blinking. That knowledge buzzed in his fingers like static.
Ser Rodrik called out. "Jon, Theon, you're up."
Theon Greyjoy strutted forward, smirking. "Try not to cry this time, Snow."
Jon rolled his eyes. "Try not to piss yourself."
They circled each other, boys pretending to be men. Jon watched Theon's feet, his stance, his breathing. It was laughably sloppy. He let Theon swing first—wild, high, telegraphed. Jon ducked it easily and slammed the flat of his sword into Theon's ribs.
"Shit!"
Theon staggered back, clutching his side. Laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Lucky shot," Theon growled.
Jon shrugged. "Swing like that again and you'll be lucky to walk."
He turned to Ser Rodrik, who was nodding with something close to approval.
---
Later, Jon sat beneath the weirwood tree, breath steaming in the cold. He hummed quietly, then let the words out.
"I've been thinkin' 'bout you... do you think about me still? Do ya, do ya?"
The voice wasn't perfect. He wasn't Frank Ocean. But it was soulful, soft, haunting. The godswood listened.
He didn't care if anyone heard.
This world didn't have R&B. It didn't have soul. He was bringing it.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Arya.
"That was... weird."
Jon glanced back. "Weird good or weird bad?"
She shrugged, then sat beside him. "I liked it. Sounded sad."
He smiled. "Sad's real."
They sat in silence, snow falling between them.
"You changed," Arya said after a while. "You talk different. Even your eyes look different."
Jon looked at her, amused. "Maybe I grew up overnight."
She grinned. "If you start smiling like Sansa, I'm stabbing you."
---
That night, Jon sat by the fire in the great hall, nursing a mug of warm ale. He listened. Listened like a predator. Stark bannermen, northern lords, servants, all laughing, talking, whispering. Every word, every glance—he soaked it up.
These people think this is just a feast, he thought. They don't know what's coming.
He knew the future. Or he thought he did. The timeline might shift. His actions might break things, change things. But some events were too big to move.
Winter was coming.
And this time, Jon Snow wasn't going to play the noble fool. He'd survive. He'd dominate.
He'd win.
He looked up at the high table. Ned Stark sat in quiet command, Catelyn beside him, never sparing Jon a glance. Robb laughed with Theon. Sansa twirled a curl around her finger, ignoring Arya, who was tossing peas at her.
Jon took a slow sip.
You people have no idea what's in front of you.
---
Later that night, in his bed, Jon lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
His mind drifted to Earth. Music. Street lights. Fast food. Late nights in the gym. A girl with a crooked smile and a lip ring. Gone now. All of it.
He sang again, voice low.
"If this room was burnin', I wouldn't even notice… 'cause you've been takin' up my mind..."
His eyes closed.
Alright, he thought. Tomorrow we start.
We train. We watch. We learn.
This world wants to play games?
I'll flip the board.