The Bastard Wolf: Reborn Chapter 2 – The Game Begins
Winterfell smelled like snow, smoke, and old secrets. Jon stood on the battlements in the early morning light, arms folded across his chest, watching the King's men piss off the side of the wall like drunken children. He wasn't interested in pleasantries, not with the bullshit parade that came with Robert Baratheon. Still, he had to play his part. For now.
He felt different in this body. Stronger, leaner. Jon Snow's muscles were honed by sword practice and Stark discipline, but the soul inside? That soul was sharp as a knife and twice as dangerous. This world didn't need a brooding bastard.
It needed a wolf with bite.
Robb found him first.
"You missed the hunt," Robb said, tossing him a half-smile. "Father wanted all the sons there."
Jon caught the smile and threw it back. "Didn't feel like chasing deer and pretending to love the king."
Robb frowned. "You should be careful saying things like that."
"Why?" Jon leaned against the stone. "Is the fat drunk going to come up here and cry?"
Robb shook his head, but he was grinning now. "What's gotten into you?"
Jon looked out at the snowy woods. "Clarity. Maybe it's the cold."
He didn't say it out loud, but something in him burned. A fire that didn't belong in the North. A spark from another world, another life. The world where he used to sit on rooftops and hum Kendrick lyrics while the sky bled purple and gold.
Now, he was here. Again. And this time, he was going to tear the game apart.
---
That night, the feast returned.
More wine. More meat. More empty words from lords trying to lick the king's boots until their tongues turned black. Jon watched it all from the shadows, sipping quietly. Cersei looked bored. Joffrey looked smug. Sansa looked like a girl still dreaming.
He hated how naive they all were. And yet, he knew what was coming. He remembered.
Jon stood up from the table and walked to the center of the hall. The music quieted. Eyes turned.
Ned glanced over. "Jon?"
Jon ignored him. He cleared his throat. Then, softly, he began to sing.
"Do you remember... when we fell in love... we were young and innocent then..."
The voice hit the air like a storm. Smooth. Powerful. Unapologetically modern. The words made no sense to them, but the feeling? That cut through.
Sansa gasped. Arya's jaw dropped. Even Cersei blinked in confusion.
Tyrion clapped slowly, then quicker. "Well, that was unexpected."
Jon finished the chorus, then walked back to the table and sat like nothing had happened.
Ned leaned over, brows furrowed. "Where did you learn that song?"
Jon looked at him and smiled. "Beyond the Wall."
---
Later, he found Tyrion near the fire, drunk and curious.
"You're a strange one," the Imp said, swirling his wine. "Singing songs no one's heard. Speaking like a prince but dressed like a bastard."
Jon sipped his ale. "Maybe I'm both."
"Are you?" Tyrion tilted his head. "You know, most bastards sulk in corners. You sing. You watch. You think."
Jon gave a lazy shrug. "Thinking keeps you alive. Singing keeps you sane."
Tyrion chuckled. "And what keeps you dangerous?"
Jon leaned in. "Knowing things before they happen."
That shut Tyrion up. For once.
---
He needed allies. Smart ones. And soon. The game was already in motion. Jon knew how it would play out: Ned would die. Robb would march south and die. Catelyn, dead. Sansa, a pawn. Arya, gone. Bran, broken. The Wall would fall. The dead would rise.
Unless he changed it.
So he began.
First, with Arya.
"You like swords," he said, walking with her in the courtyard.
She nodded quickly. "More than sewing."
He tossed her a wooden blade. "Then learn from someone who won't treat you like a girl."
Arya caught it, eyes wide. "You?"
"No. I'm getting you a teacher."
She squinted. "Who?"
"Ever hear of Syrio Forel?"
She shook her head.
Jon smiled. "You will."
---
He spent the next few days quietly shifting pieces. Whispering to Maester Luwin about wildfire storage in King's Landing. Asking Benjen Stark odd questions about the Night's Watch. Dropping hints to Ned about Robert's hunting habits.
He was planting seeds. Slow and steady. Can't change the future by yelling at it.
Change comes like winter: quiet, creeping, and cold as fuck.
---
One night, alone in his room, Jon lit a candle and stared into the flame. Then he sang again.
"If I gotta slap a pussy-ass nigga, I'ma make it look sexy..."
"Pull up, hop out, air out, made it look sexy..."
"They won't take me out my element... nah, take me out my element..."
The words felt dangerous in this world. Like prophecy. Like prophecy wrapped in swagger.
Ghost stirred from his sleep in the corner. Jon looked down at him.
"They're not ready for this, boy."
Ghost growled in agreement.
---
He wasn't hiding anymore.
He trained harder, faster. Fought like he had something to prove, and something worse to lose. The other boys in the yard started avoiding sparring with him. Ser Rodrik noticed.
"You fight like a man twice your age," he said one morning.
Jon spat on the snow. "That's because I've died twice as often."
Rodrik didn't understand it. He didn't need to.
---
First Person
They look at me and see a bastard. A quiet wolf. But I remember dying. I remember the Wall. The betrayal. The blood.
And I remember Earth. Music. Heat. Lights. Love. Lust. Pain.
I am both. And I am more.
This world broke me once. Not again.
This time, I'm the storm.