Chapter 1: A Wolf Remembers
Darkness.
Not the soft darkness of sleep—this was absolute, the kind that swallowed everything. No body. No breath. No heartbeat.
Then light. Pain.
Cold air hit lungs that weren't mine. Fur blankets scratched skin I didn't recognize. Fingers—my fingers—gripped rough wool with strength they shouldn't have. The ceiling above was stone, ancient and gray, lit by the pale glow of pre-dawn light through a window shaped like an arrow slit.
I died.
The memory came jagged and incomplete. A truck. Rain-slicked asphalt. The weightless moment of impact. Then nothing.
I died, and now—
A weight shifted at the foot of the bed. Eyes met mine in the darkness—gold, predatory, knowing. The wolf was massive, barely grown but already larger than any dog had a right to be. Gray fur caught the morning light. His nostrils flared, scenting something different about me.
And then I felt him.
Not with my hands. Deeper. A thread of connection humming in my chest, a presence at the edge of my mind that was wild and fierce and absolutely loyal. The bond thrummed between us—warm, alive, undeniable.
Grey Wind.
The name came before the thought. Before the analysis. Before the cascade of memories—two sets of memories—slammed into my skull with the force of a battering ram.
Robb Stark. Heir to Winterfell. Seventeen years old. Auburn hair and Tully blue eyes. A boy who would become the Young Wolf, King in the North, betrayed at a wedding and murdered alongside his mother and wife. A boy who would die with a crown on his head and crossbow bolts in his chest.
I am Robb Stark.
Grey Wind whined, tilting his massive head. The bond pulsed—concern, confusion. He could sense the change. Of course he could. Direwolves were more than animals. They were partners. Extensions of the soul.
And mine is still here. Still mine.
My hands—Robb's hands—flexed. Young muscle responded instantly. Strong. Quick. Ready. But there was something else beneath the familiar sensation of sinew and bone. Something coiled and waiting.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Bare feet touched cold stone, and the shock traveled up through my calves, grounding me in this impossible reality. The chamber was modest for a lord's son—furs on the floor, a wooden chest, weapons racked against the wall, a mirror of polished metal.
The mirror.
Crossing the room took seconds that stretched like hours. Grey Wind padded beside me, his shoulder brushing my thigh. The reflection that stared back was a stranger wearing a familiar face.
Robb Stark at seventeen. Auburn hair that needed cutting, falling past his ears. Blue-gray eyes—Tully coloring, Stark steel. A jaw that would sharpen with age. Shoulders that would broaden through war.
War that doesn't have to happen. A death that doesn't have to come.
The knowledge spilled through me—not learned, but remembered. Two lifetimes colliding like waves against a breakwater. I knew the date. Robert Baratheon would arrive today, his great belly and greater thirst dragging him north to ask Ned Stark to become his Hand. Within weeks, Bran would fall. Within months, Ned would lose his head.
The Red Wedding.
Bile rose in my throat. Catelyn's screams. Robb's—my—body pierced by Frey crossbows. Grey Wind howling as they cut him down. The King in the North, unmade by salt and bread and broken oaths.
Grey Wind pressed closer, a rumble building in his chest. The bond sang with protective fury. He didn't understand the images in my mind, but he understood the fear.
No.
The word cut through the spiral. Not a prayer. A decision.
No. I know what's coming. I know who betrays us. I know the traitors' names and the killers' faces. I know where the bodies are buried and where they will be buried if nothing changes.
I know everything.
Muscles tensed in my arms. Something new pulsed beneath the surface—a readiness, a potential that hadn't existed in the boy who'd gone to sleep last night. Power. Not magic, not yet. But the seed of something more.
The previous night, Robb Stark had gone to bed ordinary. Now...
Now I am something else.
I moved through the room, testing the body. Quick pivots. A sudden lunge. My feet knew exactly where to land. My weight shifted with perfect economy. When I reached for Robb's practice sword—leaning against the wall, forgotten—my hand found the grip without looking.
Sword Saint Potential.
The knowledge surfaced like a bubble through dark water. Not quite memory. More like understanding. My body was built for combat. Not trained—I'd need training—but designed. Every muscle fiber optimized for the blade. Every reflex sharpened beyond the human norm.
I swung the practice sword. The arc was smooth, faster than I expected. The weight felt like an extension of my arm.
This is real.
Grey Wind's tail wagged once. He approved.
I set down the sword and closed my eyes. Another power stirred—this one harder to grasp. A sense that existed outside my five senses. A whisper of things to come. Nothing clear. No visions. Just... awareness. The knowledge that Jon would enter the training yard through the north gate today. The certainty that Arya would spill her breakfast.
Battle Precognition.
Instinctive. Unreliable. But there.
And beneath it all, buried deep, something cold. Something that didn't belong to this world or any world I knew. A seed of ice that would one day bloom into—
Later.
Grey Wind whined again. I scratched behind his ears, and his massive tail swept the floor.
"I know, boy. It's different. I'm different."
His golden eyes held mine. He couldn't understand the words, but through the bond, he understood the meaning. A question lived in that gaze: Are you still mine?
"Always."
He licked my hand. The bond thrummed with acceptance.
I turned to the window. Outside, the world was gray and cold and achingly familiar. Stone walls climbed toward a sky the color of wet ash. The courtyard below was stirring to life—servants hauling water, guardsmen changing shift, a stable boy leading horses to be groomed for the royal visit.
Winterfell.
The name resonated in my bones. Not nostalgia—something deeper. This was home. Robb's memories made it so, and my soul... my soul agreed.
I pushed open the window. Cold Northern air flooded in, sharp as a blade. It smelled of pine and snow and woodsmoke. It smelled of home.
Laughter escaped before I could stop it. Quiet. Disbelieving. Genuine.
Second chance.
Not a burden. Not a curse. A gift.
Ned Stark alive downstairs. Catelyn, sharp-tongued and loving. Jon, brooding and noble. Arya, fierce as any wolf. Sansa, dreaming her dreams. Bran, climbing toward a fall that didn't have to happen. Rickon, small and wild. A family whole. A family I could save.
I am Robb Stark. King in the North. The Young Wolf. And I will not waste this.
Grey Wind pressed against my leg, warm and solid and real. Through the bond, I sent him something wordless. Not a command. A promise.
We're going to fix this. All of it.
His answering howl split the morning air.
Below, servants looked up in alarm. A guardsman laughed nervously. Somewhere in the castle, a door slammed.
I didn't care.
"Big day ahead, boy." I scratched behind Grey Wind's ears. "The king arrives. The Lannisters. The whole rotten lot of them. And we're going to meet them with smiles on our faces and knives behind our backs."
Grey Wind's tail thumped against the floor.
A knock rattled the door. "My lord?" A servant's voice, muffled by oak. "Breakfast is served. Your father asks that you attend promptly—the royal party draws near."
My hand paused on Grey Wind's fur. On the other side of that door, my family waited. My father. My mother. My siblings. People who remembered a boy who'd gone to sleep last night.
They'd be meeting someone new.
I crossed to the clothes chest, pulled out appropriate attire. The fabric was rougher than anything I'd worn before—wool and leather, practical Northern garb. It felt right.
Grey Wind padded to the door, waiting.
"Coming!" I called back. Then, quieter: "Time to meet the family."
I opened the door and stepped into my new life.
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