The Wolf’s Child

It had taken a few days. The fog in his mind had been thick at first—like waking from a dream into another, louder dream, wrapped in a body too small and helpless to act. Thoughts came like bubbles underwater, slow and delayed. But warmth helped. And food. And now, wrapped in something soft, belly full, cradled in strong arms, the fog began to lift.

He could think.

And he could see.

Benjen Stark.

There was no mistaking that face.

He had stared at it for hours—on screens, in books, in his daydreams. And now it loomed above him, real and alive, younger maybe, but unmistakably him. The man who had held him, fed him, soothed him. Benjen Stark.

So that means… what?

His tiny brows furrowed, and he sucked in a shaky breath. No one in Game of Thrones had ever shown Benjen holding a baby. No soft moments, no diaper changes, no gentle words. Just a brooding younger brother in black, loyal and brave, eventually lost beyond the Wall.

And now here he was. Younger. Definitely younger than in the show—maybe twenty? Twenty-one at most. Which meant…

This is before the main story even starts.

Way before.

A tiny panic started to swell in his chest.

But then a finger touched his cheek—Benjen's calloused, gentle hand—and the panic faded again. Not because he had answers, but because... he didn't feel alone.

And for now, that was something.

His body was still awkward, slow, his voice reduced to occasional hiccups and cries he didn't mean to make. But his mind—it was his. It was him. And though he couldn't speak, he could feel, and he could remember.

He remembered his father, quiet and distant. He'd tried in his own way—signing him up for fencing, because he thought boys needed to know how to defend themselves. It was his way of preparing him for the world, after sensing early on that his son was different.

And he was different.

He'd known since he was little that he was gay. Not that it had ever been spoken aloud, but it was there, a quiet truth he carried with him. His father never rejected him—but they never talked about it either. There was always a space between them, something unspoken.

Still, he appreciated the small things: the fencing classes, which felt elegant and precise—something he could connect to, something that suited who he was. The singing lessons, when his father realized he had a good voice. The silent support, even if it wasn't warm.

He had acquaintances, not friends. Affection had always felt complicated. Without that closeness at home, he'd never really learned how to build it with others.

But stories—stories were safe.

He remembered how much he loved music, and shows, and fantasy worlds. Anime, science fiction, webnovels—anything that helped him disappear for a while. Especially reincarnation tropes. He'd devoured those, loving the idea of second chances.

He just never thought one would happen to him.

Now here he was, in a world as brutal as it was beautiful. A world where kindness could be rare—and survival wasn't guaranteed.

He didn't know what this life would bring. But he wanted to live it. Fully.

Maybe he wouldn't die at sixteen this time.

Maybe he'd finally have time to figure out who he could become.

His little chest rose and fell in quick, quiet breaths. The room was calm, lit only by the warm flicker of firelight. He blinked up at Benjen, who was still nearby—seated close, watching him quietly, as if trying to figure him out just as much as he was trying to understand everything around him.

Benjen wasn't speaking, just breathing slowly, hands folded in his lap. There was something unsure in his expression, something thoughtful. Like he didn't quite know what to make of the baby he'd been asked to care for.

The baby's limbs relaxed. He reached up, tiny fingers brushing the fabric of Benjen's sleeve.

Benjen looked down at the touch. And then—just slightly—he smiled.

And suddenly, for no reason at all, he smiled back.