The North Holds Its Breath
Winterfell lay beneath a pale, ominous sky. The snow had stopped falling, but the air trembled, heavy with the Frost-Flame's residual magic. Shadows twisted unnaturally along the walls, and cracks split through frozen stone, like veins carrying the pulse of some ancient, slumbering power.
Job Snow rode along the battlements, Ghost at his side. His eyes scanned the horizon, noting the scattered encampments of Northern forces and the distant banners of Althea's southern host. The wind carried whispers of prophecy
When wolf and shadow meet, the frozen crown shall shake the earth.
Job's hand tightened around Longclaw. This was no longer a battle of men and steel it was a reckoning of forces older than the Iron Throne itself.
Althea Ascends
Althea stood at the edge of the godswood, crown of frost gleaming faintly in the dying light. The Frost-Flame swirled around her like living smoke, bending the air, freezing the snow beneath her boots. Her eyes glimmered white, burning with the memory of every death, every betrayal, every love lost and reclaimed.
"The North remembers," she whispered, voice low and hypnotic.
"And soon, it will kneel or shatter."
Priests and sorcerers surrounded her, chanting in tongues long forgotten, their voices intertwining with the whispers of the Weirwood. The ground trembled, and the ancient tree's face seemed to bleed into the snow.
Gendry, at her side, whispered:
"Althea, if you push this too far, even the North cannot survive."
"Then the North will remember why it fears me," she replied. "And why it needs me."
The Clash of Wolves and Shadows
Job rode through the godswood, flanked by Northern captains. They had learned much from the previous skirmish discipline, strategy, and the ruthless truth that magic alone did not guarantee victory.
"Spread the men along the ridge," Job ordered. "Hold the line. Don't let the shadows encroach on Winterfell itself."
The Frost-Flame responded instantly. Shadows leapt from the snow, twisting like serpents, freezing soldiers in place. The northern army fired arrows, hurled spears, but each attack seemed to feed the magic instead of weakening it.
Job gritted his teeth.
"We cannot fight her head-on. We need to strike at the Frost-Flame's heart the crown itself."
He knew the risk. To touch the crown was to court death or something far worse.
A Council in the Hall
Inside Winterfell's Great Hall, Northern lords convened. The fire could barely compete with the cold that had seeped through the walls, a cold that carried Althea's presence like a living shadow.
"The Queen's magic grows with every step," Lord Mormont said.
"If she reaches the gates, we are lost."
"No," Job replied. "We are not lost yet. The North survives because we remember who we are and who we fight for."
He glanced at the banners hanging limp along the walls the direwolf, the lion, the fractured sigils of houses torn by war.
"We are wolves," he said quietly. "And shadows may pass over us, but they do not consume what is ours."
Winter's Reckoning Begins
The Frost-Flame spread, stretching over Winterfell like a living tide. Snow erupted into fire and ice simultaneously, freezing men where they stood, igniting horses beneath their hooves.
Althea raised her hands toward the sky.
"Let the North remember the power of the Queen of Shadows!"
The ground cracked. Walls groaned. Crystals of ice rose from the frozen earth, coiling like serpents, and the Weirwood's red eyes glimmered in response.
Job rode forward, cutting a path through the northern lords' lines. Ghost leapt into the heart of the magic, scattering illusions and giving Job a fleeting opening.
"Althea!" he shouted over the roar of Frost-Flame.
"It doesn't have to end like this!"
"It already has, Job," she replied. "But endings are only beginnings in disguise."
Shadows Within
In the chaos, Northern soldiers began seeing visions wolves with lion's eyes, soldiers lost in the last war, whispers of their dead haunting them. Fear spread like wildfire. Job realized that the battle was not only against Althea, but against every doubt and regret in the hearts of the North.
We cannot falter, he thought.
If we do, the Frost-Flame consumes everything we love.
Althea, atop a ridge, noticed the hesitation and twisted it into power. Frost erupted from her crown, freezing weapons midair, bending swords like clay, casting shadows that leapt into the ranks.
"Your courage feeds me," she whispered. "Your fear strengthens me. And your love, your love binds us forever."
Job faltered for a heartbeat, torn between love and duty. Ghost growled low, sensing the dangerous pulse between them a bond that could either save or destroy the North.
The Edge of Catastrophe
Winterfell itself shuddered. Cracks split the Great Hall, ice climbing the walls like climbing vines. Northern archers fired from the walls, only to see arrows freeze midair, falling back into the snow.
Job realized the only way to survive was to reach the crown the source of the Frost-Flame. But to do so meant confronting Althea directly, risking death and betrayal.
"This is madness," Mormont hissed.
"Even if you reach her, you may not survive."
> "I must," Job said. "Because if I do not the North dies."
The Confrontation
Job rode straight toward the crown, snow and fire whirling around him. Althea stepped forward, her hands lifted as if to greet him.
"Job Snow," she said softly, eyes glowing, "you cannot stop me. You cannot fight fate. And yet you try."
"Because I remember," Job replied, sword ready. "And the North remembers too."
They clashed, sword and Frost-Flame, fire and ice. The ground beneath them cracked, sending shards of ice flying in every direction. Shadows leapt from every corner, attacking both armies indiscriminately.
The battle became a blur of light and dark, fire and frost, love and hatred. Northern and southern soldiers alike fled or fell, unable to survive the supernatural storm that had enveloped Winterfell.
A Fragile Truce
For a fleeting moment, their eyes met. The Frost-Flame paused, as if recognizing the bond between them the love, the loyalty, the shared destiny.
Job lowered Longclaw. Althea's magic wavered.
"It doesn't have to end in blood," Job said, voice breaking. "We can survive together."
"Together," Althea whispered, her voice trembling like ice cracking in sunlight.
The Frost-Flame dissipated slowly, leaving the snow scorched and frozen, the ruins of Winterfell quiet but intact.
Northern and southern soldiers alike looked on, stunned and weary, understanding that the battle had been neither won nor lost only postponed.
The Aftermath
Winterfell smoldered beneath a pale dawn. Snow and ice covered bloodied earth. The Great Hall was scarred by magic, and many banners lay in tatters.
Job and Althea stood side by side, Frost-Flame magic faintly pulsing around their wrists, a reminder that the bond between them was both a blessing and a curse.
"We are alive," Job said quietly, though both knew it was a tenuous claim.
"For now," Althea replied. "But the North will not forget this day. Nor will the crown. Nor will the shadows."
And somewhere, deep in the forests, the Weirwood watched, its red eyes burning with knowledge of what was to come.
The reckoning is not over.