The Return of Winterfell
Smoke rose from the chimneys again.
Winterfell breathed.
The old stones, cracked and blackened from fire and frost, had been patched with new timber. Snow still gathered in the corners of the courtyard, but the people had returned smiths, healers, wanderers, and soldiers who remembered a time when the Stark banner meant safety.
Job Snow walked the ramparts, cloak snapping behind him, eyes hard as the wind.
He was no longer the boy from the Wall. Nor the god who burned in shadow.
Now, he was simply King of the North.
Althea stood beside him, her hair braided in the Northern style. No crown rested upon her head she had refused one. Still, when she walked through the hall, people fell silent.
"They call you the Queen of Shadows," Job murmured.
"Names mean little," she said. "But shadows remember."
The Council of the Living
The great hall of Winterfell was crowded.
Lords of the North, weary survivors of war, gathered for the first council in years.
Ser Davos sat at Job's right hand. Arya leaned against a pillar in silence. Bran watched from his carved wooden chair, expression distant.
"We've food enough for a season," Davos said. "After that, we'll need trade from the Vale or the Riverlands."
"If they'll trade," Arya muttered. "The Vale's lord fears ghosts."
All eyes turned to Althea.
She met their stares evenly.
"Tell him he's right to fear them," she said. "But ghosts don't hunger. People do."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Even now, some lords whispered that she had raised the dead to fight in the war that she'd bartered with gods.
Job's gaze swept the table. "We'll rebuild. But we'll do it together. No thrones, no crowns only the North."
"And the Queen of Shadows?" asked Lord Mandrel cautiously.
Jon's jaw tightened.
Althea spoke first. "The Queen of Shadows is a story. Keep it if it keeps your children safe."
The Stranger from the East
By dusk, a rider arrived from the East cloaked in furs, face hidden by snow.
The guards stopped him at the gate, but he carried a token none dared deny a silver leaf from the Tree of Veins.
He bowed before Job and Althea.
> "My name is Kelvin. I bring news from the Riverlands."
"Speak," Job said.
"The South stirs again," the man said, voice trembling. "The old gods are being worshipped in secret and some claim a child walks among them. A child who can command the roots."
The room went silent.
Althea's pulse quickened.
"A child?"
The man nodded. "They say the rivers glowed when she was born. That her eyes shine like the silver tree."
Job's hand closed into a fist. "You think she's ours?"
"The world doesn't birth children from myths," Althea whispered. "Unless the myth refuses to die."
The Seeds of Doubt
Later that night, in the quiet of their chambers, Job paced.
"If it's true"
"If it's true," Althea interrupted softly, "then our story isn't finished."
He turned to her, voice low. "I thought we were done with prophecy."
"Prophecy doesn't end," she said. "It evolves."
He stared at the fire. "And if she is ours?"
Althea met his gaze. "Then the gods made her for a reason or the tree did."
"And what if it's both?"
"Then she'll decide which parent to disappoint," Althea said dryly, though her smile didn't reach her eyes.
Outside, the wind howled like a warning.
The Shadow in the Courtyard
Two nights later, a scream split the courtyard.
Guards rushed toward the godswood and there, beneath the glowing silver branches, lay a woman, pale as ice, clutching a bundle to her chest.
"She appeared out of the mist," one guard stammered. "Said she came to return what was lost."
Althea knelt beside the body. The woman's breath was shallow, her lips blue.
When she looked up, her eyes faintly silver locked on Althea's.
"Mother of Light" she whispered. "I kept her safe."
Her head fell back, lifeless.
Job stepped forward as Althea slowly lifted the bundle.
Inside, wrapped in a tattered cloth, was a child.
A girl.
Barely a year old, sleeping peacefully.
Her hair shimmered like frost, her skin faintly luminescent under the moonlight.
And when Althea touched her cheek, the silver tree pulsed just once as if recognizing its own.
The Council Divides
The next day, the great hall erupted in debate.
"It's sorcery!" Lord Glover shouted. "The gods warned us about this!"
"The gods are dead," Arya snapped.
"Then what is she?" another demanded.
Job stood silent beside Althea, who held the child in her arms.
The babe cooed softly, unaware of the chaos around her.
"She's not a weapon," Althea said. "She's life."
"Life?" Lord Corey scoffed. "She glows like the bloody moon!"
Job's voice cut through the noise. "She's under my protection. Anyone who raises steel against her raises it against me."
Silence fell.
And for a moment, Althea saw it that glimmer of fear in their eyes, not for Job, but for the child.
The Blood of the North
That night, Job held the child while Althea watched from the window.
"She looks like you," he said softly.
"No," Althea murmured. "She looks like the dream."
"Then she's dangerous," Job said, though his tone betrayed tenderness.
Althea turned to him. "So were we."
Outside, the aurora shimmered again, faintly bending toward the godswood as though the heavens themselves were watching.
The Price of Peace
Bran came at dawn.
"You can't keep her here," he said. "The world will hunt her."
Job's expression hardened. "Let them try."
"You don't understand," Bran whispered. "The dreamseed isn't just a child. She's the key to the next age. If she stays, the old world will burn again."
Althea's eyes flashed. "Then let it burn. We'll build another."
Bran shook his head sadly. "And how many times will you rebuild, before the dream forgets you?"
The Silent Prophecy
That night, Althea dreamt again.
The tree whispered not in words, but in rhythm.
The child stood beneath it, holding two leaves one silver, one black.
"Which one will you choose, Mother?" she asked.
Althea reached for the silver one.
But as her fingers touched it, it turned to ash.
When she woke, the child was gone.
The Shadowed Dawn
The gates of Winterfell stood open, tracks leading north into the mist.
Job's sword gleamed as he mounted his horse.
"We find her," he said.
Althea nodded once. "We don't find her," she whispered, "we follow her."
The silver veins beneath the snow glowed faintly, forming a path leading beyond the Wall the same place where it had all begun.
The North breathed again but the air felt heavier, older.
As if the gods were watching through mortal eyes once more.