The Age Without Gods
Westeros was quiet for the first time in memory.
No red priests, no White Walkers, no prophecies shouted from burning scrolls.
The gods had fallen silent.
In the North, the snows came early soft, endless, whispering Althea's name with every drift.
Job stood atop the battlements of Winterfell, the Crown of Frost and Flame glimmering faintly on his brow.
He wore it rarely. It was not a crown for rule, but remembrance.
Below him, new banners flew half black, half silver the sigil of the Reunited North.
Davos approached, older now, his beard white as the walls.
"My king," he said softly. "The smallfolk have begun calling this the Age Without Gods."
Job didn't look away from the horizon.
"Good," he murmured. "We served them long enough."
But even as he said it, he felt her.
The frost on the ramparts shifting beneath his fingertips, shaping into the faint outline of a hand.
"She never left," he thought.
The Dreaming Queen
Far beyond mortal sight, Althea drifted through silver mist the realm between thought and being.
She had no body, no breath only memory.
The Dreamer's realm pulsed around her, infinite and alive. Every time a child slept, she saw flickers of their dreams like candles in a dark sea.
Somewhere deep within that ocean of sleep, a familiar fire burned.
Job's soul. Still tethered. Still calling.
She walked across the dreamscape until the stars bent around her, whispering fragments of prayers once meant for the gods:
"Save him."
"Guide us."
"Forgive us."
Althea smiled faintly.
"They pray to ghosts now," she said. "And yet ghosts answer."
The Council of the Living
Winterfell's Great Hall was filled with lords, scholars, and survivors men and women who had rebuilt a world from ashes.
Nelly presided beside Job, her hair silvering at the temples, her gaze sharp as ever.
The South had fractured again old thrones resurrected by ambition but none dared march North.
"The Faithless are growing bold," Nelly said. "Without gods, they make their own. Gold and crowns, mostly."
Job leaned back, fingers drumming the armrest.
"Let them worship what they can hold," he said. "We've seen where worship leads."
Davos sighed. "The people still need hope, your grace. Something to believe in."
Job's gaze softened. "Then tell them to believe in mercy. And memory."
At those words, a gust swept through the hall faint snow curling around the floor like a sigh.
Job looked toward the window, where frost had etched a single sigil,
a circle pierced by three blades.
Nelly's breath caught. "The Crow's mark."
Job only smiled.
"She listens still."
The Ghosts in the North
That night, the snow whispered stories.
Children born after the war spoke of seeing a woman of white flame walking the woods her eyes glowing like stars.
Job followed the tales until he reached the Heart Tree.
The bark shimmered faintly with frost, and from it came her voice soft, distant, yet achingly familiar.
"The dream holds, my love."
"The world sleeps safely because you wake for it."
He closed his eyes, and for a moment the air was warm again.
"I feel you in everything," he murmured.
"Then live for me in everything," she replied. "Even in peace."
He laughed softly, though his eyes were wet.
"Peace. I never thought I'd live to see it."
"You didn't," she whispered. "You endured to make it."
The Song of the Dreamers
Years passed.
The North became a land of quiet strength.
No temples, no kings only wardens who ruled through memory.
Scholars in Oldtown wrote that the world had entered a new age not of faith, but of balance.
And in every tavern, travelers told the same tale:
"Once there was a queen who defied death itself.
She wed the fire to the frost, and from their union came the dawn."
Minstrels called it The Song of the Dreamers.
No one knew if it was true but when they sang it, snow would fall even in summer.
The Dream Beneath the Weirwood
In his final years, Job returned to the godswood one last time.
The Weirwood no longer bled. Its eyes glowed faintly silver, not red.
He knelt before it, placing the Frost-Flame Crown at its roots.
"I've done all I could," he said quietly. "If she still dreams let me dream with her."
The air shimmered and from the tree's trunk, mist began to rise.
It formed her face. Her smile. Her eyes.
"You've kept the fire," she whispered.
"And you've kept the dream," he answered.
When his hand met the mist, the cold didn't hurt anymore.
It felt like home.
The snow fell heavier, and Winterfell glowed faintly blue.
Those who came later said they found no body only two crowns resting side by side, encased in frost.
The Age Beyond
Centuries later, in the halls of scholars and singers, one name remained constant in every tale The Dreaming Queen.
Some said she was myth. Others said she was the last god.
But when the Northern wind blew through the trees, whispering between the leaves, the children still swore they heard a woman's voice.
"Love is the last magic."
And far above, in the dream realm beyond time, two figures stood hand in hand one of fire, one of frost watching a world they had remade through love alone.