Snow fell thick over the Red Keep, blanketing its crimson towers in silence.
War had come and gone, but peace was nowhere to be found.
The banners of House Stark and House Lannister still fluttered side by side above the battlements the direwolf and the lion but only fools believed in their unity now.
Inside the Great, torches burned low. Shadows clung to every pillar like ghosts listening to secrets they had no right to hear.
A Council of Broken Things
Queen Althea sat the Iron Throne not as conqueror, but as survivor. Her crown, forged from melted blades of her enemies, gleamed faintly against the candlelight.
Below her, the lords quarreled,
Lord Royce, his voice sharp as steel.
Ser Gendry Baratheon, proud but weary.
Lady Margaery Tyrell, smiling even in ruin.
They spoke of rebuilding, of peace, of vengeance always vengeance.
"The realm bleeds," Gendry said, pounding the table. "And while we argue, the smallfolk starve."
"The smallfolk always starve," Margaery murmured. "That's why they pray to us. To keep them alive long enough to curse us."
Althea said nothing. She had learned that silence frightened men more than fury ever could.
Her eyes drifted to the empty space beside the throne where Job Snow should have stood.
The Wolf's Shadow
Far to the North, Job rode through the ruins of Winterfell.
The castle still bore the scars of fire and dragonflame, its once-proud towers half collapsed.
Ghost padded beside him, white fur streaked with ash.
Job dismounted and knelt before the heart tree. The red leaves whispered his name like a prayer.
"She's queen now," he murmured. "And I am no one."
The old gods did not answer, but the wind carried something else the faint echo of Althea's voice: You cannot run from what you are.
He looked down at his gloved hands, still trembling with the memory of war.
He had fought for love, for honor, for a future that no longer belonged to him.
Now he fought only to remember who he used to be.
The Lion's Debt
In the dungeons beneath King's Landing, Tyrion Lannister drank from a chipped cup.
The wine was sour, but better than silence.
When the guards brought him before the queen, he was smiling that same tired, mocking smile he had worn through battles, betrayals, and betrayals yet again.
Althea regarded him without a word. The hall's torches flickered, casting shadows across her sharp, unreadable face.
"You survived longer than most," she said finally. "That alone is impressive."
Tyrion's laugh was dry.
"Survival is the only debt a lion ever repays, Your Grace. The rest is just politics."
"And what debt do you owe me?" she asked, voice quiet but hard.
He looked down, a shadow crossing his features.
"One I could never pay in coin or blood. But perhaps in counsel, if you will listen."
Althea tilted her head, considering. Even kings must lean on shadows to hold their thrones.
"Speak," she commanded.
A Realm in Fracture
Outside, the city of King's Landing groaned under the weight of war. Fires smoldered in alleys, children scavenged for bread, and the noble houses whispered plots like vipers coiled in silk.
Lord Royce argued for expansion, citing old claims.
"We cannot cede the Riverlands. Not now. Not ever."
Margaery countered, her smile sharper than a blade.
"Your expansion brings only rebellion. Peace is more valuable than land."
Job Snow's absence loomed over the discussion like a cold wind. The wolf's shadow stretched across every northern hall, even here in the lion's city.
Althea finally spoke, her words measured, biting through the murmurs.
"The North is ours by blood, by right, but not by mercy alone. If you fight each other, you'll lose everything crown, kingdom, and conscience alike."
The council fell silent.
Even Tyrion, who had seen the worst of men, knew her words carried the weight of frost and fire both.
The Quiet Betrayal
As the night deepened, whispers became movement. Servants with too-bright eyes, maesters with suspicious notes, and knights who lingered too long all watched, waited.
Althea sensed it the ever-present tension of a court where every smile hid a knife.
She remembered Winterfell, the blood on the walls, the betrayal that had fractured alliances decades ago. The Red Keep was no different.
A soft knock echoed at her chamber door.
"Enter," she called.
A man bowed low, hooded and quiet.
He carried a letter the seal familiar gold-on-red, a lion's paw grasping a crown.
"The wolf stirs. If he moves against the throne, the lion shall devour the prey."
Althea's fingers tightened around the parchment. A smile ghosted across her lips not of joy, but recognition. The game had begun again, in shadows and whispers.
Winter and Fire
Far in the North, Job Snow stared across the scarred plains of Winterfell, thinking of the queen on her throne in King's Landing.
The letters of warning reached him even here.
He clenched his fists. The wolf within him remembered hunger, loyalty, and blood the unbroken chain of duty that no crown, no dream, could sever.
"I swore to protect her," he whispered. "And I will even if it means the North bleeds again."
Ghost padded close, his eyes reflecting the cold, endless sky.
Somewhere between the ruins of a wolf and the shadows of a lion, a war was beginning one not of dragons and swords alone, but of loyalty, love, and the choices of those who dared hold crowns forged from fire and frost.