Whisper of the Old Gods
The North was still, but not quiet. Winds rattled through Winterfell's battlements, carrying frost and ash. Soldiers patrolled silently, wary of shadows that moved as if alive, and whispers that seemed to come from the very stones beneath their feet.
Job Snow stood atop the Wall's outer parapet, eyes scanning the horizon. Beyond the Wall, the forests seemed restless, twisting unnaturally in the cold.
Ghost padded close, sensing the tension in the air. The direwolf's ears twitched at distant echoes cries of something neither human nor animal.
The old gods are stirring, Job thought.
And I fear what answers they demand.
A Child of Prophecy
Far to the East, in a village blanketed by winter's embrace, the child descended from Althea and Job awoke. Her eyes, silver and pale, reflected the first light of dawn. Her small hands trembled as frost formed in intricate patterns on the windowsill, forming runes older than the First Men.
A presence entered her dreams Maeve, the Memory Keeper, whose eyes burned like ice and fire combined.
"Child of shadow and memory," Maeve intoned,
"the time has come to awaken the Silver Tree. Its power is tied to your blood. Its secrets will shape the North and all of Westeros."
The child stirred, understanding without words. Her lineage was more than legacy, it was a mantle, a responsibility written in frost and fire.
Secrets in the Godswood
Job and Althea returned to the godswood, seeking guidance from the ancient Weirwood. The tree's face glowed faintly red beneath the snow, its eyes reflecting centuries of war, death, and devotion.
"The child," Althea whispered, tracing frost along the roots.
"She is the key to balancing the North and our legacy. But she is untrained, unaware, and the old gods will not wait."
Job frowned.
"And if we fail? What if the child is corrupted by power, like the Frost-Flame?"
Althea's eyes flickered with white light.
"Then the North will have to endure its own reckoning. But we cannot falter. Not now."
The Silver Tree
Maeve led the child deep into the forests beyond the Wall, to a grove untouched by time. At its center stood the Silver Tree, ancient as the mountains themselves, its branches shimmering with frost and silver leaves that whispered in tongues forgotten by mortals.
"The tree recognizes your blood," Maeve explained.
"Touch it, and it will awaken for you. But know its power is not a toy. It can nurture or destroy, teach or consume."
The child reached out, her small fingers brushing the bark. Energy surged, warm and cold at once, rushing through her veins. She gasped as visions filled her battles yet to come, the Frost-Flame, Winterfell burning, Althea and Jon intertwined in love and war.
"I, I see them," she whispered, voice trembling.
"I see everything."
Maeve nodded gravely.
"And they see you. The Silver Tree awakens only for those who can bear the weight of memory and destiny alike.
Shadows Stir
Back in Winterfell, political tensions flared. Lords whispered about Althea's magic, fearful that her influence would surpass the kingly authority of Job and the Stark banners.
"The Frost-Flame touched the North once," Lord Manderl said, voice low.
"If the Silver Tree rises, who can say what control we will still have?"
"Control is an illusion," Job replied, leaning on Longclaw.
"We are alive, the North is alive, and that is what matters. Power without purpose destroys all."
Still, glances lingered longer, suspicion thickened the air, and alliances shifted like snow in the wind. Every lord in Winterfell wondered if their loyalty was to the child, to Althea, or to the shadows that now moved freely through the North.
Lessons in Memory
The child trained under Maeve's guidance, learning to call frost, to glimpse fragments of the past, and to manipulate the very memories held in the land itself.
"Memory is not just what has been," Maeve explained.
"It is what can be what will be. Every thought, every choice, every death is a thread. And you must learn to weave them without unraveling yourself."
The lessons were painful. The child struggled to hold visions of battles past, to feel the anguish of dead soldiers, to resist the seductive pull of power. Yet she also learned love, loyalty, and the fierce courage that coursed through Job and Althea's blood.
A Threat from the South
Althea received news from ravens. Lily Lannister, still smarting from the loss of her crown and the defeat in the North, had begun to gather forces, allying with mercenaries and sorcerers versed in the old Valyrian arts.
"She remembers the Frost-Flame," Althea said, voice low.
"And she will try to claim it for herself. The Silver Tree may be her target."
Job's jaw tightened.
"Then we must prepare. The child must be shielded. The North cannot survive another war of fire and shadow."
"And yet," Althea said, eyes flickering,
"if she learns too soon, she may be lost to power before she even begins."
The Awakening
Under the silver glow of the ancient tree, the child's eyes shone brighter. She raised her hands, calling forth frost and memories intertwined. The Silver Tree responded, its leaves vibrating like whispered words from centuries past.
Visions of Althea and Job flashed before her their triumph, their love, their pain, their losses. She saw herself in the middle of it all, the link between past and future.
"I am, I am part of them," she whispered.
"I am the memory, and the North I will protect it."
Maeve placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Remember, child. The Silver Tree awakens not to serve, but to guide. Its power is your ally if you remain true."
The North Prepares
As the child's powers grew, so too did the tension in Winterfell. Northern lords trained, rallied their men, and reinforced the walls. Spies reported movement in the South. Althea's shadow extended across the lands, blending myth and politics.
"The Silver Tree is alive," Job told the lords.
"And so are we. The North is not merely land or banners. It is memory, blood, and loyalty. And we will endure."
Every lord nodded, though secretly, each wondered what cost such endurance would demand.
Prophecy in Motion
The Weirwoods shivered in the forests beyond the Wall. Frost-Wraiths moved through the snow like smoke given form. And the Silver Tree, newly awakened, began sending pulses through the North pulses that carried visions of love, war, and the choices yet to come.
Maeve whispered one final warning
"The child is ready, but the world will test her. She carries the Queen of Shadows' blood, Job Snow's courage, and a North that will not forgive weakness. The reckoning is approaching and all threads of fate converge in the Silver Tree."
As dusk fell over the North, the child stood beneath its branches, her silver hair catching the last light, her small hands glowing with frost. The North held its breath. The old gods watched. And somewhere, far beyond the Wall, a shadow stirred, sensing the rise of the next generation.
Winter is not over. The reckoning has only begun.