The wind cut like a blade across the North.
Winterfell lay in ruins, smoke still curling from smoldering walls, the echoes of dragonfire and blood lingering in every shattered stone.
Job Snow rode alone through the ghostly forests, Ghost padding silently at his side.
The snow crunched beneath their feet, carrying whispers of the past of brothers lost, of vows broken, of the blood that bound them all.
Ghosts of Winterfell
Job dismounted before the heart tree, its red leaves blackened by frost and fire.
He knelt, placing his hands upon the frozen bark.
"The Queen she sits upon a throne built of fire and frost," he muttered.
"And yet, she is alone there. Alone, like Winterfell once was."
The old gods said nothing. Only the wind answered, carrying the faint echo of Althea's voice:
You cannot fight what you are, Job Snow. You are wolf and shadow.
He clenched his fists. The North had survived dragons, civil war, and betrayal. It would survive her too.
Rising Shadows
In the ruins of Winterfell's Great Hall, Northern lords gathered quietly.
Some kneeled in loyalty to the wolf; others whispered of the queen in King's Landing, the one who now wielded power with frost and fire.
"The Queen holds the south," said Lord Umber, his voice low and ragged.
"But the North remembers."
"Remembering is not enough," muttered Lady Mormont's daughter, her young eyes burning with defiance.
"We must act before she turns her shadows northward."
Job's presence calmed them, yet fear clung to their words. He was no longer merely a man. The Frost-Flame had touched him too, leaving him more wolf than before.
A Letter from the Throne
A raven arrived, black feathers streaked with frost.
Tied to its leg was a message
"Return, Job Snow. The Queen calls. The North's fate is entwined with the crown of shadows."
Job read it slowly, jaw tightening.
The queen's words were both command and prophecy.
"She would bind me," he muttered. "Bind the North with her shadows. But I am wolf first."
Ghost nuzzled his side. The direwolf's eyes glimmered with understanding of loyalty, of blood, of a bond that death could not sever.
The Gathering Storm
In the forests beyond Winterfell, banners were raised: the Stark sigil direwolf on grey and sigils of lords who remembered loyalty more than fear.
Job rode among them, his presence a quiet storm.
"We remember our dead," he told them, voice carrying over the wind.
"We remember our vows. And we will not kneel to shadows, no matter how bright their crown."
Whispers of rebellion spread like wildfire. Even in exile, Althea's influence was felt yet the North had its own memory, its own power rooted in blood, ice, and honor.
The First Spark
Night fell, cold and merciless.
Job stood atop the cliffs overlooking the sea, Ghost at his side.
The stars above seemed unusually bright as though the gods themselves were watching, waiting.
And then, a fire appeared in the distance: the Red Keep burning faintly in the dark, its torches alive with shadows that reached northward like tendrils of a living threat.
"Then we meet at the edge," Job said softly.
"If the queen casts shadows across the North, we will cast our own."
The lords around him nodded, their eyes reflecting both fear and determination. The North remembered and remembering, it would rise.