The North Stirs
The wind carried the scent of smoke and snow across the frozen forests surrounding Winterfell.
Ravens took flight, their wings cutting through grey skies, carrying the news of the Queen's advance.
Job Snow rode at the head of a Northern vanguard, banners of House Stark and allied houses snapping in the wind. The army was smaller than Althea's host, yet it carried something far more potent memory, loyalty, and the harsh resolve of those who had survived the deadliest winters and the cruellest wars.
"The Queen moves with fire and frost," Lord Umber said, voice low and tense.
"And yet, we stand on our ground. This is our home, Job. We do not kneel."
Job nodded, his gloved hand resting on Longclaw's hilt.
"They may wield magic and prophecy," he murmured, "but the North remembers. And so do we."
Ghost padded silently beside him, eyes reflecting the cold light. The direwolf growled low as a shadow moved in the treeline southern scouts, or perhaps something older, drawn by the Frost-Flame.
The First Skirmish
Althea's host emerged from the forests at dusk. Torches glimmered, horse hooves crunching snow, banners of lion and wolf intertwined in an eerie display of unity and threat. The northern army watched them approach, their breath misting in the cold air.
"Hold the line," Job ordered. "Wait for their move."
A sudden flare erupted as the Frost-Flame shimmered over Althea's crown.
Shadows twisted along the ground, curling like living serpents, and the northern scouts were thrown into confusion. Some stumbled, their minds struck by visions half of frost, half of fire, memories not their own, whispers of ancient prophecies.
Althea herself rode forward, eyes glowing faintly white under the darkening sky.
"The North remembers," she called, her voice cutting across the field. "And yet, it forgets its Queen of Shadows."
The first arrows flew. Northern knights met them with shields and steel. Yet the Frost-Flame pulsed with her heartbeat, bending the snow and wind to her command. The air became heavier, each breath a battle against the creeping chill and heat intermingled fire and frost in impossible harmony.
This is only the beginning, Althea thought.
Shadows and Wolves
Job led his cavalry in a swift counterattack, charging the southern flanks. The clash of steel echoed through the trees, the air thick with the scent of blood and snow.
Althea raised her hands. Shadows leapt from the ground, coiling around the southern horsemen, binding them with invisible chains. Flames of frost ignited the snow beneath them, freezing boots and hooves alike, forcing them to stumble and fall.
"Althea!" Gendry shouted from her flank. "This is madness!"
"Madness is survival," she whispered. "And survival is my crown."
Job struck down a sellsword wielding a fire-tipped spear. His armor rattled against the blow, but he pressed forward. The North was not simply fighting a queen they were fighting the embodiment of myth, the living convergence of frost and flame.
Amid the chaos, Job caught sight of Althea crown gleaming, hair streaming like white fire, eyes burning. She was terrifying, radiant, inhuman in her command of both the battlefield and the Frost-Flame.
I cannot defeat her not completely, he thought. But I will not kneel.
Northern Resolve
Lord Mormont rallied his men atop a ridge, his axe glinting in the dimming light.
"Hold! The Queen may be fire and frost, but the North is iron and bone! Remember your families, remember your fallen!"
Northern archers fired volleys into Althea's flank, arrows shattering against the magical barrier formed by the Frost-Flame. Yet every volley that struck only strengthened the resolve of Job's men, who were inspired by loyalty, courage, and the memory of their ancestors.
Job and his captains moved like wolves through the chaos, striking with precision and strategy. They disrupted Althea's southern cavalry, forcing her host to scatter into the forested hills. Yet every attack carried a cost Northern lords fell, men and boys who had grown up under the weight of winter, dying before their time.
"The North will not yield," Job shouted, even as blood ran from his shoulder. "We will survive, even if we die trying!"
A Meeting of Fire and Frost
At the heart of the battlefield, Job and Althea came face to face.
Snow and embers swirled around them, the Frost-Flame creating an otherworldly glow.
"Job Snow," Althea said, her voice soft but deadly, "the North bleeds for you. Will you let it die in my shadow?"
"I do not kneel," Job replied. "And I will not follow shadows, even if they bear the face of love."
The Frost-Flame erupted around Althea, coiling into shapes of wolves and lions. Job stepped forward, raising Longclaw, its blade catching the pale light.
"Then we settle this," he said. "North and Queen, shadow and wolf face to face."
They circled each other like predators, the battlefield hushed as if the land itself waited to witness the clash.
Clash of Legends
Steel met shadow. Frost met fire.
Althea wielded both magic and sword, each strike bending the snow and wind to her will. Job moved with precision, every swing fueled by loyalty, honor, and desperation.
The battlefield erupted into chaos around them Northern and southern forces collided, screams of men and horses echoing through the trees. The Frost-Flame twisted reality, creating illusions of armies where there were none, shadows of wolves tearing at soldiers who did not exist.
"The crown," Althea whispered. "It calls to us both. You cannot fight destiny, Job."
"Destiny," he spat, "is nothing but a chain. And I will break it!"
They clashed again blade against blade, Frost-Flame against the wolf's resolve. Sparks flew as snow turned to steam and ice cracked under the weight of their fury.
Fractured Reality
The Frost-Flame pulsed, and the snow around Winterfell's ruins began to twist and crack. Reality itself shivered trees split in two, shadows danced with voices, and visions of past battles bled into the present.
Northern and southern soldiers alike screamed as illusions attacked them, forcing men to fight phantoms of their own fears.
Job realized the Frost-Flame was not just magic it was a living memory, a sentient force that fed on their emotions and actions.
"Althea," he shouted over the chaos, "if you do this, if you let the flame consume you the North dies!"
Althea's eyes softened for a brief moment.
"Then the North will remember why it fears me and why it loves me."
The Turning Point
Ghost leapt into the heart of the Frost-Flame, snarling, disrupting the magic enough for Job to strike a decisive blow. The Frost-Flame recoiled, casting Althea back slightly.
"This ends tonight," Job said, stepping forward, sword raised.
Althea met his gaze, and for the first time, her inhuman radiance faltered.
"Do not mistake hesitation for weakness," she said. "I would kill and be killed for this crown and for you."
The moment hung between them love and war intertwined, myth and man colliding in the snow.
A Fragile Resolution
Neither struck the final blow. The Frost-Flame pulsed one last time, as if choosing, choosing that their bond, their shared destiny, was not yet done.
Job lowered Longclaw.
Althea raised her hands, dissipating the Frost-Flame into drifting snowflakes.
"The North remembers," Job said.
"And so do I."
"And I," she whispered, "remember you."
Around them, the soldiers caught their breath. The battle had ended, not with death, but with the uneasy truce of two forces intertwined by prophecy, power, and love.
Yet the air still hummed with the Frost-Flame, a reminder that their clash was not over only postponed.