The Body in the Snow
The snow around Winterfell did not melt for three days.
It wasn't ordinary snow it was light frozen into silence. Each flake shimmered faintly, whispering as it fell, the sound of names long dead.
At the center of that frozen silence lay Job Snow, unmoving.
His body had not decayed. His sword, half-buried beside him, pulsed faintly like a heartbeat.
Althea knelt beside him, her own power barely holding. She hadn't eaten, hadn't spoken. Her veins glowed faintly with the same silver that filled the sky.
Bran stood nearby, the wind swirling around his cloak.
"The gods are gone," he said quietly. "But something else took their place."
Althea brushed her fingers through Job's hair. "I didn't bring him back to rule."
"No," Bran said. "You brought him back because you couldn't let him go. And love is older than the gods."
Her eyes lifted to the aurora burning over Winterfell white and silver, twisting like living light.
"Then what is he now?"
Bran's gaze lingered on Job's chest, where faint light flickered beneath his skin.
"A dream made flesh. The first of a new kind."
The Waking
That night, the ravens screamed.
The wind died suddenly too suddenly.
The silver light in the sky pulsed once, twice then descended, falling like gentle snow.
And Job's eyes opened.
They were no longer grey they were silver, reflecting the aurora above. His first breath frosted the air in waves, and where it touched Althea's skin, warmth bloomed.
"Job," she whispered, half in prayer, half in disbelief.
He blinked slowly, studying her face as though seeing the world for the first time.
"You're crying."
She laughed through tears. "You died."
"I dreamed," he said. "You were there. You wouldn't let go.
Her hand trembled as she touched his cheek. "You're not human anymore."
"Neither are you," he replied softly. "We never were."
The Crownless Throne
Winterfell had fallen silent, but something moved within the Great Hall.
The fires burned silver instead of red. The banners hung still, yet shadows moved like living things.
When Job entered, every candle bowed toward him the flame bending as if in reverence.
The surviving Northmen stared in awe. They knelt without command, though he wore no crown.
"My King," one whispered.
Job's jaw tightened. "I am no king."
Althea stepped beside him, her cloak whispering like wings. "Then what are you?"
He looked up at the aurora burning through the broken ceiling. "I am the storm they couldn't control."
Bran's voice echoed softly from the doorway:
"The prophecy was wrong, Althea. It was never about a crown of gold or ice. It was about the man who could rule without one."
Job turned to Althea. "A crown means nothing if it costs everything we were."
She smiled faintly. "Then rule without it. Rule with me."
He hesitated and in that pause, the entire hall seemed to breathe. The old gods' faces in the weirwood flickered. The new gods' sigils cracked.
For a heartbeat, the mortal and divine worlds were one.
The Mirror of Souls
Later, when night fell again, Althea led Job to the godswood.
The Tree of Silver Veins had begun to grow where the old weirwood once stood glowing roots curling through the ice.
"This is what you created," she murmured. "Life born from what we destroyed."
Job touched one of the glowing roots. It pulsed, showing flashes of dreams Lily's fury, Bran's tears, her own sacrifice.
"It remembers," he said.
"Dreams always do," she replied. "The question is can we?"
He turned toward her. "Do you regret it?"
She smiled sadly. "Only that I never learned how to stop loving you."
Job stepped closer, their foreheads almost touching. "You don't have to."
But even as their lips met, the tree's glow deepened and the air trembled.
A shadow rippled beneath the roots.
A voice whispered through the frost:
"You took our thrones. Now take our curse."
The Curse Renewed
Althea staggered back, clutching her wrist. The veins that had once faded now flared silver-blue again, burning beneath her skin.
Job caught her. "No not again."
"They're not gone," she gasped. "The gods left their echo."
The ground split at their feet not a chasm, but a reflection. Beneath the ice, they saw themselves crowned in shadow and flame, eyes glowing like dying stars.
The reflection whispered in unison:
"You killed the gods to
become them."
Job stared into his mirrored self. "We didn't want thrones."
"And yet you wear them in your souls."
Althea reached for his hand. "Job don't listen."
But the mirror's voice turned tender, almost human.
"Every love story becomes a religion when it refuses to die."
The reflection shattered but the words stayed.
The Coronation of Silence
By dawn, Winterfell was reborn.
The snows melted in rings of silver. Rivers ran with faint light.
People whispered that the Old Gods had returned not as deities, but as memory.
And at the heart of it stood Job and Althea the Crownless King and the Queen of Shadows ruling a world between life and dream.
No throne. No crown. No court.
Only two souls keeping balance where gods had failed.
Job looked out over the North from the battlements.
"Peace feels strange," he murmured.
Althea leaned against him. "It always does. We were forged in chaos."
"Then maybe it's time we learned to live without it."
She smiled faintly. "If peace is a dream, then let's dream together."
The aurora shimmered brighter above them the last light of the gods turned into the first dawn of humanity's reign.
The Dream's Promise
That night, Althea returned alone to the Tree of Silver Veins.
Its roots whispered as she touched them, carrying her voice across realms.
"If any gods still listen know this I loved him more than fate, more than power. And that is how I broke you."
The wind answered soft, almost a sigh.
The stars above flickered once, twice and then stilled.
Behind her, Job's voice came quietly:
"You didn't break them. You freed us."
She turned, smiling through tears. "Then let's never forget what we were or what we became."
He took her hand. Their palms still glowed faintly where frost and flame met.
And together, they walked into the silver light neither mortal nor god, but eternal dreamers.