"The Time of the White Chill and the White Light is nigh."

Ithlinne

A long time ago a prophecy was made by an elven woman named Ithlinne. When the White Frost comes, the worlds will perish. A time of sword and fire, a time of wolven storm and long winter. Only Hen Ichaer, Elder Blood, can stop the White Frost. Cirilla Fiona Elen Rhianon, the daughter of the Gul, the heir of the Elder Blood has once stopped the White Frost from destroying the world that she knew. However, the White Frost is not just a prophecy, a tale to scare children with. It's not a monster or a person. It's a wild force of nature. Emancipation of Destruction. A force that cannot be put to a stopped, but merely tamed for a while. If you don't strengthen the dam, the force of the water would eventually overcome it and destroy it. The fire will die out without fuel to burn. A hooded woman was walking on a white field, leading a black mare beside her. Wind is howling, picking up the snow dust from the ground and sending it into a dance. It would be beautiful if it wasn't so deadly cold.

"We can't stop, Roach," a woman said to her only companion. If they stopped right there amidst the white field, they'd be dead in a few hours. There's not a log in the sight that could be used for a campfire. Ciri decided to spare the mare the trouble of carrying her. They had no food for tomorrow, but Roach needed energy to fight the cold and carry Ciri if the need arises.

"We'll make it, Roach. We will make it to Winterfell."

The castle of Winterfell could be seen from afar. Dark and mighty on the white, bland stage. White snow, white skies. Ciri could only guess where the border between earth and skies lied. As she approached the castle, she felt warmer but uneasy. The dark castle seemed only darker and gloomy on the contrasting white background. And it seemed old. Ciri looked up. The dark tower raising above, mighty and old. Ciri felt as if someone was looking at her with disdain.

"Stop there," said a guardsman. He had dark hair, medium height and weighed more than he should for his suit and armor. Dark hair was unkempt and there were fuzzy dark hairs growing on his jaw. The second man looked younger. He was taller, had a lighter complexion and big blue-grey eyes. His hair was dirty brown as if there was dust on them. The woman obeyed, stopped her mare and took off her hood. Strands of ashen hair were flying on the wind.

"I'm here to see the Lord of the castle."

"What does one like you want with someone like our Lord?" ask the guard with a grin on his face. The ashen-haired woman grimaced in disgust. She knew his kind. The kind of man who would spit on a woman who said no to him. The kind who would mock the powerless and worship powerful.

"The army of the dead. You call them the White Walkers," she said staring the guardsman in the eye. She could how the man's face has changed for a second. He seemed lost and confused. The taller guardsman came close to his comrade and whispered something in his ear.

"What do you know?" said the shorter guard.

"I will speak to the Lord and to the Lord alone," Ciri said, petting her horse. She had a proud smile on her lips. The tall one called a young boy to come. He kneeled in front of the boy and started softly telling him something. When he kneeled, Ciri saw the face of the young boy. The eyes, the hair, were telling everyone that the tall guardsman and the boy were brothers. The young brother nodded and ran away with a spring in his feet.

"You will have to wait," the tall guard said as he was returning to his position. Cirilla didn't mind. After hours of struggling with cold and wind, she didn't mind standing here, where it felt warmer and safer. She heard people talking, walking, shouting. The sounds of living, she missed them.

Jon Snow was sitting in the room with Davos Seaworth. Three candles on the wooden table and a fireplace were the only sources of light. They both looked at each other as if they have just had a conversation they didn't agree on.

"We need dragonglass, ser Davos, and we need everyone we can get to fight," said Jon. "Everyone."

"You know better than anyone what it takes to wield a sword," started ser Davos. "Knowledge. And knowledge comes with time. Time that we don't have."

Jon dropped his hand on the table. The old oaken table didn't make much noise, but it was enough to make Davos understand that Snow was done with this conversation. They needed everyone including women.

"Those who want to fight for the living will be trained to fight. Regardless of their gender," said Snow harshly. Ser Davos nodded without any enthusiasm. He knew there was no point of trying to change Lord's mind as of know, but Seaworth wasn't done with this conversation. If someone couldn't properly fight, they'd die quickly. To Davos, there was no point of bringing more dead to the battlefield. It was much a disadvantage for the living. A knock on the heavy door ended Seaworth's trail of thought. Jon turned his head towards the door.

"Come in," said Snow calmly. A door slowly opened as it was a bit too heavy for a child to open effortlessly. A boy appeared in the door way.

"There's a woman at the gate," he started. Ser Davos smiled at the boy. A woman in such weather at the gates of Winterfell. That's strange, he thought.

"She wants to speak to Lord Snow," the boy finished. Ser Davos looked at Jon Snow. His face expressed surprise and concern. Davos could understand why.

"Is she alone?" he asked so that Jon wouldn't have to.

"Only a horse with her," the boy said, "as I could see it."