The battlefield outside Castle Black was a storm of chaos. Firelight flickered against the snow, casting long, twisted shadows as the living clashed against the dead.
Jon Snow fought with Longclaw, the Valyrian steel blade cleaving through wights like they were brittle ice. His breath came in ragged bursts, his body moving on instinct. But for every wight he cut down, two more took its place.
Nearby, Samwell Tarly was barely holding his ground, clutching a dragonglass dagger with trembling hands. He had already taken down one wight—more by luck than skill—but fear still gripped him.
And then there was Harry.
Harry stood alone in the snow, facing the White Walker who had just walked through his fire like it was nothing.
The creature was tall and gaunt, clad in armor of black ice, its eyes glowing with an unholy blue light. In its skeletal grip, it held a long sword of frozen crystal, its blade shimmering with unnatural cold.
The White Walker tilted its head, watching him. It knew he was different.
Harry could feel its magic pressing against his own, like a deathly chill slithering over his skin. This wasn't like fighting Dementors, or even Voldemort. This was something older. Something primal.
And it had come for him.
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A Battle of Fire and Ice
The White Walker moved first.
It lunged with terrifying speed, its ice blade cutting through the air. Harry barely had time to throw himself sideways, the tip of the frozen sword slicing the air where his head had been.
He rolled to his feet, wand raised. "Incendio Maxima!"
A blast of fire roared forth, spiraling toward the Walker.
But just as the flames were about to reach it, the creature raised its hand—and the fire died.
Harry's heart pounded.
It had extinguished his magic.
The White Walker's mouth curled into something almost like a smirk before it lunged again.
Harry had no choice but to go on the defensive, dodging each strike as the icy blade came dangerously close to his skin.
He needed a new plan. Fire wasn't working. But what else?
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The Blade That Could Kill
Across the battlefield, Jon Snow saw what was happening. He watched as Harry dodged and weaved, unable to strike back.
And then he realized—Harry didn't have a weapon that could kill a White Walker.
"Harry!" Jon shouted, fighting his way toward him. "Use Longclaw!"
But Jon was still too far.
The White Walker struck again, this time landing a solid hit—its blade cutting across Harry's arm.
A sharp, searing cold shot through Harry's body, like ice spreading through his veins. His vision blurred for a moment.
The White Walker raised its blade for the killing blow—
And then Jon tackled it from behind, knocking it off balance.
"Take it!" Jon tossed Longclaw toward Harry.
Harry caught the sword just in time to block the next strike.
The moment the Valyrian steel met the Walker's ice blade, a high-pitched, unnatural screech tore through the air. Cracks spread across the icy weapon—before it shattered completely.
The White Walker stumbled back, its blue eyes wide. It understood what had just happened.
It was vulnerable.
Harry didn't hesitate.
With a fierce cry, he swung Longclaw, the Valyrian steel slicing clean through the White Walker's chest.
For a moment, the creature froze, its expression twisting in shock—
Then it exploded into ice and dust.
The moment it died, a dozen wights around them collapsed instantly, their bodies crumbling to nothing.
Harry stood there, panting, Longclaw still gripped in his bloodied hands. His arm still burned from the White Walker's wound, but he ignored it.
The tide of battle had shifted.
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The Army of the Dead Retreats
The other White Walkers at the edge of the battlefield stared at Harry, their glowing blue eyes narrowed.
Then, as if by some unspoken command, they turned and retreated into the blizzard, taking the remaining wights with them.
The Night's Watch warriors stood in stunned silence, watching as the army of the dead vanished into the night.
Jon sheathed his sword. "They weren't trying to win," he muttered.
Harry nodded. "They were testing us."
Sam wiped sweat from his brow. "And what did they learn?"
Harry exhaled, looking down at Longclaw in his hand.
"That we can kill them."
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Aftermath
Back in Castle Black, the survivors tended to their wounds. The dead were burned, their ashes carried away by the wind.
Jon sat beside Harry in the infirmary, watching as Sam wrapped Harry's arm in bandages. The cut from the White Walker still ached with cold, but it wasn't spreading—at least, not yet.
"You fought well," Jon said.
Harry smirked. "I had a good sword."
Jon leaned back against the stone wall. "They'll come back, you know. And next time, they won't just be testing us."
Harry sighed. "I know."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Jon spoke again.
"The ravens have been sent. Winterfell and Dragonstone know what's coming."
Harry nodded. "Then let's hope they believe us."
Because if they didn't—no one would survive the next battle.