The storm outside Dragonstone raged on, the sea crashing violently against the black cliffs. The war room was dimly lit by torches, casting long shadows over the massive wooden table where Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister, Ser Davos, and Harry Potter stood in tense discussion.
The raven from Winterfell had changed everything.
"The dead are marching," Jon repeated, his voice steady but urgent. "If we don't meet them head-on, the North will fall. And then, so will the rest of Westeros."
Daenerys sat at the head of the table, her expression unreadable. Tyrion watched her closely, his hands clasped together in thought.
"If we fly north now, we risk everything," Tyrion said carefully. "Cersei still holds King's Landing. If we leave the South unguarded, she'll see it as an opportunity to strike."
Daenerys exhaled, frustration flashing in her violet eyes. "And if we stay, the dead will overrun the North."
Harry stepped forward. "You're the only one who can change this war, Your Grace. The Night King isn't like the Lannisters or the Starks. He doesn't play political games. He won't stop until everything is his."
Jon nodded. "We need fire to fight ice. And you have dragons."
The Queen of Dragons turned to Missandei. "How many ships do we have?"
"Enough to bring your army to the North," Missandei replied. "But it will take time."
Daenerys turned back to the table, her fingers lightly tracing the map. "Then we fly ahead."
Tyrion frowned. "Fly?"
Daenerys's eyes burned with determination. "Drogon, Rhaegal, and I will go north immediately. If the dead are already marching, I will see them for myself."
Jon stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Then I'm coming with you."
Before Daenerys could respond, Harry spoke. "Me too."
Tyrion sighed, rubbing his temples. "This is either the bravest idea I've ever heard… or the most reckless."
Davos gave Harry a wary look. "Boy, have you ever ridden a dragon before?"
Harry smirked. "I've flown things before."
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Flight to the North
The dragons roared as they soared into the sky, their massive wings churning the air.
Harry sat behind Daenerys on Drogon, his knuckles white as he clung to the dragon's saddle. The beast's sheer power rumbled beneath him, its scales warm even in the icy winds.
Jon rode Rhaegal, gripping the reins tightly, his expression both awed and slightly terrified.
The world below blurred as they flew over the sea, past the Wall, and into the frozen lands beyond. The bitter cold bit at their faces, but neither Harry nor Jon complained. The stakes were far greater than their discomfort.
Then, as they neared the Frostfang Mountains, Daenerys pulled Drogon into a slow descent. "Look below!" she called over the wind.
Harry peered downward—his breath caught in his throat.
A dark mass stretched across the icy valley beneath them.
The Army of the Dead was on the move.
Tens of thousands of wights marched in unnatural silence, their frostbitten bodies barely distinguishable from the snow. Among them, several White Walkers rode undead horses, their glowing blue eyes scanning the landscape.
And at the very rear of the army, standing atop a frozen ridge, was the Night King.
His piercing gaze lifted to the sky—and he saw them.
Harry felt it instantly—a chilling pulse of magic unlike anything he had ever known. It wasn't just cold; it was the absence of life itself.
Jon swore under his breath. "We need to leave. Now."
Daenerys hesitated, gripping Drogon's reins. "We could burn them."
Harry shook his head. "No. We're outnumbered, and if he has another ice spear—"
Before he could finish, the Night King lifted his hand.
A sudden, deafening crack split the air.
The sky itself seemed to tremble as the snowstorm thickened—and then the ice below them erupted.
From the depths of the frozen wasteland, massive undead creatures began to rise. Not just men or wild beasts. Giants.
Harry's blood ran cold.
The White Walkers had frozen giants in their army.
One of the massive wights lifted a tree trunk and hurled it toward them.
"Hold on!" Daenerys shouted as Drogon banked sharply, avoiding the attack.
Jon's dragon, Rhaegal, was not so lucky.
The massive trunk clipped his wing, sending him into a spiraling descent.
"Jon!" Harry shouted.
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Falling into the Abyss
Jon barely managed to hold on as Rhaegal crashed into the ice below, skidding violently across the frozen tundra.
The wights turned toward him, drawn by the scent of the living.
Harry didn't think.
"Daenerys, go!" he yelled before gripping his wand. "Accio Firebolt!"
The air shimmered—and suddenly, from far away, his broomstick shot toward him at blinding speed.
Harry leaped from Drogon's back just as his Firebolt reached him. He dove toward the ground, the wind rushing past his face.
Jon was already on his feet, Longclaw drawn, as the first wave of undead charged.
Harry skidded to a stop beside him, wand raised.
"Looks like we're in the thick of it," Jon muttered.
Harry smirked. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
The undead surged forward.
Jon swung Longclaw, cutting down a wight in one swift motion. Harry flicked his wand. "Incendio Maxima!"
A massive arc of fire shot forward, engulfing a dozen wights.
The White Walkers watched from the ridge, unmoving.
And the Night King—he was still standing there, watching.
He wasn't attacking.
He was waiting.
Then, through the swirling snow, Harry saw something worse than the wights.
A second army was approaching from the west.
Not wights. Not men.
Something else.
Jon saw them too. "What in the seven hells…?"
Harry's grip on his wand tightened.
The war had only just begun.