The wind howled through the frozen battlefield, carrying the distant echoes of retreating wights and the unnatural whispers of the shadow creatures. The Night King had vanished into the storm, leaving behind nothing but death and ruin.
Harry Potter and Jon Snow stood side by side, breathing heavily, their weapons still raised. Around them, the remnants of the battle were scattered across the ice—burning corpses of wights, shattered ice where giants had fallen, and the lingering chill of the shadow creatures that had nearly overwhelmed them.
Drogon lay wounded a short distance away, steam rising from his nostrils as he struggled to stand. Daenerys knelt beside him, her hand pressed against his warm scales. Blood—black against the white snow—leaked from the gaping wound in his wing where the Night King's spear had struck.
The sound of distant horns signaled the arrival of reinforcements. The banners of House Stark, the Free Folk, and the Vale fluttered in the icy wind as an army approached from the south.
They had survived.
But at what cost?
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A Hollow Victory
The first to reach them was Tormund Giantsbane, his red beard dusted with snow. His wildling warriors came behind him, their breath visible in the cold.
Jon turned, gripping Tormund's arm. "You made it."
"Aye, but it wasn't easy," Tormund said, scanning the battlefield. His expression darkened. "What in the seven bloody hells happened here?"
Harry stepped forward, wiping the sweat and frost from his forehead. "The Night King attacked us. But he had more than just wights."
Tormund's sharp eyes landed on the frozen remains of the shadow creatures—twisted figures, half-melted by the light of Harry's Patronus. "What are those?"
Harry shook his head. "Something worse than the dead. They weren't just physical. They moved like… Dementors."
Tormund frowned. "Don't know what that means, but if they can't be killed with steel, then I don't like 'em."
Jon's grip on Longclaw tightened. He looked at Harry. "You said your magic could fight them?"
Harry exhaled. "Barely." His Patronus had been enough to destroy one—but there had been hundreds. If they had fought any longer, he wasn't sure he could have kept them at bay.
Tyrion Lannister arrived next, wrapped in heavy furs, his breath quick from the long ride. He took in the carnage with a grim expression before looking at Daenerys. "Your Grace, are you injured?"
Daenerys shook her head, her silver hair whipping in the wind. "No. But Drogon…" She turned to her dragon, pain in her eyes. "He won't be able to fly for some time."
Tyrion looked at the wounded dragon, his brows furrowed. "Then we're vulnerable."
"We already were," Jon muttered. "And we need to move. The dead may have left, but they'll return."
Tormund nodded. "We should go back to Winterfell. Regroup, gather supplies."
Harry's eyes remained on the dark horizon, where the Night King had disappeared. "He didn't attack at full strength. He was testing us."
Tyrion gave him a questioning look. "Testing us?"
Harry nodded slowly. "He left before he could lose any White Walkers. He sent those shadows first to see how we'd react."
Daenerys clenched her jaw. "And he found our weaknesses."
Tormund crossed his arms. "Then we need to be stronger before he comes back."
Jon exhaled, his breath misting in the freezing air. "Winterfell it is, then."
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The Journey Back
They left the battlefield behind at first light.
The army moved southward, marching through the snow-covered landscape. The dead had left no survivors—only ruined villages and silent, frozen bodies.
Harry flew ahead on his Firebolt, scouting the land. The destruction was everywhere. Farms burned. Houses abandoned. The war against the dead had already begun, even before the armies clashed.
Jon rode beside Daenerys, who refused to leave Drogon's side. Her dragon walked slowly, injured but determined, his wings dragging through the snow.
Tyrion rode with Ser Davos, his sharp mind already calculating their next move. "Cersei won't help us," he muttered. "She'll wait until we're weak before she makes her move."
Davos glanced at him. "Then we'll have to win without her."
As they traveled, Harry felt something watching them.
It wasn't the Night King. It wasn't wights.
It was something… older. Darker.
He turned, scanning the trees, the mountains, the distant, endless snow. But nothing moved.
And yet, the feeling remained.
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A Warning from the Past
It was near dusk when they finally made camp. Fires were lit, tents were raised, and guards were posted.
Harry sat outside his tent, staring at the stars. He had barely rested since the battle. His body ached, and his magic was weaker than it should have been.
Jon sat beside him. "You look like hell."
Harry chuckled tiredly. "You don't look much better."
Jon smirked, then turned serious. "What do you think the Night King wants?"
Harry exhaled. "More than just to kill us."
Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"
Harry hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Voldemort didn't just want to rule. He wanted to erase everything that stood against him. The Night King… I think he wants more than just death. I think he wants silence."
Jon's expression darkened. "No kingdoms. No people. No history."
Harry nodded. "Just him."
A gust of wind swept through the camp, carrying a whisper—a voice neither of them recognized.
Harry's blood ran cold. He stood, wand raised. "Did you hear that?"
Jon nodded, drawing Longclaw. "We're not alone."
The torches flickered. The fire dimmed.
And then, from the edge of the camp, something stepped forward.
A figure—hooded, cloaked in black, its face hidden in the shadows. It moved without sound, as if it wasn't touching the ground at all.
Harry felt the magic before the figure even spoke.
And when it did, the voice was neither living nor dead.
"You are running out of time."
The camp fell silent.
Jon stepped forward. "Who are you?"
The figure didn't answer. Instead, it raised a skeletal hand—and the campfires flickered into blue flames.
Harry took a step closer, his grip on his wand tightening. "What do you want?"
The figure finally lifted its hood.
And beneath it was a skull, carved with glowing runes, its hollow eyes burning with ghostly blue fire.
A Deathless One.
A relic of an age long before men.
Harry's stomach twisted. "It's not just the Night King."
Jon's breath was unsteady. "There's something worse."
The figure pointed north.
And with a whisper, it vanished into the night.