The march back to Winterfell was long and grueling.
The battle had left deep scars, both on the land and in the hearts of the survivors. The cold winds carried with them a lingering sense of dread, a whisper of the war yet to come. Even with their forces intact, even with Drogon still alive—they all knew they had barely survived.
But Harry Potter's mind was elsewhere.
He couldn't stop thinking about the Deathless One—the hooded figure of bone and fire that had appeared in their camp two nights ago.
"You are running out of time."
Those words haunted him.
And the way it had pointed north.
Toward the heart of the storm.
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A Call in the Dark
Winterfell was a fortress of flickering torches and restless soldiers when they finally arrived. The banners of House Stark waved in the night, and the castle gates creaked open as the weary army marched inside.
Sansa Stark stood waiting. She was flanked by Arya and Brienne, their faces grim.
Jon dismounted first. His eyes met Sansa's. "The battle was worse than we expected."
"I know." Her voice was steady, but there was worry beneath it. "We saw the skies turn black from here."
Arya stepped closer. "The dead?"
Jon sighed. "They retreated."
Sansa frowned. "That's not a victory, is it?"
Harry shook his head. "No. It's only just begun."
As the soldiers were led inside to rest, Harry slipped away toward the castle's godswood, where the ancient weirwood tree stood beneath the open sky. Its red leaves fluttered in the night breeze, and its face—the face of the old gods—watched him in silence.
He felt the magic stir in the air before he heard the voice.
"You've seen it, haven't you?"
Harry turned.
Bran Stark sat beneath the tree, his pale eyes staring straight through him.
Harry swallowed. He had always found Bran unnerving—the boy who had once been Jon's little brother was now something else entirely.
"You saw the Deathless One," Harry said quietly.
Bran nodded. "I did. And so did you."
Harry hesitated. "What is it?"
Bran's voice was calm. "The first war was never between men and the dead."
A cold wind swept through the trees. The torches near the walls flickered and dimmed.
Harry felt the truth before Bran even spoke it.
"The Night King is a weapon," Bran said. "A tool, created by the Children of the Forest. But there were others before him. Older beings, buried beneath the ice. The Deathless Ones."
Harry exhaled. "And now they're waking up."
Bran nodded. "One is already free."
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The Ruins of Ice
The next morning, Jon called a war council.
The great hall of Winterfell was full—the lords of the North, the Free Folk, Tyrion, Daenerys, and the remnants of their army.
Harry sat beside Jon and Daenerys, his fingers tapping anxiously on the table. Bran sat across from him, silent as always.
Jon was the first to speak. "We don't have much time. The dead retreated, but they weren't defeated. And now we know why."
He turned to Bran.
Bran's voice was eerily distant. "The Night King was never our true enemy. He is only one piece of something much larger."
Daenerys frowned. "Then what are we fighting?"
Harry leaned forward. "There's something older than the White Walkers. Something beneath the ice. We don't know how many of them exist, but one has already risen."
Tormund grunted. "Great. Another monster."
Sansa's brow furrowed. "And what does it want?"
Bran's eyes darkened. "It doesn't want anything."
The room fell silent.
Bran's voice was quiet but unshaken. "It does not think like men. It does not hunger, or rage, or seek power. It simply… is. And when it moves, everything else stops."
Arya crossed her arms. "Then how do we kill it?"
Jon exhaled. "We don't know yet."
Tyrion tapped his fingers on the table. "Then we find out before it reaches us."
Daenerys sat back, her gaze hard. "Where is it now?"
Bran blinked once. Then he answered.
"The Ruins of Ice. Beyond the Frostfangs."
Jon clenched his jaw. "Then that's where we go."
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The Expedition North
By dawn, they rode out.
Jon led the party—a small but powerful force—toward the distant Ruins of Ice.
With him rode Harry, Daenerys, Arya, Tormund, and a handful of the strongest warriors left in Winterfell. Drogon, still wounded, stayed behind under the protection of Ghost and the Unsullied.
They moved quickly, pushing through the frozen wilderness beyond the Wall's ruins.
By the third day, the cold had grown unnatural.
Harry could feel it in his bones. It wasn't just winter—it was something worse. Something alive.
And then they saw it.
A vast expanse of cracked ice, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. In the center stood the ruins—jagged black stones, half-buried in the permafrost, rising from the ground like the bones of a forgotten god.
The wind whispered through them. And beneath the ice, something moved.
Jon's hand went to Longclaw. "We're not alone."
Harry tightened his grip on his wand.
Then, from the shadows of the ruins, a figure emerged.
At first, it looked human.
But as it stepped closer, the illusion shattered.
Its skin was like frozen glass, transparent and filled with swirling mist. Its eyes were hollow voids, and its fingers ended in jagged shards of ice.
It was not alive.
And yet, it was watching them.
Harry took a slow step forward. His breath fogged in the freezing air. "What… are you?"
The figure tilted its head. Then it spoke.
Its voice was not one, but many—a chorus of whispers layered over each other, speaking in a language older than men.
Then, in perfect English, it said one thing.
"You should not have come here."
The ice beneath their feet shattered.
And something rose from the depths.