The march north was slow, deliberate, and heavy with dread.
Snow crunched beneath hundreds of boots, hooves, and massive giant strides, each sound swallowed quickly by the wind that howled across the frozen land. The cold here was sharper than before—angrier. It bit through fur and leather, seeping into bone, as though the land itself sensed the war unfolding upon it.
Lyanna Gryffindor rode at the front on Helga, her great direwolf moving with silent confidence. The beast's fur blended into the snow, only her golden eyes and the slow curl of breath giving her away. Helga's ears twitched constantly, attuned to things no human could sense.
Behind Lyanna rode Brandon Stark, wrapped in heavy furs atop his horse, his eyes scanning the terrain with the instincts of a Northman who knew this land—and what lurked beneath it.
"Hold the pace," Brandon called back. "No stragglers. No gaps."
The army responded without words. They had learned—painfully—what gaps invited.
Jorund rode closer to Lyanna, his voice low. "Scouts report nothing ahead. That worries me."
Lyanna nodded, her gloved hand tightening on Helga's reins.
"It should."
They all knew better now.
The last time, the dead had not come from the horizon.
They had come from the ground itself.
The frost had split, and hands—blue, broken, relentless—had clawed their way up through the ice. Men had screamed. The cold had moved like a living thing.
Never again.
"Check the ground," Lyanna ordered. "Every step."
Skinchangers moved ahead and to the flanks, their animals ranging outward—wolves, foxes, snow-hawks circling above. Some knelt, pressing hands to the ice, feeling for unnatural cold, for hollow places beneath the snow.
The giants marched at the center of the formation.
It was a decision made with bitter experience.
They were the strongest beings in the army—towering fifteen to eighteen feet tall, armored head to toe in enchantments Harry himself had crafted. But they were also the greatest risk.
Brandon glanced toward them, jaw clenched.
"A dead giant is worse than ten living giants," he muttered.
Lyanna didn't disagree.
They had learned that lesson in blood.
When a giant fell, exhaustion or misstep or a spear through the eye, the White Walkers took the body within moments. A dead giant felt no pain. No fear. No fatigue. It took ten living giants to bring down one risen corpse, and even then, the losses had been horrific.
"Protect the giants," Lyanna said sharply. "If one falls, burn it immediately. Do not hesitate."
A warrior near her swallowed. "Even if—"
"Even if it's still moving," Lyanna finished. "Especially then."
No one argued.
The cold deepened as they advanced, the air growing unnaturally still. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
Helga slowed, a low rumble vibrating in her chest.
Lyanna leaned forward.
"You smell them, don't you?"
Helga's lips curled back, revealing long white fangs.
Brandon raised a fist.
The army halted as one.
Silence fell—too complete, too sudden.
Then someone whispered, "The ground…"
A crack split the ice thirty paces ahead.
Then another.
And another.
Lyanna's voice rang out, sharp as steel.
"Formation! Torches forward! Do not let them surround us!"
The frost erupted.
Hands burst from the snow. Then arms. Then torsos, blue-skinned and stiff with death, eyes glowing faintly as they hauled themselves free.
"They're coming up from everywhere!" Jorund shouted.
Brandon drew his sword, firelight reflecting off dragonglass edges.
"Steady! Don't break!"
The giants roared, raising their massive weapons, forming a living wall around the heart of the army. Flaming arrows streaked through the air, embedding into wights that shrieked as fire consumed them.
Lyanna surged forward on Helga, her blade flashing as she cut down the first wight that reached the line.
"Push them back!" she shouted. "Don't let them close!"
But even as the first wave burned, more rose.
The cold pressed in harder now, the air stinging lungs, frosting lashes.
Brandon fought beside Lyanna, his movements precise, brutal.
"This isn't going to be pretty," he growled between strikes. "It's a slaughter—and we're losing ground."
Lyanna scanned the field, eyes narrowing.
"They're testing us again," she said. "Probing. Learning."
A wight lunged toward a giant's leg. The giant crushed it underfoot—but another climbed onto his back.
"Left flank!" someone screamed.
Lyanna raised her voice, clear and commanding despite the chaos.
"Hold! Hold the line! We end this now, or it never ends!"
She felt it then.
A deeper cold.
A presence.
Her gaze snapped toward a ridge half-buried in snow.
"White Walker," she whispered.
Brandon followed her eyes, blood dripping from his blade.
"Where?"
"There," Lyanna said. "Watching."
No one panicked.
That, more than anything else, surprised Oberyn Martell.
When the dead surged forward—when the frozen ground split and wights dragged themselves free by the hundreds—there was no screaming, no breaking ranks, no frantic prayers. The Narnians tightened their grips, adjusted their footing, and waited.
They had fought the dead before.
"Loose!" Brandon Stark roared.
The sky darkened.
Hundreds of obsidian-tipped arrows screamed through the air, black points glinting briefly before slamming into pale flesh. Wights collapsed mid-stride, skulls shattering, chests bursting apart as dragonglass found its mark. Fire followed—flaming shafts igniting corpses, turning the snowfield into a burning graveyard.
"Reload!" someone shouted.
"Loose again!"
Another volley.
The dead fell in waves, but they kept coming—climbing over burning bodies, dragging themselves forward even as limbs snapped and flesh melted.
Lyanna Gryffindor did not slow.
She leaned forward on Helga's back, the direwolf charging straight into the chaos, her blade carving through frozen bone and sinew. Each strike was precise, economical—no wasted movement, no hesitation.
"Center!" Lyanna shouted. "We cut through the center!"
She reached back and pulled free a small, iron-bound sphere from her pack.
Oberyn watched her arm move—smooth, practiced.
She threw it.
The sphere hit the ground and exploded in a roar of flame.
Fire rolled outward in a violent ring, engulfing a dozen wights at once. The blast melted snow to slush, shattered ice beneath it, and left a blackened crater steaming in the cold air.
"What in all the hells—" Oberyn breathed.
"Fire bomb!" a Narnian called out with grim satisfaction. "Clear the path!"
Lyanna did not slow. She pulled another object free—this one a flat, rune-etched block no larger than a paving stone.
She slammed it into the ground.
The runes flared blue-white.
The snow around it evaporated.
Ice cracked and hissed, melting back to bare stone in a wide radius. Buried wights—waiting beneath the surface—were exposed before they could rise, their frozen hands clawing uselessly at air.
"Kill them now!" Brandon shouted. "Before they move!"
Steel and dragonglass fell upon the trapped dead.
Oberyn's spear flashed, obsidian biting deep as he spun and thrust, movements flowing like water. He had fought monsters before—but never like this, never with such coordination, such purpose.
There—at the far edge of the battlefield.
A figure stood motionless.
Tall. Pale. Wrapped in frost-etched armor, eyes burning blue as winter stars.
The White Walker.
It did not charge. It did not fight.
It watched.
"That's our target," Lyanna said coldly. "Everything else is noise."
Brandon wiped blood from his face. "Then we carve a road."
He raised his sword.
"All units! Push forward! Don't stop for stragglers—burn them and move!"
The giants answered first.
They roared as one, massive forms surging ahead, enchanted armor gleaming as they waded into the dead. Each swing of their weapons crushed dozens, bodies shattering like brittle ice.
A spear of ice flew toward one of them.
It struck armor—and shattered harmlessly.
Lyanna exhaled sharply.
Thank you, Harry.
The White Walker's head tilted.
The air grew colder.
Wights surged harder now, throwing themselves into the Narnian lines with renewed fury.
"They know," Jorund shouted. "They know we're coming for it!"
"Good," Lyanna replied. "That means we're doing it right."
She pulled the last of the flame spheres free.
"Cover me!"
Helga lunged forward, Lyanna hurling fire again and again, explosions tearing open corridors through the dead. The army followed, step by brutal step, advancing toward the heart of the cold.
The White Walker raised a hand.
The ground trembled.
Ice spiked upward, impaling men and wights alike.
Brandon staggered as frost crept up his leg.
"Brandon!" Lyanna shouted.
"I'm fine!" he snarled, shattering the ice with a furious swing. "Keep moving!"
They were close now.
Close enough that Lyanna could see frost creeping along the Walker's blade.
"Kill it," Brandon growled. "Now."
Lyanna raised her sword.
"FOR NARNIA!"
The charge answered her.
And the battle surged toward its true end.
The thing did not rush her.
That, more than anything else, unsettled Lyanna.
The White Walker stood its ground amid the chaos, ice mist curling around its form as though the cold itself obeyed its will. Its sword—if it could be called that—grew from its arm like a living thing, ice flowing and hardening into a blade of cruel elegance. Pale runes crawled along its length, pulsing faintly with blue light.
Lyanna tightened her grip.
It knows how to fight.
She charged.
Enchanted steel met ice with a sound like a frozen bell shattering.
The impact rattled her arms to the shoulder, but she did not falter. She twisted, brought her blade down again, faster this time—only to be met, perfectly, by the Walker's guard. Sparks of frost and magic burst outward as the blades locked.
The White Walker moved with terrifying precision.
It did not swing wildly. It did not overextend. Every strike was measured, every counter perfectly timed. When it attacked, Lyanna barely avoided the blade; when she struck, it was already there to block.
This is not a beast, she realized grimly. This is a warrior.
"You learn quickly," Lyanna muttered under her breath, circling.
The Walker tilted its head, as if listening.
Then it attacked.
The ice blade came in low, sweeping toward her legs. Lyanna leapt, twisting midair, her sword flashing downward. The Walker stepped aside with inhuman grace, frost trailing behind it as it moved.
They clashed again.
And again.
The battlefield seemed to fade away—the screams, the fires, the clash of steel—until there was only the two of them, locked in a deadly dance.
Lyanna's breathing grew heavier.
She had trained for years. She had bled, broken bones, pushed herself beyond exhaustion. She was good.
But this thing—
It had centuries.
Every second the duel dragged on, she felt it—another scream cut short, another life lost. The White Walker did not need to win this fight. It only needed to delay her.
"No more," Lyanna snarled.
She pressed harder, driving it back step by step, her blade glowing faintly as Harry's enchantments answered her will. The Walker skidded across ice, boots grinding, eyes burning brighter.
It raised its sword for a killing blow—
And the world shattered.
A spear erupted from its back.
Dragonglass.
For a heartbeat, the White Walker froze—eyes widening in something that might have been surprise.
Then it exploded.
Ice and frost burst outward in a violent wave, shards flying like razors. The body disintegrated midair, collapsing into nothing but glittering fragments that vanished before they touched the ground.
Silence fell.
All across the battlefield, the wights stopped.
They did not scream. They did not thrash.
They simply collapsed—bones and frozen flesh crumpling as if invisible strings had been severed.
Lyanna lowered her sword slowly, chest heaving.
She turned.
Oberyn Martell stood behind her, spear still extended, breath coming fast. Frost clung to his cloak, his dark eyes sharp and unrepentant.
For half a second, he braced himself.
He expected shouting.
Accusations.
Honor-bound fools demanding explanations.
Instead—
"Well thrown," Brandon Stark said, wiping blood from his cheek.
"Clean strike," Jorund added approvingly. "Ended it fast."
"Good," another Narnian called. "That saved lives."
Oberyn blinked.
"That… that's it?" he asked incredulously.
Lyanna sheathed her blade and walked past him, placing a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.
"This isn't a tourney," she said simply. "This is war."
She looked out over the fallen dead—over the living who still stood.
"In war," she continued, voice carrying, "everything that keeps our people alive is permitted."
Oberyn exhaled slowly.
For the first time in his life, the rules he had grown up with—honor, formality, pride—fell away like a shed skin.
The fires burned low across the plain, their orange glow pushing back the endless blue of frost and shadow.
They had chosen to make camp where the battle had ended. It was not a place of comfort, but it was necessary. Every body—Narnian and wight alike—was dragged to the pyres. No prayers were spared for the dead Whites. They were fed to the flames with the same care as any fallen enemy, because mercy had no place here. Anything left unburned could rise again.
Lyanna watched the last pyre collapse into embers before she turned away and entered her tent.
For the first time since the march began, she was alone.
She unbuckled her gauntlets slowly, fingers stiff with cold and blood that was not her own. Her armor bore deep scratches, frost burns where ice blades had glanced off enchantments Harry had laid into the metal himself. She lowered herself onto a camp stool, exhaling a breath she felt she had been holding since Telmar.
That was when the mirror chimed.
A soft, crystalline note—out of place amid war and death.
Liana froze.
Her hand went to the small mirror resting on the travel table, its surface dark as obsidian. The sound came again, more insistent this time.
She swallowed and pressed her thumb against the runic edge.
The mirror shimmered.
Harry's face appeared, pale but solid, eyes bright with familiar green fire. He looked thinner, still, but the exhaustion that had haunted him was gone. He was upright, alert—and smiling.
Behind him, half-climbing onto the frame, was Sirius.
"Mother!" Sirius burst out, his voice crackling through the enchantment. "You're alive! I knew you would be, but still—did you fight them? Did you see a White Walker? Did you—"
"Sirius," Harry said gently, resting a hand on their son's shoulder. "Breathe."
Lyanna laughed—a short, disbelieving sound that surprised even her.
"I'm alive," she said, her voice rough. "Both of you. Gods, it's good to see you."
Sirius leaned closer to the mirror, eyes shining. "Did you win?"
"We did," Lyanna replied. "Not without cost. But we broke them."
Harry studied her closely, gaze flicking over her armor, the faint smear of ash on her cheek.
"You're hurt," he said quietly.
"Nothing worth mentioning," she answered. "Your enchantments held. On me—and on the giants."
At that, Harry exhaled, relief softening his expression. "Good. I was worried. When I woke up and felt the wards shift… I knew you'd already engaged."
Sirius bounced on his heels. "Tell me! Tell me everything!"
Lyanna smiled despite herself and settled more comfortably, resting her elbows on her knees.
"All right," she said. "But you listen properly."
She told them about Brandon's fight, about the first clash of obsidian arrows against the dead. She described the giants holding the center, armored and unstoppable, and the way the White Walkers tested their defenses instead of overwhelming them outright.
She spoke of the duel.
Harry went very still when she described the White Walker's blade, the way it fought—not like a beast, but like a trained warrior.
"And Oberyn?" Harry asked.
"He saved lives," Liana said simply. "Ended it when I couldn't."
Sirius grinned. "I like him."
Harry snorted softly. "Of course you do."
Lyanna's smile faded as she reached the end of the tale.
"They're learning," she said. "Testing. Probing. This wasn't their full strength."
Harry nodded. "It won't be."
For a moment, none of them spoke. The crackle of distant fires filled the silence.
Finally, Sirius tilted his head. "When are you coming back?"
Lyanna's chest tightened.
"Soon," she promised. "As soon as I can."
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