Harry Gryffindor had never cared for songs.
Glory had always seemed like a thin reward when weighed against survival, against the quiet certainty of doing what needed to be done. But as his boots crunched through ice and ash, as his blade rose and fell again and again, Harry understood something with painful clarity:
If this war was won, it would be remembered.
Not for years.
Not for generations.
For thousands of years.
And he refused—utterly refused—to be remembered as a king who watched from the sky while others bled for the fate of the world.
That was why he was here.
Not mounted upon Winter's back.
Not raining fire from above.
But on the ground, shoulder to shoulder with his people.
Harry twisted, his sword flashing in a clean arc. A wight lunged—too slow. The blade cut through its neck, and the corpse collapsed into lifeless snow. Another followed. Then another. Harry did not slow, did not pause to breathe. His body moved as if it remembered this rhythm from another life—one forged in endless training, in battlefields far from this frozen hell.
His magic was still fragile.
But his body—
His body was ready.
Each strike was precise. No wasted motion. No flourish. The dead came at him in waves, and he cut them down like rotted timber. Even White Walkers—once terrifying beyond measure—fell back as he advanced, their icy eyes narrowing with something dangerously close to fear.
One stepped forward, conjuring its frost blade.
Harry did not even break stride.
Steel met ice.
The Walker's parry was clumsy—too slow, too confident. Harry shifted his grip and drove his blade straight through its chest. The creature shattered into shards of pale blue glass, collapsing soundlessly at his feet.
"Amateurs," Harry muttered, already turning toward the next threat.
Then he felt it.
A sharp, visceral pull in his chest.
Harry spun.
Lyanna.
She was less than fifty yards away.
Helga stood over her like a living wall, the massive direwolf snapping and tearing with savage ferocity, obsidian-studded fangs ripping wights apart as they swarmed in from all sides. Lyanna fought back-to-back with her wolf, blade flashing, armor cracked and stained black—but the dead were closing in.
Too many.
Far too many.
"Lyanna!" Harry shouted.
She did not hear him.
A wight lunged from behind Helga, slipping past her jaws, clawing at Lyanna's shoulder—
Harry moved.
He did not think. He did not hesitate.
The world narrowed to distance and timing.
Harry sprinted, cutting through the dead like a blade through fog. His sword sang, severing limbs, crushing skulls, burning bodies where dragonfire still clung to the steel. A White Walker tried to intercept him—
Harry cut it down in two strokes.
Another followed—
Harry did not slow.
By the time he reached Lyanna, the ground around her was slick with ash and shattered ice.
A wight leapt for her throat.
Harry took its head clean off.
Lyanna turned sharply, breath ragged, eyes wide—
And froze.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield vanished.
"Harry?" she breathed.
He was already moving, already placing himself between her and the dead.
"I told you," he said grimly, blade dripping black ichor, "you weren't doing a very good job of convincing me you were winning."
She laughed once—sharp, breathless, almost hysterical—then slashed another wight down.
"You're not supposed to be here," she snapped.
"I know," Harry replied. "I hate that rule."
Helga snarled approvingly, ramming into a cluster of wights and scattering them like dolls.
Another figure burst through the smoke—
Brandon Stark.
He charged in with a roar, axe swinging, cutting down anything foolish enough to stand in his path.
"Get away from my sister!" Brandon bellowed, smashing a wight into fragments.
Lyanna shot him a glare even as she fought. "I had it handled!"
Harry and Brandon exchanged a look—one part relief, one part shared stubbornness.
"Sure you did," Brandon said dryly. "Right up until you didn't."
The three of them fell into formation without a word. Harry at the front. Lyanna to his left. Brandon to his right. Helga prowling, striking wherever the line threatened to break.
Above them, Winter roared.
The dragon's fire scoured the battlefield in relentless waves, reducing entire clusters of wights to nothing. Spears of ice flew upward, shattering harmlessly against Winter's enchanted scales.
The dead were thinning.
Rapidly.
And the Narnians saw it.
A cry rose from the ranks—raw, furious, triumphant.
"The dead are breaking!"
"Push forward!"
"Kill the Walkers!"
This time, there was no hesitation.
No retreat.
The Narnians surged.
They knew the cost. They knew that closing the distance meant death for many.
But they also knew something else now.
The White Walkers could be killed.
War cries filled the frozen air as men and women charged, obsidian blades raised high. Some fell instantly. Others reached their targets and struck true, shattering Walkers into shards of ice and ending entire clusters of wights in the same instant.
Harry watched it happen again and again.
One Walker fell—hundreds of wights collapsed.
Another shattered—another wave dropped lifelessly into the snow.
The battlefield became chaos, then clarity.
Fewer dead.
Fewer Walkers.
Harry Gryffindor moved with a single purpose.
The battlefield still raged around him—steel clashing, fire roaring, the screams of the dying echoing across the frozen plain—but all of it faded into noise. His focus narrowed, sharpened, until there was only one figure left in the world.
The Night King.
He stood not far away, yet impossibly distant, a still point amid chaos. The dead flowed around him like a living tide, forming an unbroken wall of bodies and ice. Two White Walkers flanked him, silent sentinels with spears of frozen magic resting lightly in their hands.
Harry felt it in his bones.
This was not like the others.
He had cut down White Walkers as if they were brittle statues, shattered by skill and speed. But the Night King was different. Older. Deeper. Colder in a way that felt fundamental, as if winter itself bent around his existence.
Above them, Winter roared again.
A spear of ice the size of a ballista bolt screamed through the air, thrown with inhuman strength. Harry saw it just in time to watch Winter twist mid-flight, the spear tearing past one wing and exploding into shards against the ground.
Another spear followed.
Then another.
The Night King did not rush. He simply threw, one arm rising and falling with lazy precision, each spear aimed to kill a dragon.
Harry clenched his jaw.
"Enough," he growled.
He charged.
The dead sensed him instantly.
Wights surged toward him from all sides, clawing, grabbing, piling atop one another in a desperate attempt to slow him down. Harry crashed into them like a storm. His blade flashed, cutting through torsos and limbs, fire blooming wherever steel touched flesh.
He did not stop.
He could not stop.
A dozen hands seized his legs—Harry stomped down, magic surging instinctively, and the ground burst with heat, incinerating everything below the knee. He leapt forward, rolled, came up swinging, and carved a path straight toward the Night King.
The two White Walkers moved.
They stepped into his path as one, spears lifting, ice rippling along their armor.
Harry slowed—not in fear, but in calculation.
The first Walker struck.
Its spear moved faster than any he had faced so far, a blur of pale blue aimed straight for his heart. Harry twisted aside at the last instant, the spear grazing his armor and leaving a burning frostbite in its wake.
Cold bit deep.
Harry hissed, felt skin numb—but he was already counterattacking.
His sword slammed into the Walker's spear shaft, shattering it halfway up. The creature recoiled instantly, conjuring a new weapon from the air itself.
The second Walker attacked from behind.
Harry ducked low, the icy blade passing inches above his head, then pivoted and drove his sword upward. The Walker parried, steel screeching against ice.
The impact sent a shock through Harry's arms.
Strong, he realized grimly. Much stronger.
The two Walkers circled him now, movements smooth, coordinated, deadly. One attacked high, the other low, their blades weaving a pattern meant to overwhelm.
Harry grinned through clenched teeth.
"Good," he muttered. "I was hoping for a challenge."
He exploded into motion.
Harry didn't match their rhythm—he broke it.
He lunged forward suddenly, ignoring the Walker to his left entirely, and slammed his shoulder into the one on the right. The impact sent both of them skidding across the ice. Before either could recover, Harry spun and hurled a dagger of condensed flame.
The Walker raised its arm—
Too slow.
The fire struck its chest and detonated, cracking the creature open like glass under heat. It screamed—an awful, thin sound—and shattered into fragments that scattered across the snow.
Harry turned just in time to block the second Walker's strike.
Their blades locked.
The Walker leaned in, blue eyes burning inches from Harry's face. Frost crept along Harry's sword, creeping toward his hands.
Harry snarled and shoved back with raw strength.
The Walker staggered.
Harry followed through with a brutal overhead strike. The Walker parried—but Harry twisted the blade at the last instant, sliding past the defense and driving the sword straight through the creature's skull.
The explosion of ice was deafening.
Both guards were gone.
The path was open.
The Night King turned.
For the first time, he looked directly at Harry.
Those eyes—
They were ancient.
Harry felt it then—a pressure, like standing at the edge of an endless abyss. The Night King did not radiate rage or hatred. He radiated certainty. The cold confidence of something that had outlived civilizations.
The Night King raised one hand.
The dead obeyed.
Wights surged forward in a solid wall, hundreds of them collapsing inward, piling together into a grotesque mass meant to bury Harry alive.
Harry slammed his foot into the ground.
"Burn."
Fire erupted outward in a blazing ring, vaporizing everything within ten feet. The air screamed. Snow melted instantly into steam.
Harry leapt through the gap and charged straight at the Night King.
The Night King moved at last.
He drew his sword.
It formed instantly—ice crystallizing into a blade longer than any normal man's, glowing with a pale inner light. He swung once.
Harry barely blocked.
The impact sent him skidding backward across the ice, boots carving deep grooves. His arms screamed in protest.
Gods, Harry thought grimly. That would've split a mountain.
The Night King advanced, calm and unhurried, every step freezing the ground beneath him. He swung again, then again, each strike precise, merciless.
Harry parried, dodged, twisted aside—but each blow drove him closer to the edge of his limits. Frost spread across his armor, creeping toward his joints.
"You're strong," Harry said through heavy breaths, blocking another strike. "I'll give you that."
The Night King did not answer.
He lunged.
Harry ducked under the blade and slammed his fist into the Night King's chest, releasing a burst of raw magic. The force should have sent any other Walker flying.
The Night King barely moved.
His free hand shot out and seized Harry's throat.
Cold flooded Harry's lungs.
The world dimmed.
The Night King lifted him effortlessly and slammed him into the ice. Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the impact.
Harry gasped, struggling to breathe.
The Night King raised his sword.
Harry acted on instinct.
He twisted his wrist and drove his sword straight into the Night King's side.
The blade stopped.
It did not penetrate.
The Night King looked down at the sword embedded shallowly in his armor—and then back at Harry.
For the first time, there was something like interest in his eyes.
He backhanded Harry across the battlefield.
Harry crashed through three frozen corpses and skidded to a halt, coughing blood. His vision swam.
Above, Winter roared in fury, diving low and unleashing a torrent of dragonfire directly onto the Night King.
The flames engulfed him completely.
For a moment—just a moment—hope flared.
Then the fire parted.
The Night King stood untouched, flames curling harmlessly around him before fading into smoke.
Harry stared.
"…Of course," he rasped.
The Night King raised his hand again.
Ice spears formed in the air—dozens of them—aimed not at Harry, but at Winter.
"No!" Harry shouted.
Winter twisted away desperately, wings beating hard, spears exploding around him. One tore through his flank, drawing a roar of pain that shook the sky.
Something inside Harry snapped.
Magic surged—not controlled, but fierce.
Harry staggered to his feet, eyes blazing.
"Your mistake," he said quietly, voice carrying across the frozen plain, "was targeting Winter."
He raised his hand.
The ground beneath the Night King answered.
Power surged upward, binding, constraining.
The Night King staggered for the first time.
Harry charged.
Their swords met again—once, twice, three times—each impact sending shockwaves across the battlefield. Harry pressed forward relentlessly, pouring every ounce of will, strength, and stubborn defiance into each strike.
The Night King struck back just as hard.
They traded blows in a blur of steel and ice, neither yielding, neither faltering.
Finally, the Night King overextended.
Harry saw the opening.
He twisted his blade, drove it deep into the Night King's chest, and released everything he had left.
Pure, relentless warmth—the antithesis of the Night King's existence.
The Night King screamed.
Cracks spread across his body, light bursting from within. He reached out one last time, fingers brushing Harry's armor—
And then he shattered.
The explosion of ice was blinding.
Across the battlefield, wights collapsed en masse, bodies crumpling like puppets with cut strings. The remaining White Walkers screamed and shattered as well.
Silence fell.
Harry dropped to one knee, gasping, sword planted in the ice to keep himself upright.
Above, Winter circled once, then roared in triumph.
The war was over.
And the Night King was dead.
Author's Note:
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