The carpet soared over a world smothered in endless white. Snow stretched as far as Harry could see, broken only by jagged ridges of black stone and glaciers that glittered faintly under the pale moonlight. The cold here was different—sharp, biting, alive. Each breath he took seemed to scrape his lungs with frost.
No man could live here. No village could stand. And yet Harry's skin prickled with the unmistakable sensation of magic. Old, alien, and hostile.
He slowed the carpet, scanning the horizon. Then he saw it.
A line of corpses trudging across the snow, their movements slow but relentless. Dozens—no, hundreds—of them. Some were men, their faces gaunt and rotted, their armor rusted. Others were women and even children, their eyes empty, their mouths hanging slack. They moved in eerie silence, not a sound of breath or life among them.
Harry's blood chilled. So the stories were true.
He angled the carpet lower, wind whipping through his cloak. At the head of the corpse-army stood a figure. Tall, lean, its skin pale as ice, its hair long and white as snow. And its eyes—two points of burning sapphire blue, bright and cold, locking instantly onto Harry.
The White Walker tilted its head, then raised its hand. Ice gathered in its palm, hardening, stretching, until a spear of frozen crystal formed. With an inhuman howl, it hurled the spear skyward.
Harry jerked the carpet sideways, the weapon cutting past him so close it froze the air against his cheek. It shattered against a cliffside far below with the sound of cracking glaciers.
The Walker did not pause. Another spear coalesced in its hand, grown from the very moisture of the air. With terrifying strength, it hurled again.
This time, Harry did not dodge.
He leapt.
The carpet dipped as Harry hurled himself from it, plunging through the air. His hand snapped forward, and with a flash of scarlet fire, the Sword of Gryffindor appeared in his grip. Its silver blade gleamed crimson in the pale light, hungry for battle.
The spear ripped past him as he fell, close enough to ruffle his cloak, but Harry twisted midair, landing with a crash of snow only yards from the Walker.
The creature hissed, frost spilling from its mouth. It raised its icy weapon, but Harry was already moving.
"Gryffindor's might!" Harry roared, swinging the sword in a two-handed arc.
The blade cut through the Walker's weapon like glass, biting deep into its torso. For a heartbeat, nothing happened—then the Walker split apart with a sound like cracking ice. Its body shattered, fragments scattering across the snow in a spray of frost.
Nothing remained but shards of ice melting into the ground.
Harry stood panting, the sword humming faintly in his grip. Around him, the army of corpses faltered. Their glowing eyes flickered and dimmed, their bodies swaying uncertainly as if puppets whose strings had been cut.
Then they collapsed. Hundreds of corpses toppled into the snow with soft thuds, limbs stiff, silence reclaiming the frozen waste.
Harry knew better than to leave them lying. He raised his hand, sweeping in a great arc.
"Incendio Maxima!"
Flames roared to life, igniting the corpses in a wave of searing fire. Flesh and bone blackened and curled, smoke rising into the air as the horde burned. The stench of charred rot filled the cold night.
Harry's eyes narrowed. "Not this time. You won't be raised again."
He watched grimly until the last corpse was ash and cinders, the snow around them melted into steaming pools. Only then did he allow himself to sheath the sword, its crimson gleam fading as it sank back into magic.
The wind howled across the empty waste. Harry turned slowly, staring out at the endless horizon.
One White Walker destroyed. One horde burned.
But there would be more.
He could feel it—dozens of others, scattered through the land of always winter, watching, waiting. The Night King himself still remained, and this was only a scout, a test.
Harry exhaled, his breath fogging in the freezing air. "So it begins."
Harry did not turn back immediately. The land of always winter was too quiet, and his instincts urged him to press further. So he flew on, the carpet whispering low across endless snowfields, his senses spread wide.
It wasn't long before he found them.
Three more White Walkers, each leading their own shambling horde. They were not strong—no more so than the first. They wielded their ice-forged spears with menace, but their movements were predictable, clumsy even. Against the Sword of Gryffindor, they were nothing.
Harry leapt into battle without hesitation. The silver blade cleaved through frozen armor and pale flesh alike, shattering the creatures as if they were made of glass. Each fell with the same sharp crack, their bodies breaking into shards that melted instantly upon touching the snow.
Their armies of corpses collapsed with them, and Harry wasted no time. Fire roared from his wand, sweeping across the frozen fields, reducing the dead to ash. The flames crackled, hissing as they sank into the ice.
When it was done, Harry stood in the center of a blackened scar on the white land, his breath misting in the frigid air.
And then—he felt it.
The presence that had lurked like a shadow since he entered this place was withdrawing. Moving back, retreating deeper into the heart of the frozen wilds. The White Walkers knew now. They had learned.
"They understand," Harry muttered, gripping the sword tighter. "There's someone protecting this land. They won't rush again. They'll wait. Watch. Choose their moment."
The thought chilled him more than the wind ever could.
Harry exhaled and looked southward. I can't linger here, hunting them one by one. Narnia needs me. The people need me. If I fight every battle here alone, I'll bleed myself dry before the true war even begins.
Still, he would not leave the land unguarded.
From his enchanted trunk, Harry drew smooth stones carved with runes—wards of his own design, painstakingly crafted in the weeks before he left. He buried them deep in the snow, one after another, spreading them across ridges, valleys, and narrow passes where any army would have to march.
Each stone thrummed faintly with his magic, a tether tied directly to him. If a White Walker or one of their undead crossed the wards, he would know. He would feel it, no matter where he stood.
When the last stone was placed, Harry brushed frost from his gloves and straightened. "That will buy us time," he said to the wind.
He rolled out the carpet once more, preparing to leave the cursed land behind. His heart yearned for Narnia—for warmth, for Lyanna and Sirius, for the life he had built.
The storm quieted as suddenly as it had begun. The pressure of magic did not fade, however—it grew sharper, more focused, pulling Harry's senses toward a cluster of ancient weirwood trees half-buried in snow. Their red leaves glistened wetly against the white, their carved faces watching in silence with weeping eyes.
Harry guided the carpet lower, his hand on the Sword of Gryffindor. But as he approached, he realized something: this was not the cold, hostile magic of the White Walkers. No—this was older, deeper, bound to the very roots of the land.
He landed softly in the snow. The air was heavy with power. And then he saw them.
From the gnarled roots of the largest weirwood tree, small figures began to emerge. Children—but not human children. Their skin was dappled like bark, their eyes large and golden, luminous in the gloom. The Children of the Forest. Thought extinct.
Harry's breath caught. "You… still live."
The nearest child tilted its head, regarding him curiously. Its voice was soft, like leaves in the wind. "Few of us remain. We hid when men took the world. We hid, and we remembered."
Another stepped forward, older, its face carved with lines of age. "And we felt your fire. The dead you burned. The Walker you slew."
Harry tightened his grip on his sword but did not raise it. "I thought you were gone. History says men destroyed you."
The child's golden eyes flickered. "History is written by those who build walls and call themselves kings. We are not gone. Not yet."
Before Harry could reply, a deeper voice filled the clearing—not from the Children, but from the very heart of the weirwood itself.
"You have come far, Harry Gryffindor."
Harry turned sharply. The face carved into the weirwood's trunk seemed to move, its lips parting, its eyes opening with eerie life. The voice was old, heavy with centuries of memory.
"You know my name," Harry said warily.
"I know much," the voice replied. "I am the last greenseer. Men call me the Three-Eyed Raven. Through the roots of the weirwoods, I see the past, the present, and pieces of what may come."
Harry felt the weight of the gaze upon him, as though the very tree were peering into his soul. "Then you know why I'm here. The Walkers are moving."
"Yes," the Raven said, its voice a low rumble like distant thunder. "The Night King stirs. He waits in the shadows of the storm, biding his time. You have wounded him, though you do not yet understand how. He will not come blindly now."
Harry frowned, stepping closer to the tree. "Then tell me how to end him. How to destroy the White Walkers before they sweep south."
The Children stirred uneasily, whispering among themselves, but the Raven spoke again.
"You are not of this world, yet you carry its fate upon your shoulders. Fire is your strength, steel your ally. But the Night King was not made to be slain by fire or steel alone. He is bound to the magic that birthed him, the very magic of my people."
Harry's jaw tightened. "Then if your people made him, help me unmake him."
The Raven's carved face seemed to sigh. "It is not so simple. Magic that old does not yield easily. To end him, you must find the heart of his power. The place where he was made."
Harry's thoughts raced. "The Children stabbed men with dragonglass, didn't they? That's how he was born. If I find that place…"
"Then you may find the key," the Raven confirmed. "But beware, Harry Gryffindor. The Night King is not your only enemy. Men, too, will fear you if you wield such fire. Kings, lords, even friends may turn against you."
Harry's eyes hardened. "They already have, once. I survived. I'll survive again."
The Children watched him silently, as though measuring his worth. One of them stepped forward, holding out a sword, sharp and gleaming with ripples.
"Take this," the child whispered. "It is Valerian steel sword. It is our gift. One day, you may need it."
Harry took the sword, its surface cold as death.
The wind rose again, rattling the branches of the weirwood grove. Harry tucked the shard into his cloak and stepped back. "I can't stay. My people need me. But I'll return. When the time comes, I'll be ready."
The Raven's voice followed him as he mounted the carpet once more.
"Remember, Harry Gryffindor. The past is written, the future uncertain. But you… you are the flame that does not belong to this world. And the flame may yet burn away the cold."
As the carpet lifted into the frozen sky, Harry glanced once more at the Children of the Forest, their golden eyes glowing faintly beneath the weirwood. Then the trees fell away, and the land of always winter stretched out before him.
By the time Harry's carpet descended into the Frostfang quarry village, the air was filled with eager murmurs. Villagers poured from the stone halls to meet him, their breath clouding in the frosty air, their eyes wide with expectation.
They had all known their king had flown north into the land of always winter. None knew what he had faced, but they understood it had been dangerous. The silence was thick as Harry dismounted, his cloak heavy with frost.
"Was it done?" one man called out. "Did you succeed, King Gryffindor?"
Harry looked at their anxious faces, then gave a slow nod. "Partially," he admitted. "Not a complete victory. But enough for now. Enough to keep the danger at bay."
The crowd broke into cheers regardless, clapping one another on the back, their relief spilling into laughter and song. They didn't ask for details; it was enough for them to know their king had faced the nightmare of the north and returned alive.
But not everyone was content to stand at a distance.
Astrid rushed through the crowd, her furs clutched tightly around her shoulders. Her golden eyes were bright with relief. "You came back," she said breathlessly, stepping so close she nearly collided with him.
"I told you I would," Harry replied evenly.
She bit her lip, studying him. "You could stay here, with me. This village is safe. These people are nicr."
"You can stay here," Harry said gently. "You don't need to follow me. Here, you'd be accepted. No one would call you wife or stranger unless you wished it."
But Astrid shook her head fiercely, her jaw set with stubborn fire. "No. I belong with you. The others can talk of customs all they want—my heart knows what it wants. I will not stay behind while you return to your hall of stone and fire."
Harry sighed, already weary of the argument he had feared since he left her here. "Astrid, Thelmar is not the wilds. It has its own laws. Its own ways. You may not like it."
"Then I will learn them," she said simply. "But I will not be left."
By nightfall, Harry had made his choice. He could not leave her here—not when she was so determined, and not when the thought of her dying in shame haunted him.
So once more he unrolled the enchanted carpet. Its magical threads shimmered faintly in the firelight as it rose into the air, steady and strong.
Harry climbed aboard, and Astrid followed, clutching at the fabric with both hands as it lifted from the ground. Her face went pale at the sudden lurch, but she refused to let go.
"By the gods," she whispered, clinging tighter. "Flying… I thought this was only a tale. Only the gods themselves could soar."
Harry guided the carpet higher, the cold wind whipping their faces. "Hold on. It's a long way to Thelmar."
"I am holding," Astrid said through gritted teeth, her knuckles white against the fabric. "I will not fall. I will not let you go where I cannot follow."
The carpet soared above the Frostfangs, the snowy peaks gleaming silver under the moonlight. Harry kept his eyes forward, his thoughts already on what awaited them in Thelmar—Lyanna, Sirius, the council, and the questions that would rise the moment Astrid introduced herself again as his "wife."
Beside him, Astrid trembled—not from fear, but from exhilaration. She clutched the carpet tighter and laughed breathlessly into the rushing wind. "If this is what it means to be yours, then let the whole world call me wife."
Harry said nothing, only tightened his grip on the carpet's edge, the great city of Thelmar waiting in the distance like a beacon.
Author's Note:
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Beuwulf