The Sorcerer’s War

The night stretched endlessly beyond the Wall, the frozen wasteland blanketed in a thick, unnatural silence. The army of the dead remained motionless at the tree line, their blue eyes glowing like eerie lanterns in the dark.

Harry stood beside Jon Snow on the battlements of Castle Black, gripping his wand tightly. His breath came in steady, measured puffs of mist. The White Walkers were watching them. Studying them. Waiting.

"We can't just stand here," Jon muttered, his voice tight with frustration.

Samwell Tarly, who had joined them on the Wall, swallowed hard. "If they attack now, we're not ready."

"They won't attack yet," Harry said, his voice filled with a certainty he didn't quite understand. "They're testing us."

Jon glanced at him. "How do you know?"

Harry's grip on his wand tightened. "Because that's what I'd do."

Suddenly, a single horn blast rang out from the watchtower.

One blast. Rangers returning.

Jon and Harry exchanged a look before rushing down the wooden steps of the Wall. The gates of Castle Black groaned open, and a small group of rangers stumbled inside. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with terror.

"Dead… the dead…" one of them gasped, falling to his knees. His cloak was torn, his hands slick with frozen blood.

The lead ranger, a grizzled veteran named Ser Deryn, staggered forward. "We were ambushed on patrol. They… they didn't move like men."

Harry stepped closer. "How many?"

Deryn's face was grim. "Hundreds."

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The Ambush

The surviving rangers huddled around the great fire in the main hall as they recounted their story.

"We were riding near the Frostfangs," Deryn said. "The dead were there, hidden in the snow, waiting for us. They let us ride into the valley before they struck."

Jon frowned. "That's not how they usually attack."

"It isn't," Deryn agreed. "They were… organized."

A cold knot twisted in Harry's stomach. "You mean they're learning."

The hall fell silent.

Sam adjusted his glasses nervously. "But the White Walkers don't think like men. They don't plan battles."

Jon shook his head. "They never had to. Not until now."

Harry felt a surge of unease. If the Walkers were adapting, it meant they were preparing for something bigger—something worse.

"Did any of you see their leader?" Harry asked.

Deryn hesitated. "Yes. A tall one, clad in black ice armor. He watched from the ridge and never moved."

Jon tensed. "The Night King."

Harry had read about him in the books Sam had shown him. The ancient ruler of the White Walkers. A being of pure frost and death.

If the Night King had been there, watching, then this was just the beginning.

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Fire in the Night

The war council gathered in the Lord Commander's chambers. Mormont, Jon, Sam, Harry, and the senior brothers of the Night's Watch poured over a rough map of the Wall.

"We can't stay locked behind these gates," Jon said. "If the dead are moving south, we have to strike first."

Mormont grunted. "We don't have the numbers for an offensive."

Harry tapped the table, thinking. "We don't need numbers. We need fire."

Sam glanced at him. "You're thinking of magic?"

Harry nodded. "If I can craft a spell strong enough, we might be able to hold them back."

Jon looked skeptical. "A spell? Against an army?"

"I've faced dark forces before, Jon." Harry's green eyes burned with determination. "This war is different, but I won't stand by while the dead march."

Mormont sighed. "You have my permission, Potter. Just don't blow up my castle."

Harry smirked. "No promises."

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The Battle Begins

That night, as the fires of Castle Black burned low, the White Walkers made their move.

It started with the wind—a cold, unnatural gust that howled through the fortifications, carrying the scent of rot and frost. The torches flickered. The horses whinnied in fear.

Then came the shadows.

From the treeline, the first wave of wights emerged—hundreds of them, moving in eerie silence, their rotting limbs stiff with death. Their blue eyes gleamed under the moonlight.

The warhorn sounded twice—two blasts. The dead approach.

Jon was already on the battlements, shouting orders. "Archers! Loose!"

A storm of arrows rained down, piercing the undead. Many fell, but more kept coming.

Then, at the rear of the horde, the White Walkers advanced. Their cold presence sent a shiver through the Night's Watch. One of them raised a long spear of ice—and hurled it toward the Wall.

The ice spear shattered part of the wooden barricade, sending men screaming to their deaths.

Harry reacted instantly. Raising his wand, he summoned a shield of golden light, deflecting another spear before it could strike Jon.

"We have to push them back!" Harry shouted.

Jon unsheathed Longclaw, his Valyrian steel blade glinting in the firelight. "Then we take the fight to them!"

The gate creaked open, and a squad of black-cloaked warriors charged out, swords drawn. Jon led the charge, cutting down the first wave of wights. The battle descended into chaos.

Harry ran forward, raising his wand high. "Incendio Maxima!"

A torrent of fire erupted from his wand, sweeping across the battlefield and engulfing the dead. The flames roared, burning bright against the frozen night. The wights screamed as they were consumed.

But then—the fire flickered.

And the White Walkers kept coming.

Harry's heart pounded. "That should have stopped them."

One of the White Walkers stepped through the flames, untouched by the heat. It locked eyes with him. A challenge.

Harry swallowed. "Alright, then."

The battle had only just begun.