The Sorcerer’s War

The silence after the battle was deafening.

The First King was gone. Sealed beneath the ice, bound by magic older than men and dragons. But the cost had been too great.

Jon Snow was dead.

Or worse—his very existence erased, absorbed into the seal that kept the First King from returning.

Harry sat in the snow, barely breathing. His wand trembled in his grasp, but there was no magic left in him. The ritual had drained him dry. He was exhausted beyond anything he had ever known—body, mind, and soul.

Across from him, Daenerys was still kneeling, staring at the frozen ground where Jon had made his sacrifice. Her silver hair was matted with dirt and blood, her violet eyes empty, her lips trembling as she clutched the spot where he had been.

"He was supposed to win," she whispered.

Her voice cracked.

Tormund stood nearby, his massive form slumped forward, his wild red hair dusted with frost. He had seen too many friends die.

Arya had not moved.

She stood at the edge of the ruined battlefield, her back turned to them all. She hadn't spoken since Jon fell.

The wind howled through the desolate ice fields, carrying with it the last echoes of battle.

And then—

Drogon let out a deep, sorrowful cry.

A sound that shook the heavens.

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A Hollow Victory

"We need to leave," Tormund muttered, breaking the silence. His voice was rough, hollow. "We won the battle, but we won't survive the night out here."

No one moved.

No one wanted to move.

Harry forced himself to his feet, his legs weak beneath him. He turned to Daenerys, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Dany… we have to go."

She didn't react.

Her gaze was still locked on the ice, where Jon's body had vanished.

"Dany," Harry repeated, firmer this time. "He gave his life to save the world. We have to honor that."

Her breath hitched.

Slowly, her fingers curled into fists. Then, without a word, she stood.

Her face was stone.

But her eyes burned.

With grief.

With rage.

With purpose.

She turned to Drogon and whispered, "Take us home."

The black dragon lowered his head, his wings spreading wide. His golden eyes glowed as he waited for them to climb aboard.

Tormund took a step toward Arya. "Come on, girl."

Arya flinched.

Then, without turning, she whispered, "I should've killed him when I had the chance."

Harry knew who she meant.

The First King.

If they had struck faster, if they had been stronger, Jon would still be alive.

Harry wanted to tell her it wasn't her fault. That they had all done everything they could.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because he didn't believe them.

Instead, he simply said, "We still have a war to win."

That, at least, was true.

After a long moment, Arya nodded.

And they left the battlefield behind.

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The Return to Winterfell

They reached Winterfell before dawn.

The castle loomed in the distance, its towers dusted with fresh snow. Fires burned in the great hall, warm against the cold night.

But the moment the gates opened, the air grew heavy with mourning.

Sansa was the first to step forward.

Her eyes scanned their faces—Harry, Daenerys, Arya, Tormund—but when she didn't see Jon, the color drained from her cheeks.

"No…" she whispered.

Bran, seated near the entrance, already knew. His expression was blank, but his fingers curled slightly around the armrest of his chair.

Grey Worm stepped forward, his unsullied armor still stained with battle. "The First King?" he asked in his low, steady voice.

"Sealed," Daenerys answered. "But not destroyed."

A heavy silence fell over the courtyard.

Sansa's lips trembled. "And Jon?"

Harry didn't know what to say.

He didn't have the words to explain how Jon had vanished, how he had poured his very existence into the magic that sealed their enemy away.

So it was Arya who answered.

"He's gone."

Sansa's breath hitched. Her hands clenched into fists, and for a moment, it looked as though she might collapse. But then—she straightened.

And she hardened.

Like steel being reforged.

Harry recognized that look.

She had just lost the last of her family.

But she would not break.

She would rule.

She turned to Daenerys. "So what happens now?"

Daenerys lifted her chin.

And when she spoke, her voice was fire and fury.

"The war isn't over."

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A New Enemy Rises

The First King was sealed. But the moment his presence vanished from the world, something else awoke.

Far beyond the North, beyond the Wall, deep in the forgotten ruins of Valyria—a new power stirred.

In the heart of the ruined empire, where dragons were born and gods had fallen, something began to move.

A voice, ancient and terrible, whispered through the ruins.

"The chains have been broken."

In the frozen lands of the Far North, where even the White Walkers feared to tread, something older than the First King opened its eyes.

A shadow passed over the land.

And the world shuddered.

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The War Was Not Over.

Jon Snow had sacrificed himself to seal the First King.

But something far worse was waking.

And the heroes of this war were not ready for what was coming.