King of Winter

The cold bit deeper than any winter Jon had known, but the warmth flowing through his veins made him smile. Magic. Real, honest magic, nothing like Old Nan's tales. He'd discovered it on his tenth nameday, when anger at another of Lady Stark's cold looks had shattered every window in the Great Hall.That was five years ago. Now, at fifteen, he stood atop the Wall, wand crafted from weirwood and direwolf hair held steady in his grip. Below him, the army of the dead stretched as far as his eyes could see. The Night King raised his arms, and Jon allowed himself a small smirk."Fiendfyre," he whispered.