Chapter 6: Ravens to the South

The cold wind carried the scent of frost and death as Harry stood in the rookery of Castle Black, his fingers gripping the worn parchment of a letter he had just finished writing. By the dim lantern light, he reread the words, ensuring their urgency was clear.

"The dead are marching. If we do not stand together, there will be no kingdom left to rule. We need dragonglass, fire, and steel. The Wall cannot hold them forever."

He had written to Winterfell, Dragonstone, and even King's Landing—though he doubted Cersei Lannister would care about anything beyond her throne.

Beside him, Jon Snow tightened the leather strap around the raven's leg. "Are you sure they'll listen?" he asked.

Harry sighed. "No. But we don't have a choice."

Samwell Tarly adjusted his cloak against the chill. "If Daenerys Targaryen receives the message, she might listen. She has dragons—real fire against the cold."

Jon nodded, but his expression remained grim. "And if she doesn't?"

Harry glanced toward the darkened horizon beyond the Wall. The night felt heavier than usual, as if something unseen was watching.

"Then we find another way," he said.

With that, Sam opened the cages, and the ravens took flight, vanishing into the night.

They had sent their warning.

Now, all they could do was wait.

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A War Council at Winterfell

Far to the south, in the great hall of Winterfell, the flames of the hearth cast flickering shadows across the stone walls. Sansa Stark sat at the head of the long table, a scroll in her hand, her expression unreadable.

Arya stood beside her, scanning the message. "If Jon wrote this, it must be serious."

Brienne of Tarth leaned forward. "The Night's Watch would not send such a message unless the threat was real."

Sansa set the letter down, her fingers tightening slightly. "Then we have to act."

The northern lords muttered among themselves. Some, like Lord Royce of the Vale, looked uncertain. "The White Walkers are legends. Ghost stories used to frighten children."

"The Wall has stood for thousands of years," another lord added. "Why should we believe it will fail now?"

Sansa's gaze sharpened. "Because my brother has never been one to lie. And because I believe him."

Arya smirked. "Besides, if you wait for the dead to be at your doorstep, it'll be too late."

Silence followed.

Then, Davos Seaworth—who had been standing at the edge of the room—stepped forward. "We don't have the luxury of doubt, my lords. If the Wall falls, the North will be the first to suffer. And if we fall, the South will follow."

Sansa met his gaze, then turned to the gathered lords. "We will send men north to Castle Black. And we will begin stockpiling dragonglass and fire."

Lord Manderly nodded. "If the Walkers are real, then we fight."

Winterfell had made its choice.

Now, they needed allies.

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A Queen's Decision

Across the Narrow Sea, in the great hall of Dragonstone, Daenerys Targaryen sat upon her throne, the raven's message clenched in her hands.

Tyrion Lannister stood beside her, reading over her shoulder. "A plea for aid," he murmured. "Jon Snow and his wizard friend are asking for fire and steel."

At the far end of the room, Ser Jorah Mormont crossed his arms. "If they speak the truth, then they are right to be afraid."

Daenerys' expression was unreadable. "And if they are lying?"

Tyrion exhaled. "Jon Snow was crowned King in the North. He is no fool. And I've read about this Harry Potter—if even half of what is said about him is true, then he is someone we cannot ignore."

Daenerys stood and walked toward the balcony. Below, the sea crashed against the cliffs of Dragonstone. Her dragons circled overhead, their wings dark against the moonlit sky.

She turned back to them.

"Summon my fleet. We sail for the North."

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The Shadows Move

Back at Castle Black, Harry and Jon stood atop the Wall, staring out into the endless night. The air was thick with an unnatural chill, the kind that seeped into the bones.

Ghost growled softly at Jon's feet, his red eyes fixed on something unseen.

Harry felt it too—a shift in the wind, a ripple in the fabric of magic itself.

Then he saw them.

A line of wights stood at the edge of the treeline. Hundreds of them, their blue eyes glowing in the darkness. They did not move, did not attack. They only stood, watching.

And behind them, barely visible in the swirling snow, were the White Walkers.

Jon's grip on Longclaw tightened. "They're waiting for something."

Harry's breath was steady. "No. They're sending a message."

Jon glanced at him. "What message?"

Harry exhaled, his green eyes meeting the icy stare of the figure at the front of the horde.

"That they are coming."