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A Wand of Weirwood - Chapter - 85
🕑 Added 2025-12-16 14:29:21 +0000 UTCRunning through knee-deep snow was a special kind of cruelty.
Every step stole twice the strength it should have. Every breath burned the lungs raw. Kalf felt the weight of the cold in his bones, a numbing ache that crawled upward from his feet and settled deep in his thighs. His legs screamed for rest, but rest meant death.
So he ran.
“K–keep moving!” someone shouted ahead, voice cracking with exhaustion. “Don’t look back!”
Kalf didn’t need to be told twice. The torchlight bobbing in front of him was the only thing he allowed himself to see. Orange flame against endless white. Hope, fragile and flickering.
The Frostfang village lay ahead—three miles when they had left the mine opening.
Now it felt like thirty.
Hunger made everything worse.
His stomach cramped violently, and for a terrifying moment his vision darkened at the edges. He stumbled, nearly went down, and caught himself only by slamming a hand into the snow.
“Up!” Hroth snarled beside him, hauling him forward. “Up, Kalf! Not here!”
Kalf forced his legs to move.
Behind them, the dead followed.
The wights came on in silence broken only by the crunch of ice and snow beneath frozen feet. Pale shapes moved between the trees, spilling out onto the open basin, surrounding the fleeing line like a closing fist.
“They’re too many,” a woman sobbed somewhere behind Kalf. “There’s too many—”
Her scream ended abruptly.
Kalf twisted his head just in time to see pale hands drag a man down. Teeth flashed. The man’s torch slipped from his grip and tumbled into the snow, still burning, its flame cruelly bright against the white.
“No!” Kalf shouted, instinctively reaching back.
But the line surged forward. No one could turn around. No one could break formation—not anymore.
“Leave it!” Hroth yelled. “Don’t stop!”
The fallen torch burned where it lay, useless.
The ring was broken.
From the sides, the dead lunged.
Torchbearers on the flanks swung wildly as they ran, slamming enchanted flame into reaching hands and frozen faces. Fire bloomed instantly. A single brush of the torch was enough—wights ignited as if soaked in oil, shrieking as they collapsed into blackened bone and ash.
But for every one that burned, two more replaced it.
“LEFT!” someone screamed.
A wight leapt, fingers grazing Kalf’s cloak. He swung his torch without thinking.
The flame kissed the creature’s arm.
It exploded into fire.
The heat washed over Kalf’s face, shocking against the cold. He staggered but kept running, heart hammering so hard he felt sick.
The village lights were closer now. He could see the watchtower clearly—dark stone rising above the rooftops.
“So close…” he whispered.
Then the cold changed.
It wasn’t just cold anymore.
It was intent.
Kalf felt it crawl up his spine like ice water poured down his back. His breath hitched. His instincts screamed.
He turned his head.
The White Walker rode behind them.
It sat astride a dead horse, posture calm, almost regal. Frost clung to its armor, and its eyes burned with cold blue fire. It did not rush. It did not shout commands.
It didn’t need to.
Where it rode, the dead surged faster, more coordinated, as if invisible strings tightened.
“Oh gods…” someone breathed.
“We’re not going to make it,” another whispered.
Kalf’s legs felt like lead. His chest burned. Snow filled his boots, soaking his socks until his feet were numb and clumsy.
This is where I die, he thought.
He saw Karsi’s face in his mind. His children. Gnome City. Warm fires. Laughter.
I won’t see them again.
The dead closed in from all sides now, cutting off any hope of outrunning them. Torches fell. Screams echoed, then vanished.
The White Walker raised its arm slightly.
The snow around it stiffened, crystallizing.
“This is it,” Hroth said hoarsely. “Run anyway.”
Then—
Whiiisssshh.
A sound sliced through the night.
An arrow.
It came from the direction of the village.
It struck the White Walker square in the chest.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the creature shattered.
Not fell—shattered—bursting apart like a glass statue struck by a hammer. Ice fragments exploded outward, glittering briefly in the torchlight before dissolving into mist.
The dead stopped.
Every wight froze mid-stride.
Then they collapsed.
Bodies fell into the snow as if their strings had been cut—hundreds of them, dropping lifelessly, suddenly, completely.
Silence slammed down.
Kalf skidded to a halt, nearly falling over as his legs gave out. He dropped to one knee, gasping, lungs burning, hands shaking uncontrollably.
Around him, survivors stared in disbelief.
“We… we’re alive,” someone whispered.
From the Frostfang watchtower, a torch flared brightly.
Someone waved it.
“They saw us!” Hroth barked, voice cracking with relief. “They saw us! Move—move now!”
The survivors surged forward again, this time stumbling rather than running, bodies pushed by sheer will alone.
As they passed the fallen wights, Kalf didn’t look at them. He didn’t need to. They were just bodies now.
Dead for real.
The village gates loomed ahead, massive and dark, and then—movement. Figures rushed onto the walls. Ropes were thrown. Voices shouted.
“OPEN THE GATE!”
“THEY MADE IT!”
“GET THEM INSIDE—NOW!”
The gates groaned open.
Hands grabbed Kalf as he crossed the threshold. Someone caught him under the arms, hauling him forward as his legs finally gave out completely.
He collapsed onto stone, chest heaving, snow melting beneath him.
Warmth surrounded him.
Kalf rolled onto his back, staring up at the night sky above Frostfang village, tears freezing on his lashes as he laughed weakly.
“We made it,” he whispered.
Queen Lyanna Gryffindor climbed down from the Frostfang watchtower with snow clinging to her boots and a bow still warm in her hands.
The village below looked like a wound that had not yet decided whether it would heal or fester.
Frostfang had survived—but barely.
Houses stood with doors torn from hinges. Smoke rose weakly from scattered hearths, thin as a dying breath. People moved slowly through the streets, hollow-eyed, wrapped in furs far too thin for the cold that pressed down from the mountains.
They had arrived by evening, Lyanna’s army spilling into the village like a tide of iron and fur. The moment her wagons were opened, the mood changed.
Food.
Crates were pried apart, seals broken, lids thrown aside. Grain, dried meat, salted fish, hard bread, cheese wrapped in wax—enough to feed Frostfang not for days, not for weeks, but for months.
Children laughed for the first time in days.
Not polite laughter. Not careful laughter.
Real laughter—wild and disbelieving.
A little girl clutched a loaf of bread as if it might vanish if she let go. An old man wept openly as stew was ladled into his bowl. Fires were rekindled all across the village, light blooming like stars pushed back against the dark.
Lyanna moved among them without ceremony, speaking softly, touching shoulders, kneeling to meet frightened eyes.
“You’re safe,” she told them, again and again.
“You’re not forgotten.”
“We are here.”
They told her everything.
Of the first dead rising.
Of screams in the night.
“There are still people trapped,” an elder said, voice shaking. “Miners. Whole families. They sealed the tunnels when the dead came.”
Lyanna nodded, already planning.
“At first light,” she said. “We go to them.”
Relief rippled outward at her words.
As darkness settled, Lyanna made sure the village blazed with light. Torches were fixed to every wall. Fires burned in iron braziers at every crossing. Frostfang glowed like a defiant beacon against the frozen wilderness.
For a moment—just a moment—it felt like victory.
Then Helga growled.
Low. Deep. A sound that vibrated through bone and instinct alike.
Her wolf stood near the edge of the village, massive shoulders tense, hackles raised. Helga’s ears were pinned forward, eyes locked on something beyond the torchlight.
“What is it, girl?” Lyanna murmured.
She heard nothing.
But Helga heard everything.
Lyanna turned and ran for the watchtower.
Her legs burned as she climbed, armor clanking softly, breath fogging in the air. She reached the top and scanned the darkness beyond the village.
And her heart clenched.
They were coming.
Hundreds of figures surged across the snow, stumbling and running in ragged desperation. Men. Women. Some barely more than children. Torches bobbed wildly among them—too few, too scattered.
Behind them rode death.
A White Walker sat astride a dead horse, pale armor gleaming faintly, blue eyes burning with cold intelligence. Around it flowed a legion of wights, pouring forward like a tide that could not be outrun.
“They won’t make it,” Lyanna whispered.
She did not hesitate.
Lyanna took an arrow from her quiver—obsidian-tipped. She drew the bowstring back until it sang beneath her fingers.
Time narrowed.
She felt the wind.
The weight of the bow.
The silence before the end.
She loosed.
The arrow vanished into the dark.
It struck true.
The White Walker exploded.
Not fell—shattered—bursting apart like a glass bottle dropped from the sky. Ice fragments sprayed outward, glittering once in torchlight before dissolving into mist.
The legion died with it.
Wights collapsed mid-stride, falling into the snow as if cut loose from invisible strings. Bodies hit the ground in unison, a sound like a thousand sacks of grain dropped at once.
Lyanna exhaled.
Then she grabbed a torch from the watchtower brazier and thrust it outward, waving it high.
“This way!” she shouted, her voice carrying across the snow. “FROSTFANG—THIS WAY!”
They ran again—not in panic this time, but with hope burning hotter than fear.
They poured through the gates in broken waves, collapsing as soon as they crossed the threshold. Arms grabbed them. Blankets were thrown over shaking shoulders. Water and food were pressed into numb hands.
Lyanna descended the tower and moved among them, counting faces, steadying breath, murmuring reassurances.
She found Kalf sitting in the snow, staring at his hands as if unsure they were real.
“You made it,” she said gently.
He looked up at her, eyes shining with disbelief.
“We thought… we were dead,” he whispered. “We were so close…”
Lyanna rested a hand on his shoulder.
“You are alive,” she said simply. “That was enough.”
Around them, Frostfang breathed again.
She looked north, beyond the village, beyond the mines, beyond the battlefield still stained with ash and ice.
Night settled over Frostfang like a shroud.
The fires Lyanna had ordered lit earlier still burned along the palisade and through the streets, their glow steady and defiant, but beyond the village walls the darkness pressed close—thick, cold, and waiting. Snow fell in slow, lazy spirals, hissing softly as it touched flame.
Lyanna stood at the edge of the village, cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, Helga looming at her side like a living shadow. Her eyes were fixed on the field beyond the gates.
The dead lay there.
“We can’t leave them,” Brandon said quietly beside her.
“No,” Lyanna replied. “We won’t.”
She turned back toward the village and raised her voice.
“See that the newcomers are fed first,” she ordered. “Warm food. Hot drink. Give them proper furs—no exceptions. Children and the wounded before anyone else.”
Men and women moved at once. Crates were opened again, stews reheated, bread broken. Cloaks and boots were passed hand to hand. No one argued. No one questioned her.
Brandon watched it all with a faint shake of his head.
“You give orders like you were born to it,” he said.
Lyanna allowed herself a thin smile.
When the village was settled as much as it could be, she turned to Brandon and Oberyn.
“We burn the dead tonight,” she said. “Every last one.”
Oberyn frowned slightly. “Some of your people are afraid.”
“I know,” Lyanna said. “They have reason to be. But fear doesn’t stop the dead from rising.”
She glanced toward the dark field again.
“If we leave them,” she continued, voice hardening, “some White Walker will come later. And it will steal these bodies and turn our victory into our undoing.”
Brandon nodded once. “Then we burn them.”
They went out together.
The gates of Frostfang opened, and Lyanna’s soldiers moved into the snow with practiced discipline. Torches flared. Obsidian blades gleamed darkly in the firelight. These were not green fighters anymore—not after what they had faced.
Villagers watched from the walls, some clutching each other, others whispering prayers. A few gathered the courage to come closer, standing behind the warriors, eyes wide but resolute.
Lyanna walked among the fallen, her boots crunching softly over ice and ash. She stopped beside a pile of bodies—men who had once been miners, hunters, fathers.
Her jaw tightened.
“Bring the liquid,” she said.
One of the Narnians stepped forward carrying a stout wooden container sealed with runic markings. He held it with care, as if it were more dangerous than any blade.
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Harry calls it a catalyst,” Lyanna replied. “It burns fast. Hotter than wood. Doesn’t waste fuel we’ll need later.”
She took the container, uncorked it, and poured.
The liquid splashed across frozen flesh, soaking cloth and bone alike. It smelled sharp—metallic, almost biting. When Lyanna stepped back, she took a torch from a nearby soldier.
She hesitated for only a heartbeat.
“For the living,” she murmured.
Then she thrust the torch forward.
Fire bloomed.
Not slowly. Not hesitantly.
It roared.
Flames leapt across the heap as if the bodies themselves had been waiting to burn, crackling and snapping in a hungry rush. The heat pushed back the cold, and the snow nearest the pyre hissed and melted into steaming puddles.
Oberyn watched, silent and intent.
They moved from pile to pile.
Each time the same ritual—gather, pour, ignite.
The night filled with smoke and firelight, the dead reduced to ash before they could ever rise again. Soldiers stood guard at every angle, scanning the darkness, but nothing came.
The White Walkers did not interrupt them.
Lyanna knew what that meant.
“They’re watching,” Brandon said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.
“Yes,” she agreed. “And learning.”
By the time the last pyre burned low, Frostfang’s field was empty but for scorched snow and drifting ash. The army withdrew back through the gates, tired but resolute.
Inside the village, the fires felt warmer now.
Lyanna dismissed the soldiers to rest, though many resisted.
“We’ll need you again soon,” she told them firmly. “Sleep while you can.”
At last, she returned to the hall she had claimed as her command tent. Maps lay spread across the table—Frostfang, the mines, the surrounding ridges. She removed her gloves, hands trembling faintly now that the adrenaline was gone.
Brandon lingered in the doorway.
“You should rest,” he said.
“So should you,” Lyanna replied.
He smiled faintly. “Later.”
When he left, Lyanna sat alone.
The fire crackled softly behind her. Helga lay near the door, head on her paws, eyes half-lidded but alert.
Lyanna closed her eyes.
The White Walkers had tested her defenses. Now she would answer—not with walls, not with retreat, but with fire and steel and relentless pursuit.
She would hunt them.
Every last one.
And this time, she would make sure none survived to come back from the dark.
Comments
Hi Hi
Just found this story and read up to here. Love it, but if I were Harry I would have wiped the memories of Rheagar/Arthur/etc who knew about Lyanna with Rheagar. As sad as Rheagar might be about loosing his love, having your blood on another's throne is considered a major win for most people in Westeros (Rheagar wouldn't know about the blood adoption). Also, it'll likely pop back up at the worst possible time.
