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A Wand of Weirwood - Chapter - 81
🕑 Added 2025-12-04 14:52:04 +0000 UTCThe cold wind sliced across the fields like a living thing, carrying with it the chill stench of rot. Snow crunched beneath thousands of boots. The air trembled with tension. And when the horns blew from Frostshield’s walls, the army of Narnia surged forward — a tide of steel, stone, and unyielding will.
But the first to move was Brandon Stark.
Brandon roared as he sprinted down the slope, a war cry so loud it shook the stomachs of the men behind him.
“For NARNIA!”
His cry echoed through the ranks like a spark thrown into oil.
The Narnian line exploded into motion.
He carried no shield — only a heavy axe carved with runes that glowed faintly, a gift from Harry. Brandon swung the axe with savage force, and the first undead creature — a shriveled corpse with blue-lit eyes — fell with its skull split in half.
But for every one that fell…
Five more crawled over its twitching body.
Their screeching rattled even the bravest hearts.
“Disgusting…” Brandon muttered, and he buried his axe in another wraith’s neck.
Before he could swing again, another figure danced past him — light-footed, impossibly graceful.
Oberyn Martell.
The Dornish prince spun like a desert storm, his obsidian-tipped spear slicing through undead flesh as if they were made of wet parchment. He moved too fast for eyes to follow — stabbing, twisting, sweeping, piercing.
Every strike dropped another enemy.
And yet the undead kept coming.
“Careful, Stark!” Oberyn called as he ducked beneath a clawed hand. “If you keep hacking your axe like an angry goat, you’ll tire before they do!”
Brandon barked a humorless laugh. “Shut up and stab, Dornishman!”
“Oh, I am stabbing,” Oberyn smirked — and skewered three wraiths in a single fluid spin.
Behind them, a wave of silver armor flashed under the pale light.
Lyanna Stark entered the battle.
Her direwolf helm gleamed; her enchanted cuirass — made by Harry with magic no mortal could replicate — shimmered with faint runic light. She wielded a sword of Valyrian steel in one hand, and an obsidian dagger in the other.
Her wolf, Helga, ran beside her, snarling with a voice that froze marrow.
Lyanna moved through the battlefield like a storm given flesh.
She cut down a wight, stepped forward, decapitated another, then plunged her dagger into a third that tried to claw its way toward her wolf.
She was elegance and brutality woven together.
She did not hesitate.
She did not falter.
She did not fear.
“Mother of dragons…” Oberyn whispered under his breath, briefly forgetting he was supposed to be fighting. “No wonder the King of Narnia married her.”
A wight lunged at him, snapping its frozen teeth.
He skewered it through the jaw without even looking.
But then — the earth shook.
The ground trembled like something massive had awakened beneath it.
A shadow passed overhead.
No — not one shadow.
Many.
And then the giants arrived.
Wun Wun was the first, towering nearly eighteen feet tall, his fur cloak whipping behind him like the banner of an ancient god. His voice bellowed over the field:
“BARROW THEM! CRUSH THEM!”
The giants charged, each step shaking the snow-covered earth. Their weapons — enormous hammers, tree-sized clubs, boulders gripped like pebbles — came down with earth-shattering force.
Entire clusters of undead burst apart beneath their strikes.
A giant swung a mammoth bone club and shattered twenty wights in a single swing, sending limbs flying through the frozen air.
The mammoths thundered beside them, tusks impaling rows of undead as if plowing a field of brittle ice.
Oberyn froze for a heartbeat, staring at the spectacle.
“Gods…” he whispered. “If these ever marched south—”
Lyanna cleaved a wight inches from his face.
“They won’t,” she said firmly.
Oberyn nodded, breathless.
And then the second wave of the enemy arrived.
More wraiths. Hundreds. Their pale blue eyes glowed in unison. A cold mist rolled behind them — unnatural, terrifying, alive.
Lyanna raised her sword, shouting:
“Archers! Fire!”
A volley of black-tipped arrows rained from the ridges at Frostshield.
When the arrows struck the undead mist, the wraiths shrieked as obsidian pierced them. Some collapsed instantly. Others stumbled. The mist twisted violently, recoiling as if burned.
Brandon hacked down another corpse, panting.
“Sister! There are too many!”
“Yes,” Lyanna answered, parrying a claw that would have taken her head. “But we have giants.”
As if on cue, a giant slammed both fists into the ground. The impact cracked the frozen soil and sent a shockwave that threw an entire row of wraiths into the air.
Helga leapt over the broken bodies, tearing into their throats with savage strength.
Oberyn wiped sweat off his brow, exhilarated.
“This is madness,” he muttered. “Beautiful madness.”
Brandon laughed, wild and fearless. “Welcome to Narnia, Martell!”
But then—
A scream cut through the battlefield.
One of the Narnian front-line fighters was dragged under a mound of corpses, his obsidian spear falling from his grasp.
Lyanna reacted instantly. She vaulted over a fallen mammoth bone, slid across the ice, and drove her dagger down with perfect precision.
The undead shrieked and fell still.
Lyanna grabbed the wounded soldier’s arm, pulling him up.
“Back to the healers! Go!”
“Yes, my Queen!”
Oberyn’s chest tightened. His respect for her turned into something close to awe.
She moved like a warrior born in the heart of war.
She led like a commander forged in battles.
She inspired like someone truly chosen by destiny.
And above them all, the giants roared again — louder, angrier, more determined.
The battle raged, steel against ice, flesh against the dead.
Snow turned black with ash and red with blood.
The battle raged like a storm that refused to die. Snow and ash swirled together in the wind. The screams of the wights mixed with the bellowing roars of giants and the fierce cries of Narnians. Every heartbeat was a clash of obsidian against rotting bone.
Lyanna drove her sword through another wight’s skull, twisting free just as Brandon split a corpse beside her. Helga tore down another with brutal grace.
Then Jorund burst through the chaos, panting, blood streaked across his cheek.
“Lyanna!” he shouted over the roar of battle. “Another force approaches — from the east!”
Lyanna spun toward him, eyes narrowing. “How many?”
“Two hundred at least. Maybe more. They move fast — too fast. They will reach the walls in minutes.”
A curse slipped from her lips. “They’re testing us,” she muttered. “This is no true assault. They’re probing our defenses, learning our limits. They must now know Harry’s enchantments still protect Frostshield…” She wiped her blade clean, gaze sharp as ice. “If they regroup, they’ll attack as one. We cannot allow that.”
Jorund nodded. “What are your orders?”
“Take Wun Wun and half the giants,” Lyanna commanded immediately, voice ringing clear. “Take hundred men with you. Crush them before they reach the walls.”
Jorund gave a savage grin. “It will be done.”
He turned to call out to the giants— but he froze.
Lyanna felt the shift in the air.
A coldness deeper than winter itself, crawling across the battlefield like a living thing.
Every giant stiffened.
Every soldier felt the temperature plummet.
And then—
A shrill, piercing screech cut through the sky.
A single rider appeared through the blowing snow, mounted atop a dead horse whose flesh hung like blackened leather. Blue flames burned in the creature’s eye sockets.
A White Walker.
The Other lifted its long, ice-blue spear…
…and hurled it at Wun Wun with the force of a thunderbolt.
The spear screamed through the air — faster than mortal eyes could track.
“WUN WUN!” Brandon bellowed.
Oberyn cursed and leapt aside.
The impact came a heartbeat later.
CRACK!
The icy spear struck Wun Wun square in the chest. But instead of piercing flesh—
The spear shattered.
Fragments of shimmering blue ice exploded harmlessly across the snow.
The battlefield went silent for a breath.
Wun Wun looked down at his armor — thick plates of black and silver, etched with runes that glowed faintly blue.
The runes Harry carved himself.
Lyanna exhaled, relief flooding through her.
He had known.
Harry had known this would happen.
He had known that if a giant fell in battle, the White Walkers would raise it — and a dead giant would mean death for all of them.
So he crafted armor infused with magic strong enough to withstand even a Walker’s strike.
Oberyn breathed out, realizing only now how close they had come to losing the battle.
“That armor…” he whispered. “Your husband is think about everything.”
Lyanna didn’t take her eyes off the White Walker. “He sees dangers before they arrive. He prepares for enemies we cannot imagine.”
Helga growled beside her, teeth bared.
The White Walker cocked its head, observing the shattered remnants of its own power lying at Wun Wun’s feet. Its icy stare locked onto Lyanna, a chilling recognition passing between them.
“They are learning,” she murmured. “Just as we are.”
The Walker let out a sharp cry, raising its sword of frozen death. Behind it, more mist began to swirl.
Lyanna stepped forward, pointing her blade toward the creature.
“Jorund!” she barked, never looking away from the Walker. “Go. Now. Before the second force reaches Frostshield. Wun Wun— go with him!”
The giant snarled, pounding his massive fist against his chest piece, then turned to join Jorund, obeying the Queen without question.
Oberyn stepped up beside Lyanna. “You intend to face that thing?”
Lyanna’s grip tightened around her sword. “No. I intend to hold it. Until Jorund finishes his task.”
Brandon positioned himself on her other flank. “Then we do this together, little sister.”
Lyanna gave him a fierce, proud smile.
The White Walker raised its sword.
The cold deepened.
And as the last of the giants thundered away toward the east, Lyanna Stark, Brandon Stark, Oberyn Martell, and the warriors of Narnia braced themselves…
…against death incarnate.
The White Walker stepped forward, frost whispering beneath its feet. The wind itself recoiled from its presence. Its blue eyes burned like cold stars, fixed on Lyanna with ancient hatred.
Brandon shifted his grip on his sword. Oberyn spun his spear, obsidian tips glinting like black lightning.
Lyanna felt Winter press close behind her, fur bristling, a low growl vibrating deep in his throat.
“Stay alert,” she murmured to the two men at her side. “They move faster than anything alive.”
The White Walker tilted its head.
Then it vanished.
“LYANNA—!” Brandon shouted.
She barely ducked in time.
The Walker’s icy blade swept where her neck had been an instant before, the air hissing with killing cold. Lyanna rolled across the snow, came up on one knee, and slashed—her obsidian sword meeting the Walker’s ice.
CRACK—SSSHHH!
A burst of frost exploded outward, numbing her hand.
Brandon charged with a ferocious roar, swinging his heavy blade down with all the strength of a seasoned Stark warrior.
The Walker did not parry.
It simply stepped aside as if Brandon were a child, then backhanded him across the chest.
Brandon flew backward.
“BRANDON!” Lyanna screamed.
He hit the snow hard, the breath knocked from him, but not dead. His armor saved him — a steel breastplate reinforced with thin lines of runes Harry had burned into it.
Oberyn leapt into the fray next.
His spear danced — a blur of motion as graceful as a prince of Dorne in a duel.
“You cold bastard!” he spat. “Try me!”
The Walker turned toward him with eerie fluidity.
Oberyn struck first.
TCHAK!
The obsidian spear grazed the Walker’s thigh — and a sliver of icy flesh hissed away like steam.
The Walker screeched.
It moved in a flash, faster than Oberyn expected. Its sword swung in a deadly arc—
CLANG!
Oberyn barely caught it on the haft of his spear, bracing with every muscle in his arms.
“I— am— NOT— dying— here—!” he roared.
The Walker pressed harder, its strength monstrous.
Lyanna sprinted toward them—
—but the Walker kicked Oberyn away, sending him skidding across the snow.
It raised its sword to finish him—
And Helga struck.
The direwolf lunged with a snarl, jaws clamping down on the Walker’s arm. Frost crackled along Helga’s teeth, but the massive wolf held on, dragging the ancient creature off balance.
“NOW!” Lyanna shouted.
Brandon was already moving. “With you!”
Oberyn picked himself up, fury blazing in his eyes. “Let’s end this!”
The three charged as one.
The Walker stabbed Helga in the flank — the wolf yelped but didn’t release its grip — and Lyanna struck first, her obsidian blade slicing across the Walker’s ribs.
A crack split its torso, glowing blue light leaking from the wound.
Brandon followed with a crushing downward strike.
The Walker staggered.
Oberyn spun his spear in a vicious arc and drove it straight through the Walker’s back and out its chest.
For the first time, the creature screamed.
Blue light burst from its eyes and mouth.
The frost around it shattered.
And the Walker exploded into a shower of ice crystals.
For a moment, the battlefield froze in silence.
Then—
All around them, half the wights collapsed.
Their bodies fell like puppets with cut strings, dropping in heaps of bone and rotted flesh.
But the rest…
The rest kept moving.
Lyanna wiped frost from her face. “There’s another,” she said, breathless. “Controlling them.”
Brandon nodded grimly. “A second Walker… nearby.”
Oberyn planted his spear in the ground and leaned on it, panting. “Seven hells… how many of them exist?”
Lyanna looked out over the snowy horizon, where the undead still swarmed.
“Enough to drown us if we don’t fight smart,” she said. Then louder, to every Narnian within hearing distance: “LISTEN! The one we killed was not their commander. Another Walker hides close — controlling those that remain!”
The soldiers murmured in fear.
Lyanna lifted her sword high.
“We find him,” she said. “We kill him. And this battle ends.”
Helga pawed the ground, injured and weak, sensing his queen’s determination.
Brandon stepped beside her. “Let's kill that bastard.”
Oberyn grinned despite the terror still in his eyes. “After today, I refuse to die without seeing how this story ends.”
Lyanna nodded once, steel in her voice.
“Spread out. Search. The Walker is somewhere nearby … and we will end him before sunset.”
