The Sorcerer’s War

Drogon bowed.

Harry couldn't breathe.

The monstrous black dragon, the greatest weapon they had, the last of Daenerys's children—was kneeling before the First King.

The cavern was deathly silent. Even the wind that howled through the broken ice seemed to hold its breath.

Daenerys took a slow, shaking step forward.

"Drogon…" Her voice was barely a whisper, but it cracked with something raw, something desperate. "What are you doing?"

The great dragon's wings twitched, his golden eyes flickering between obedience and defiance.

The First King simply stood before him, unmoving. His presence alone had bent Drogon's will.

"He remembers."

The words weren't spoken aloud. They resonated inside their skulls, sinking into the marrow of their bones.

Harry gritted his teeth. "Remembers what?"

The First King tilted his head, the cracks in his frozen armor glowing with blue fire.

"His blood. His purpose. His chains."

A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine.

"Chains?"

Daenerys's hands clenched into fists, her breath ragged. Her connection to Drogon was strong, unbreakable—but now, something else was pulling at him.

Something older than Targaryen blood.

"No…" she whispered, stepping forward, her palm outstretched. "No! Drogon, look at me!"

The dragon twitched again, his massive claws scraping against the ice. His tail lashed wildly, cracking the ground beneath him.

He was fighting it.

The First King's hand remained raised.

"Kneel."

Drogon let out a deep, painful growl, his wings flaring—and then he lowered his head further, his great horns nearly touching the frozen ground.

Jon gripped Longclaw, his jaw clenched. "This isn't right."

Tormund let out a breath of pure rage. "We need to get the hell out of here."

Arya, still wounded from the earlier battle, stood unsteady but ready, her hand gripping her dragonglass dagger.

And Harry—his heart pounded.

They had to act now.

Or they would lose Drogon forever.

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Breaking the Chains

"Drogon!" Daenerys screamed.

The dragon's eyes flickered—a war raging inside him.

The First King's hand tightened its hold on reality, his blue veins pulsing brighter. The cavern trembled, the ice cracking under the force of his will.

Harry made his decision.

His fingers curled around his wand, and he poured everything he had into one desperate spell.

"Finite Incantatem!"

A wave of pure magic erupted from his wand, crashing against the First King like a tidal wave. The air shuddered, the ice splintered, and for the briefest moment—the connection wavered.

Drogon snarled.

His head jerked up, his wings snapping open as if suddenly released from an invisible grip.

The First King staggered.

For the first time.

Daenerys saw the opening.

Her Targaryen fire roared to life, swirling around her arms. "Drogon, you are mine! Burn him!"

Drogon's hesitation snapped—and his fury returned.

With a roar that shook the heavens, the black dragon launched himself forward, flames spewing from his mouth.

The First King raised his arm, but this time—it was too late.

Dragonfire consumed him.

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The Fall of a King?

The heat was blinding.

A wall of white-hot flame devoured the cavern, melting ice and stone alike. The air crackled with raw energy, the battlefield nothing but a storm of fire and fury.

Jon and the others stumbled back, shielding their eyes from the sheer intensity of the blast.

The First King stood in the center of the inferno.

His form was melting, crumbling—but not vanishing.

Harry's heart sank.

He's not dying.

Instead, the flames peeled away the ice, revealing something beneath.

Something worse.

The First King's true form was no longer frozen—he was burning, his flesh no longer ice, but obsidian-black, veins of pure blue fire running through his body. His shattered mask fell away, revealing a face that was no longer human, no longer undead—

It was something ancient.

Something that had never died in the first place.

And he smiled.

"You have freed me."

The fire died instantly.

Drogon reared back, confused, his power suddenly drained.

The First King raised his hand once more—and the air itself seemed to collapse inward.

A vortex of black magic erupted around him, pulling the very essence of the world into him.

Harry felt it immediately.

Magic.

The First King was absorbing magic itself.

The very source of their power was being devoured.

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The Last Choice

"No, no, no—" Harry gritted his teeth, trying to cast another spell, but his magic was flickering. The very core of it was being drained.

Jon and Daenerys were struggling to move, their bodies weighed down as if something was pulling the life from them.

Arya gasped, her dagger glowing faintly, resisting the force—but even she was being dragged toward him.

The First King's eyes burned like twin suns of frozen fire.

"Your time is over."

Harry's fingers clenched around his wand.

They had one shot left.

And it wasn't through spells.

It was through sacrifice.

He turned to Daenerys. "We need to use the runes!"

Her eyes widened. "What?"

Harry's mind raced. The ancient runes carved into the ice—the symbols of binding, of sealing, of banishment.

This was never a place meant to hold a prisoner.

It was meant to trap a god.

"We need to complete the ritual," Harry said, his breath ragged. "It's the only way."

Jon looked at him. "That means—"

Harry's voice was steel.

"We have to seal ourselves in with him."

Daenerys's expression shattered. "No. There has to be another way."

"There isn't," Harry said. "It's us or the world."

The First King stepped forward, his arms raised for the final strike.

Harry turned to Jon, Arya, and Daenerys.

"We do this together."

Jon gripped Longclaw, his eyes set. "Then we finish it."

Daenerys closed her eyes for just a moment—then opened them. They burned brighter than ever.

"For the world."

They moved as one.

The First King realized too late.

The ground lit up with blinding light, the ancient runes finally completing their circle.

A pillar of white fire exploded from the ground, swallowing the cavern in an earth-shattering burst of energy.

Harry's last thought before the light took him—

Was this what destiny had always meant?