The Sorcerer’s War

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The Weight of a Decision

The night was heavy with tension in King's Landing. The moon cast pale light over the Red Keep, but even that did little to chase away the shadows that clung to the streets. The people sensed it—an unease settling like a storm on the horizon.

In the war room, the map of Westeros lay before them, lit by flickering candlelight. The greatest minds of their time gathered—Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and Harry Potter—each carrying the weight of what was to come.

Three days. That was the time given by Vaelor the Hollow, the envoy of the Shadow Wyrm. Three days to surrender or face annihilation.

But no one here intended to surrender.

"We strike before they finish the ritual," Jon said, leaning over the map. His voice was firm, but there was a tightness to his jaw that only those closest to him could see. "Arya, you said they were summoning something. Do you know where?"

Arya, still dressed in the dark leathers of her journey, unfurled an ancient parchment she had retrieved from Valyria. "There's an old fortress in the Ruins of Summerhall. It was once a Targaryen stronghold, but now it's…" She hesitated. "It's something else."

"Corrupted," Harry finished for her, his mind flashing back to the dark pulse of magic he had felt when Vaelor had raised the black crystal. "That's their ritual site."

Tyrion exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Summerhall. That place has been cursed since the Targaryen dynasty lost it. And now it's about to become the center of all our problems."

Daenerys studied the map, her fingers tracing over the Stormlands. "If we attack directly, we risk walking into their trap. But if we do nothing, we allow them to complete the ritual."

"So what's the plan?" Sansa asked.

Harry took a deep breath. "We divide our forces. Jon, Daenerys, and the main army march toward Summerhall as a distraction. Meanwhile, a smaller group infiltrates the fortress and stops the ritual before it's completed."

Jon nodded. "I'll lead the army."

Arya glanced at Harry. "And who do you suggest sneaks into the fortress?"

Harry met her gaze. "You, me… and a few others."

Arya smirked. "I like those odds."

Daenerys turned to Tyrion. "And what of King's Landing? If we leave, we risk an attack while we're gone."

Tyrion sighed. "We can't afford to keep our best fighters here. I'll stay behind and ensure the defenses hold."

There was a beat of silence before Daenerys nodded. "Then it's settled. We ride at dawn."

---

The Night Before War

Despite the looming battle, the war camp outside King's Landing was quiet. Fires burned low, and soldiers murmured in hushed voices. The calm before the storm.

Harry sat near the edge of the camp, staring at his wand. The magic in this world had changed him—he could feel it. Every spell he cast carried more weight, more raw power. But it wasn't just his magic that had changed.

He had changed.

"You look like a man with too many thoughts," a voice broke through his reverie.

Harry turned to see Sansa approaching, her red hair gleaming in the firelight. She sat beside him, her expression unreadable.

"You should be resting," he said.

She smirked. "So should you."

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Tomorrow's going to be… difficult."

Sansa studied him. "You're different from when you first arrived."

Harry exhaled. "This world forces you to change. I can feel the magic inside me shifting. I just hope I can control it when it matters."

"You will," Sansa said confidently.

Harry glanced at her. "You sound sure of that."

She gave him a knowing look. "Because I've seen what happens when you put your mind to something. You don't back down. Not when it matters."

Harry smiled slightly. "Thanks, Sansa."

She stood, smoothing her cloak. "Get some sleep, Harry. You'll need it."

As she walked away, Harry sighed and looked back at the horizon. Tomorrow, everything would change.

---

Dawn – The March Begins

The army moved at first light.

Jon rode at the head of the host, Ghost trotting silently beside him. Daenerys soared above them on Drogon, her presence a symbol of power and defiance. The Knights of the Vale, the Unsullied, and the Northern forces all marched toward the ruins of Summerhall, banners flying in the cold wind.

But at the same time, a smaller group took a different path.

Harry, Arya, Brienne of Tarth, and a handful of scouts split from the main force, moving through the cover of the forest. Their mission: to stop the ritual before it was too late.

As they moved through the trees, Arya turned to Harry. "Ready for this?"

Harry smirked, twirling his wand. "Let's find out."

---

The Shadow of Summerhall

By nightfall, the ruins of Summerhall loomed before them. Once a proud Targaryen palace, now it was a monument to death. The land was cracked, as if the earth itself had been wounded. Dark sigils glowed faintly around the ruins, pulsing with eerie red light.

From their vantage point, they could see figures in black robes, gathered around a massive stone altar. At the center of the ritual, a colossal black crystal stood, thrumming with energy.

"The ritual has already begun," Brienne murmured.

Harry clenched his fist. "Then we don't have much time."

As they prepared to move, Arya whispered, "We're not alone."

A shadow moved behind them.

Then another.

Before they could react, figures emerged from the darkness, blades drawn.

The Nightborn Assassins.

Arya moved first, her dagger flashing in the moonlight as she struck down the first assassin. Brienne raised her sword, parrying an incoming blow. Harry threw up his wand, shouting, "Protego!"

A magical barrier flared to life just as a dagger nearly reached his throat.

They had walked into an ambush.

Harry's heart pounded. If they didn't stop the ritual now, everything they had fought for would be lost.

Summoning his power, he raised his wand toward the black crystal.

There was only one option left.

He had to break it—no matter the cost.