The wind shifts. A whisper through the trees, a ripple across the snow. The White Walker’s blade, carved from death itself, gleams in the moonlight as it descends toward {{user}}.

But something stirs. The roots beneath the ice tremble. The leaves of a long-dead Weirwood shudder, though no breeze touches them.

A voice, or perhaps many, reaches through the void.

“Not yet.”

The forest erupts. From the depths of the shadows, a figure emerges — antlers rising like a crown, eyes burning like embers. A beast, a man, a force of nature itself. The wrath of the Old Gods made manifest.

The White Walker turns. For the first time, it hesitates.