Chapter 9

The second White Walker emerged silently from the shadows behind a tree, looking almost identical to the first. Aegor, much like his inability to distinguish some European faces in his previous life, couldn’t tell them apart. Then came a third, a fourth… As the fifth pale figure stepped into his peripheral vision, Aegor felt his blood run cold. Something was wrong. Wasn’t there supposed to be only one?

Wait—he recalled that only one had been responsible for killing Waymar Royce in the original story. But how many had appeared in the scene? He couldn’t remember. Was this a deviation from the narrative or just a lapse in his memory?

There was no time to dwell on it. The situation left Aegor with a stark choice. If there had only been one or two White Walkers, he might have summoned the courage to fight, relying on the dragonglass dagger in his possession. But now, with their numbers far exceeding his group’s, the idea of defeating them all was ludicrous. The dagger might kill a White Walker, but he was no legendary warrior with peerless skills. Killing all of these magical creatures with a fragile glass blade? Impossible.

(Should he play the hero for a few seconds, dying in this nameless hollow of the Haunted Forest and rising as part of the Others’ undead army? Or...)

The thought lasted less than half a second before Aegor made his decision. He froze mid-step as he had been rushing to support Waymar, then turned and bolted without hesitation. Shouting to justify his retreat—or perhaps to ease his conscience—he screamed toward Gary, who was with the horses in the distance. “Don’t go in! Run!”

“Coward!” Waymar’s enraged roar, coupled with the whistle of his longsword cutting the air, echoed behind him. Royce had already closed the distance to his eerie foe. He had no time, space, or intention to turn and flee. His steel blade clashed with the White Walker’s crystalline weapon, but instead of shattering it, the collision produced a sharp, high-pitched screech, like the tortured wail of a dying animal.

The other White Walkers didn’t interfere. They stood silently, watching with a confidence that showed no doubt about the outcome. One turned its head toward Aegor’s fleeing figure and uttered a phrase in a screeching, otherworldly language that Aegor couldn’t understand. Another nodded and began to pursue him, weapon in hand.

...

Behind him, the sound of cracking glass echoed again and again, reverberating through the forest and scattering crows into the night sky. A few moments later, Waymar’s defiant scream of “For King Robert!” was cut short by a shattering sound, like glass breaking, followed by his agonized screams.

Aegor didn’t look back. He ran faster.

His pounding heart roared in his ears, drowning out the noises of the forest and the world around him. Never before, in either life, had he been so close to death. These monsters were far more terrifying than the most violent criminal or terrorist. Their sole purpose was to kill him and add his body to their burgeoning army of the dead. This was the ultimate battle for the fate of the world: ice versus fire, life versus death, with no room for negotiation or mercy.

Every step felt like an eternity. His soft armor, fur cloak, and steel sword seemed unbearably heavy. Aegor forced himself not to throw the weapon away, clinging to the distinction between a calculated escape and a blind panic.

As his lungs burned and his legs pushed to their limit, his vision blurred, and his mind wandered. Was this a nightmare? Maybe he would wake up back in the ranger barracks at Castle Black, his body drenched in sweat.

But the ground beneath him wasn’t forgiving. Snow-covered and treacherous, it concealed rocks, roots, and puddles. Without warning, his foot caught on a round stone, and he stumbled forward, losing his balance. The earth seemed to rush up to meet him, and he crashed face-first into the snow, scraping his face against a protruding tree root.

For an instant, his entire life flashed before his eyes: childhood games, school, graduation, work, finding a girlfriend, planning a future together. Then, this cursed world—stuck in the Night’s Watch, dragged on a doomed patrol with Waymar Royce. And now, face down in the snow, about to die. Was this truly how it would end?

Would he become the first “transmigrator” White Walker, joining the undead army he feared so much? The irony would be unbearable.

“Boom!” A thunderous sound snapped him out of his thoughts. Only a second had passed since his face hit the ground, the snow cushioning most of the impact. He was bruised but alive.

Aegor quickly propped himself up and spotted the source of the noise: embedded in a tall pine tree directly in front of him was a glowing, translucent ice sword, its faint blue light reflecting eerily off the snow. The blade had pierced so deeply that half a meter of its length was buried in the trunk.

(If he hadn’t tripped, that sword would have pinned him to the tree.)

One moment, Aegor had despaired at his fall; the next, he was overwhelmed with gratitude. Thank the Old Gods, the Seven, R’hllor, the Many-Faced God—every deity he could think of. If he survived and made it back to the Wall, he swore he’d build statues for every god in this world.

But for now, he needed to seize the opportunity his fall had granted him. Scrambling to his feet, Aegor glanced back. Royce’s screams had stopped. On the small hill Will had crossed earlier, a shadowy figure stood motionless, uttering something in that same sharp, grating language. It seemed to curse its failure to hit its target.

In another life, Aegor might have laughed at the absurdity of it all. He had once watched parody videos where a White Walker’s ice spear killed Viserion, dubbed over with commentary from a sports announcer. Now, he had narrowly dodged an attack powerful enough to slay a dragon. Should he feel honored or horrified?

The pale moonlight illuminated the figure pursuing him. Aegor’s heart skipped a beat as he realized—this White Walker no longer had a weapon.

The ice sword embedded in the tree had been thrown by his pursuer. Whether this was the same White Walker destined to throw a spear at Viserion one day, Aegor didn’t know. He gripped his steel sword and faced the creature, weighing his options. Could he kill it? For a moment, the thought of a heroic last stand flickered in his mind.

But no. Even if he killed this one, there were others waiting on the hill. His life was worth more than a fleeting act of bravery.

Stealing a glance at the ice sword lodged in the tree, Aegor realized he didn’t have the strength to pull it free. He locked eyes with the White Walker for a tense second, confirming that it wouldn’t conjure another weapon. Then he turned and continued his desperate sprint toward the horses.

...

“What happened?” Gary called out as he spotted Aegor approaching. The old ranger had already untied the horses and mounted his own, prepared to flee. Royce’s screams had reached him, and he wasn’t waiting much longer. “Where’s Royce? Where’s Will?”

“White Walkers!” Aegor gasped, staggering to the tree where the horses were tied. Grabbing his horse’s reins, he scrambled into the saddle. “Run!”

“White Walkers?” Gary’s eyes widened as he stared past Aegor. “Is that… it?”

Aegor froze and turned. In the shadowed forest, it was difficult to make out the creature. But its glowing blue eyes and the faint light of the ice sword gave it away. The Walker raised an arm, the blue glow intensifying.

“Duck!” Aegor shouted instinctively, throwing himself flat against his horse’s neck.

Gary followed without hesitation, and the action saved his life. An ice sword streaked past, grazing Gary’s hat before striking Will’s horse in the head. The animal collapsed instantly. The blade’s momentum carried it into a nearby tree, shattering bark and sending snow cascading down onto the two men and their remaining horses.

The force was monstrous.

The dead horse lay in a heap, and the surviving animals reared and screamed in panic. Gary barely held on as his mount bucked wildly, and Royce’s warhorse tore free from its reins and vanished into the woods. There was no time to retrieve it, no thought of recovering the scattered mounts. Spurring their horses south, Aegor and Gary fled without looking back.

...