ASOIAF/GOT: The King On The Wall

The second White Walker emerged silently from the shadows of a tree. It looked almost identical to the first—gaunt, pale, and terrible. He couldn't distinguish these creatures from one another. Then came the third, the fourth...

When the fifth pale figure stepped into view, Aegor's heart sank like a stone, freezing in his chest. Something was wrong. There shouldn't be this many!

Wait. Maybe there was only one White Walker who killed Waymar, but others had been present in the scene. The details were hazy, he couldn't remember perfectly but this was far worse than anything he'd expected.

There was no time to consider whether the story had deviated from the original plot or if his own memory was simply faulty. The immediate danger demanded his attention. If there had been only one or two White Walkers, Aegor might have taken his chances with the dragonglass dagger clutched in his sleeve. But five of them? Against monsters like these, his glass blade might as well be a twig.

"Be a hero for a few seconds and die here, rising again as one of the dead in this forgotten part of the Haunted Forest... Or..."

The thought flashed through his mind in less than a heartbeat. The decision was instant. Aegor turned on his heel and bolted without hesitation. Survival was all that mattered.

He shouted over his shoulder as he fled, his voice hoarse with desperation. "Don't fight! Run!"

"Coward!" Waymar's furious roar rang out behind him, followed by the whistle of steel as his sword sliced through the air. Waymar was too close to the nearest White Walker, too committed to escape now. He had no time, no space, and no desire to turn and run.

The young knight's fine steel sword crashed against the Walker's translucent blade with an ear-piercing shriek, the sound high and sharp like metal scraping against glass.

The other White Walkers didn't move. They stood still, their icy blue eyes watching the fight unfold with eerie detachment, as though the outcome was already decided. One of them turned its head, its attention snapping toward Aegor as he ran. It uttered something in a voice like nails scratching stone, a language harsh and incomprehensible. Another Walker nodded in response and began to pursue him, its weapon gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

Behind him, the clash of swords continued, sharp and discordant. Waymar's voice rose in a defiant roar: "For King Robert!"

The sound splintered into something that could only be described as a glass-shattering crack. The young knight's cry turned to a scream—raw, agonized, and short-lived.

Aegor didn't look back. He pushed himself harder, his boots pounding against the snow, lungs burning with each ragged breath.

The blood thundering in his ears drowned out everything else. Waymar's screams, the faint sound of pursuit. The White Walkers behind him weren't mere men or beasts; they were nightmares incarnate, creatures that existed only to kill, to raise the dead, to consume the living world. This wasn't a fight for survival, this was a contest of life against death, fire against ice.

The fur cloak on his back, his armor, the steel sword in his hand, all of it felt unbearably heavy as he ran. He forced himself not to throw the weapon away. Running for survival wasn't the same as fleeing in terror.

His vision blurred. Was this real? Or was it just another nightmare, like the ones that had haunted him for months? Maybe when he opened his eyes, he'd still be lying on his cot in Castle Black, drenched in sweat.

The snow concealed hidden puddles, jagged rocks, and treacherous roots. Earlier, Aegor had picked his way carefully through this same forest. Now, he couldn't afford the luxury of caution. His boot hit a rounded stone, and suddenly, the world tilted.

He fell.

The ground rushed up to meet him. His face struck snow, roots, and hard earth, the impact stinging like fire across his skin.

For a fleeting instant, as he lay sprawled in the snow, the moments of his life flashed before his eyes—childhood games, school, college, his first job, his first love. Then came the strange twist of fate that had thrown him into this world, into the Night's Watch, into this hellish forest on this cursed patrol. He was going to die here—falling, stumbling, like a fool only to rise again as part of the White Walkers' army.

What a cruel joke.

---

A sudden crack yanked him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Aegor's eyes shot open. Barely a second had passed since his fall. The snow beneath him had cushioned the impact enough to spare him serious injury. His face throbbed, but he was alive.

A low, ominous hum caught his attention. He lifted his head just in time to see the source of the noise: an ice sword, glowing faintly with an otherworldly blue light, embedded deep in the trunk of a pine tree ahead of him.

"If I hadn't fallen..."

The thought made his blood run cold. If he hadn't tripped, that sword would have gone straight through his chest and pinned him to the tree like some macabre hunting trophy.

One moment, he'd been cursing the fall; the next, he thanked every god he could think of. The Old Gods, the Seven, the Lord of Light, the Many-Faced God, any deity willing to listen. If he lived to return to the Wall, he swore he would build statues to all of them.

But survival wasn't assured yet. Not by a long shot.

Aegor scrambled to his feet, glancing toward the tree line behind him. The White Walker stood on the ridge, its pale form outlined against the moonlit snow. It was staring at him, motionless, its voice a low hiss of frustration as though cursing its missed shot.

The figure held no weapon. It had thrown its ice sword like a javelin. It was unarmed.

For a heartbeat, Aegor's fingers tightened around his steel sword, his instincts screaming at him to fight. But common sense quickly prevailed. Even if he killed this one, there were others still out there—waiting, watching, ready to finish what this one had started.

He had no desire to die a "hero."

Aegor spared the ice sword another glance but knew he wouldn't have the strength to pull it free. He didn't waste time trying. Without another look back, he turned and bolted.

He reached the horses seconds later. Gary was already mounted, gripping the reins tightly, his face pale and anxious. "What's happening?" the older man barked. "Where are Waymar and Will?"

"White Walkers!" Aegor shouted breathlessly, seizing the reins of his horse. "Run!"

"White Walkers?" Gary repeated, his voice cracking. His wide eyes darted past Aegor, searching the treeline. "Are they, are they chasing you?"

Aegor turned instinctively, and his heart leapt into his throat. Through the dim forest, it was hard to see the Walker clearly, but the ice-blue glow of its eyes and the faint glint of moonlight on its armor were unmistakable.

The Walker lifted its hand. For the briefest moment, Aegor thought it might summon another ice sword out of thin air.

"Get down!" Aegor shouted, his voice raw. He threw himself flat against his horse's neck.

Gary followed instinctively, ducking low just as a flash of blue streaked through the air.

The ice sword whistled past, missing Gary by inches. It struck Will's horse squarely in the head, shattering bone and killing the beast instantly. The weapon still had enough force left to slam into the tree behind it with an echoing crack, splintering bark and sending a cascade of snow falling from the branches above.

The dead horse collapsed with a heavy thud. The other three horses screamed in terror, rearing up on their hind legs. Gary barely held on, his face pale with panic. The reins of Waymar's horse slipped from his grasp, and the frightened beast bolted into the night.

Neither man waited to regain their composure. Kicking their heels into their horses' flanks, they turned and fled south, the snow whipping past them as they rode for their lives.