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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Woo—Woo—Woo

The horn blew—once, twice, and then a third time.

One sound meant brothers returning home, two meant wildlings were approaching, but why was it still blowing?

It had been thousands of years since the Night's Watch had blown the horn three times. The meaning behind it was so obscure that most of the black brothers had forgotten. But Aegor hadn't.

When that third, piercing sound, higher and longer than the first two—split through the freezing air atop the Wall and bored into his ears, Aegor's heart sank. He was on duty at the time, having just drawn lots to stand watch. Hands trembling, he gripped the icy wall and gazed out from its northern edge.

What he saw chilled him to the bone, a sight so terrifying he wished he could forget it for the rest of his life.

Aegor woke up in a cold sweat, his back drenched.

That same nightmare haunted him again, a vision of the White Walkers, figures that should only belong in legends thousands of years old. The haunting had started the moment he joined the Night's Watch. Back then, when he was just a recruit, standing sentinel for the first time had rattled him. Even now, after becoming a full-fledged ranger, the fear lingered.

Some might find it laughable to be so troubled by ancient myths. But Aegor knew better than the others: many of the stories about the White Walkers were true.

He knew because he was a traveler—a soul displaced in time.

Aegor wasn't a man of this world. He had come from another, one far removed from this fantastical, brutal place. Yet, rather than achieving greatness, rising to power, or forming a harem as one might in stories, his journey led him to the Wall—a remote, desolate place. Here, he swore an oath not to marry, not to inherit land, not to father children. He was to be a shield that guards the realms of men, defending Westeros from the ancient dangers lurking in the Far North.

What a noble, selfless cause! A hero's ambition that transcended worlds.

If only that were the truth.

In reality, Aegor hadn't taken the black by choice.

His story began a year ago. Back then, he wasn't "Aegor" at all. He was an ordinary college graduate, living a humdrum life in another world. After finishing his degree, he'd taken a job in the quality control department of a large company—"a job slightly related to his field of study," as he often described it. It wasn't glamorous, but the pay was steady, and he lived comfortably enough.

Then one day, everything changed.

Aegor woke up shivering in the wilderness, dressed only in his pajamas. Disoriented and freezing, he wandered aimlessly through an unfamiliar landscape. For hours, he trudged without finding shelter until, at last, he stumbled upon a village.

But to his shock, the people in the village were not like him. They spoke a language he couldn't understand, and looked at him like he was an alien.

Unable to communicate and starving, Aegor resorted to stealing food, potatoes from a field and clothes to stave off the cold. He even considered taking some eggs from a chicken coop but was caught in the act by the villagers.

For his petty crime, the local official—an impatient man who looked like a farmer himself, presented him with two options: lose a hand or don the black cloak of the Night's Watch. The message was delivered with a crude display of body language.

Faced with the prospect of maiming on his very first day in this world, Aegor reluctantly chose the latter. The villagers called him "Aegor" after the nickname they had given him during his capture, and it stuck. Thus, Aegor was sent to Castle Black as a criminal, joining the ranks of the Night's Watch.

The first time he laid eyes on the Wall, it took his breath away. Its sheer size and majesty were overwhelming. The towering, 200-meter-high structure of ice loomed over the landscape like no mountain he had ever seen. In that moment, Aegor realized where he was: the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Or maybe it was the Game of Thrones universe. He didn't have enough information to say for sure. All he knew was that he was trapped in this harsh, merciless world.

"Awake?"

Gary, his roommate, was already up, packing by the window. The older man glanced over at Aegor and shook his head. "Get ready early. Otherwise, you'll be the first one complaining about forgetting something once we're out there."

Gary was a veteran of the Night's Watch. He'd joined as a boy after losing his parents, and though he wasn't yet fifty, he had served for over forty years. The Night's Watch was his home in every sense. Despite his gruff demeanor and tendency to lecture, Gary had looked out for Aegor, helping him adjust to life in the Watch.

With a resigned sigh, Aegor climbed out of bed, shaking off the damp quilt, and began dressing for the day.

As a modern man with a college education, Aegor prided himself on his adaptability. It hadn't been easy, but in the year since he arrived in this world, he had learned to blend in. Aegor now communicated fluently with his fellow brothers of the Night's Watch.

That had been no small feat. The Common Tongue of Westeros wasn't English. It resembled English only slightly in grammar and structure, and Aegor's knowledge of the language had been no help here. The months of struggling to learn had been frustrating, but he'd managed.

After a quick breakfast with Gary, Aegor packed his gear and joined three other rangers for their patrol. Together, the group made their way to the stables, mounted their horses, and approached the tunnel leading through the Wall.

The iron gate creaked as it rose, revealing the dark, frigid passage beyond. Sir Waymar Royce, the leader of their party, entered first, his back straight and his head held high.

The tunnel was cold and silent, save for the occasional whistling of the wind. They passed through three iron gates, each heavier than the last, their way lit only by flickering torches. When they finally emerged on the other side of the Wall, the forest loomed ahead of them—a dark, endless expanse known as the Haunted Forest.

The Haunted Forest was a vital part of their patrol. Though it stretched all the way to the Land of Always Winter, the Night's Watch kept the woods closest to the Wall clear of trees. This deforested "buffer zone" prevented wildlings from using the cover of the trees to launch sneak attacks. However, with the dwindling numbers of the Night's Watch, maintaining this practice had become increasingly difficult.

Aegor glanced back at the Wall, now behind them. The massive structure seemed to weep as it melted in the summer heat, drops of water trickling down its icy face. It was a welcome sign. At least for now, the temperature was bearable, and they wouldn't have to worry about freezing during their patrol.

The horses trudged forward, their hooves crunching through the snow. The group crossed the deforested buffer zone and entered the Haunted Forest. Aegor shivered. No matter how many times he ventured into these woods, they never failed to unnerve him.

The year was 297 AC—three years before the War of the Five Kings would tear Westeros apart. In Winterfell, Eddard Stark still muttered, "Winter is coming," as he enjoyed the company of his family. Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen was still a frightened girl living under the shadow of her brother. The White Walkers, though stirring in the Far North, had yet to unleash their full terror upon the world.

For now, the realm was at peace. It wasn't the worst time to find oneself in Westeros, if you had the luxury of avoiding danger. But as a ranger of the Night's Watch, Aegor had no such luck. He couldn't simply hide behind the Wall and hope for safety.

Instead, his duty demanded that he go beyond it, facing the dangers of the Far North head-on.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

When he'd first arrived at Castle Black, Aegor had tried to prove himself as a man of intellect. He hoped to catch the attention of Lord Commander Mormont or Maester Aemon, earning a position as a steward or scribe. At the very least, he'd hoped to avoid being sent beyond the Wall.

But his plans had failed spectacularly.

No one cared about his education or wit. To the Night's Watch, he was just another recruit—a thief with no noble name or connections. He lacked the pedigree of men like Benjen Stark or Jon Snow, and so his fate was sealed.

Aegor had been assigned to the Rangers, the elite soldiers of the Watch. It was an honor most men would envy, but for him, it felt like a death sentence.

Here, he wasn't the hero of a grand tale. He was just another expendable pawn in the fight against the darkness beyond the Wall.

Chapter 2

By law, deserters from the Night's Watch are considered criminals, and all lords of the Seven Kingdoms are bound to hunt them down and execute them. This is particularly true in the North, where the Stark family and their bannermen hold a close relationship with the Night's Watch and show no mercy to deserters. For those who attempt to flee south, the journey is fraught with peril. For those who flee north to join the wildlings, their fate is equally grim, perhaps worse.

Aegor wanted to escape the black cloak and distance himself from humanity's enemies. But how could he flee north and join the wildlings? That path wasn't an option.

As for fleeing south... it was a tempting dream, but one that required careful planning and preparation. First, he would need a fast horse, ample provisions, and plain clothes to replace his black uniform. He'd need to choose the right moment to slip away and avoid all inhabited areas along his path. If he could cross the Neck and make it out of the North, his chances of success would rise dramatically.

Once in the southern regions ideally in the fertile lands of the Reach or the Riverlands, lords and common folk alike would care far less about the Night's Watch. There, he could find a small town or a safe haven that wouldn't ask too many questions, where he could start a new life.

The plan sounded simple. The reality, however, was daunting. In a feudal world with slow transportation, low mobility, and a legal system built on rigid hierarchies, his distinctly foreign appearance and lack of identity would make him stand out like a sore thumb.

It was almost impossible.

Shaking his head, Aegor pushed the thought aside. Now wasn't the time to fantasize. As the muffled crunch of horses' hooves broke through the snow, the trees thickened, blocking out the sunlight. The patrol had entered the vast boreal forest north of the Wall.

"These damned savages," Gary grumbled. "The weather's colder by the day, but they still won't stop."

"They're wildlings. They don't know when to quit," Aegor replied, brushing the snowflakes off his sleeves with an air of casual disdain.

The Night's Watch, short on manpower and supplies, had long abandoned routine patrols in favor of targeted missions. Patrols were now sent out only when there was an urgent reason. Two nights ago, the watchmen stationed atop the Wall had spotted a fire flickering several miles to the north. That was the sole reason why the commander and the chief ranger had ordered today's mission. Otherwise, the four of them would still be in Castle Black, finishing their morning drills and warming themselves by the hearth.

"Enough chatter. Spread out and move forward in a line. I don't want anyone missing even the smallest trace," said Waymar Royce, their leader, in a curt, frosty tone.

Hearing the command, Gary and Will exchanged looks and rolled their eyes behind Waymar's back. The group was arranged by age: Gary, the oldest; then Will; Aegor in the middle; and Royce, the youngest, leading from the front. This dynamic didn't sit well with the older three.

Sir Waymar Royce was a young noble from the Vale, the third son of the Lord of Runestone. He had joined the Night's Watch for one simple reason: as the third son, his chances of inheriting his family's title or lands were slim. His father had personally escorted him to the Wall, along with a wagon full of supplies. That detail alone had made him a frequent target of ridicule among the men at Castle Black. To many, it seemed that the great Sir Waymar Royce hadn't come to serve the Watch but to enjoy a vacation.

The Night's Watch had a creed: all brothers were equals, bound by their oaths. Yet here was a young, inexperienced noble suddenly promoted to a position of authority. And worse, this was Waymar's first time leading a patrol beyond the Wall. It was hardly surprising that the others didn't trust him.

But discipline was discipline. The three of them followed orders, spreading out in a line to comb the area for signs of wildling activity.

Before long, they found what they were looking for: clear signs of human presence. The snow had held firm since the day before, preserving footprints and the blackened remains of a campfire.

"They're already gone," Gary said, hesitating as he glanced at Waymar.

The Night's Watch was born in the aftermath of the Long Night, the cataclysmic winter that had lasted a generation. During that dark age, the White Walkers had nearly wiped out humanity. In the wake of the devastation, the Wall and the Night's Watch were established to protect mankind from the terrors of the far North.

For a time, joining the Night's Watch was considered the highest honor. Its ranks were filled with the best and brightest, and its entry requirements were strict. Men volunteered eagerly, drawn by a sense of duty and glory.

But that era had long passed.

As the White Walkers retreated to the Land of Always Winter and faded into obscurity, the memory of the Long Night began to dim. Generations passed, and with them, the importance of the Night's Watch began to decline.

Even so, the Watch managed to retain some degree of relevance, for the Wall served another purpose: keeping the wildlings at bay. For thousands of years, the Wall had been a shield against the free folk of the North.

That all changed with Aegon's Conquest and the rise of the Targaryen dynasty.

The Targaryens never sought to undermine the Night's Watch. In fact, the kings of Westeros respected the Black Brothers. But Aegon the Conqueror had brought dragons to Westeros, and dragons changed everything. When wildlings launched a major attack, Aegon simply mounted his dragon and scorched their forces, scattering them back to the wilderness.

It was an efficient solution, but it came at a cost. The role of the Night's Watch diminished in the eyes of the realm. Why risk lives defending the Wall when the King of Westeros could dispatch his dragons to deal with any threat?

Over time, the noble sons and knights who had once flocked to the Watch lost interest. Recruitment dwindled. Standards fell. The Night's Watch was forced to lower its entry requirements again and again, until it became what it was today: a shadow of its former self.

The oath of the Night's Watch still rang with a certain grandeur:

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

It was a stirring vow, filled with solemn promises and lofty titles. But few knew how many revisions it had undergone over the centuries or how much bitterness and resignation lay behind the words.

The dragons of House Targaryen were long gone, but the Watch's decline was irreversible. By now, the Black Brothers were little more than glorified gatekeepers. Their numbers had dwindled to fewer than a thousand, and the men could be roughly divided into three categories:

The first and largest group consisted of criminals like Aegor, men who had chosen the Wall over punishment. Thieves, poachers, rapists—these were the dregs of society, unfit to serve in the glory days of the Watch but now its main fighting force. Their only futures lay in death, either at their post or as deserters.

The second group comprised those forced into the Watch by circumstances. Bankrupt merchants, illegitimate children, disgraced nobles, or farmers who had lost their land, they joined not for glory but for survival. Many of the Watch's craftsmen and stewards came from this group, though their numbers had also dwindled.

The final and smallest group consisted of men like Waymar Royce: volunteers driven by honor, guilt, or political necessity. These men still existed, though they were few and far between. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, Chief Ranger Benjen Stark, and Maester Aemon of the Targaryen bloodline all fell into this category.

Such men often rose quickly to leadership roles. It was an unspoken rule, rooted in practicality. In a remote and frozen outpost like the Wall, leadership couldn't be left to the criminals and peasants who made up most of the Watch.

But even the noblest recruits soon found their ideals crushed beneath the weight of reality. The Wall was no grand stage for heroics; it was a frozen graveyard of broken dreams.

Sir Waymar Royce was no exception.

He'd joined the Night's Watch full of youthful zeal, inspired by its storied oath. He'd wanted to prove to his family—particularly his beloved brother that he had no designs on the family fortune. But standing here now, on the edge of the Haunted Forest, Waymar couldn't help but regret his decision.

There was no turning back. His oath had been sworn, his words spoken. Even if he fled home now, his family would never welcome him back with open arms.

His only hope was to achieve some kind of success to prove himself a capable leader. Perhaps then he could petition for leave to visit his family without being branded a failure.

Circling the site of the abandoned wildling camp, Waymar's eyes narrowed. After a moment's thought, he made his decision:

"They're not far ahead. Follow their tracks. We're going after them."

Chapter 3

Waymar determined to make a name for himself, had already made up his mind to continue the chase. His three companions, however, were less than thrilled.

Will, a former poacher with excellent tracking skills, soon reported his findings: the group they were pursuing consisted of about ten people—men, women, and children. Most likely, they were a wildling family.

The people of the Seven Kingdoms often regarded wildlings as savage, barbaric monsters, their image so fearsome that Northern parents would invoke them to frighten disobedient children. But the Night's Watch, who dealt with wildlings regularly, knew better. To the men in black, wildlings were essentially rebellious farmers, people who refused to pay taxes or labor for any lord, believing this rejection to be "freedom."

Compared to them, the Night's Watch were professional soldiers, even at their current state of decline, the Watch was still one of the largest standing armies in Westeros.

In this feudal era, noble armies were often hastily assembled when needed. Farmers set down their hoes, picked up weapons, and joined knights and lords in battle, forming armies on an ad hoc basis. But the Night's Watch was different. Their only mission was to guard the Wall, and they were always at war in some capacity. They lived off the resources provided by the Gift and the support of Northern lords, and, even in the best of times, the Watch produced nothing. While the quality of its members was often poor, the Night's Watch trained daily, making them a rare standing force. By the low standards of this world, they could still be considered an "elite."

The Rangers were the combat troops of the Watch, distinct from the stewards and craftsmen who handled logistics. Rangers didn't waste time on chores like cooking or washing clothes. Their lives revolved around training and patrolling. Compared to wildlings armed with wooden clubs and stone axes, people who spent most of their time on sheer survival—rangers were far better trained and equipped. While some wildling warriors were exceptions, most free folk avoided direct confrontation with the Night's Watch unless they held a significant numerical advantage or the element of surprise.

The small group of wildlings that Aegor and his companions pursued certainly didn't seem inclined to fight back.

Initially, the wildlings had been moving west along a path roughly parallel to the Wall. But once they realized they were being followed, they turned north in an attempt to escape. Waymar eager to prove himself, refused to let them go. The chase began: a relentless game of cat and mouse through the snow.

During the day, the rangers pressed forward on horseback, following the trail left behind by their quarry. At night, they huddled beneath thick blankets to rest. Their horses gave them an advantage, allowing them to keep close on the wildlings' trail. Over nine days, the pursuit wound its way north, veering northwest at times, before curving back again. Thanks to clear skies and no snowfall, Will never lost the trail.

By the ninth day, though, doubts began to creep in.

"Nine days, my lord," Gary grumbled.

"Is nine days a long time?" Waymar asked sharply.

"Not long," Gary replied, his tone calm but pointed. "But we only brought enough rations for a dozen days. Even if we stretch them, we might last twenty. And we still need enough to get back. If we keep going much longer..."

Waymar cut him off, a note of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "I heard from Ser Alliser Thorne that last winter, rangers survived outside the Wall for six months on just one month's rations. How do you think they managed it?"

Will and Aegor exchanged awkward glances but said nothing. Waymar's point may have been dramatic, but he'd clearly aimed it at the wrong crowd.

"If you really want to know," Gary said dryly, taking the opportunity to humiliate the young knight, "I can tell you. I was on that mission. When the food ran out, we started with horse meat and dog meat. Then we dug up grass roots, raided rat nests, and hunted anything that moved. When there was nothing left, the commander ordered us to...prepare the bodies of our dead brothers."

Waymar's face paled, but Gary continued relentlessly. "We didn't end up eating them. A storm forced us to retreat to Craster's Keep. That 'helpful' wildling who marries his own daughters let us shelter there, and we barely made it back alive. If you want to try that for yourself, I'll do my best to get everyone home. But just so you know, the Lord Commander warned us never to ask Craster for help with fewer than ten men. And horse meat isn't exactly easy to stomach."

Aegor expected Waymar to lash out in anger at Gary's insubordination, but to his surprise, the young knight remained composed. His face twitched, his pride visibly bruised, but after a few moments, he conceded.

"Fine," Waymar said finally, his voice carefully measured. "We'll call off the pursuit tomorrow. But for today—our last day—we're going to take the initiative. We'll try to capture one or two of them alive. If we succeed, we'll interrogate them and head back. If not, we return anyway."

"Take the initiative?" Will broke his silence, his nervousness plain. "But Lord Benjen only ordered us to investigate the wildlings' movements. He didn't say anything about engaging—"

"And what exactly have we learned after nine days of chasing them?" Waymar interrupted. "Capturing one of them is the fastest way to get answers. Don't you agree, Gary?"

Gary scowled but bit back any retort. As a veteran, he could mock Waymar, but he couldn't openly defy a direct order from his superior, especially one who was both a knight and a noble. "As you wish, my lord," he said reluctantly.

Waymar smirked, clearly enjoying the small victory. "Good. Will, scout ahead and report back. We'll plan our next move based on what you find."

Will shot an exasperated look at Aegor and Gary before mounting his horse and riding off. The remaining three dismounted, finding a spot between the trees to rest.

Aegor climbed onto a snow-covered rock to survey the area. The weather had grown colder with each passing day. They were now hundreds of miles north of the Wall, in territory where the temperature was significantly lower. But it wasn't the chill that unsettled him, it was the presence of Waymar Royce.

It wasn't fear of the man himself. Waymar, while arrogant, wasn't entirely intolerable. He wasn't a true villain; just a pampered young noble trying to prove himself. What worried Aegor was the story Waymar was tied to.

As a traveler from another world, Aegor's memory of A Song of Ice and Fire was frustratingly vague. He had skimmed the series and watched the show without paying close attention to the details. But one thing he remembered clearly: Waymar Royce's death.

Waymar was the first named character to die in both the novels and the show, cut down by the White Walkers in the prologue. His death wasn't just the end of his story, it was the moment that revealed the existence of Westeros's greatest threat and set the stage for everything that followed.

Aegor had no desire to become part of that introduction.

Unfortunately, he had no say in the matter. As a convict sent to the Wall, he couldn't refuse orders or choose his missions. When he learned that Waymar would be leading this patrol, he had dreaded it. But there had been no avoiding it. And so, once again, he found himself venturing into the Haunted Forest, a place named for the ghosts that undoubtedly dwelled within it.

The forest's twisted trees and endless shadows made it easy to believe in ghosts. Aegor remembered his first patrol beyond the Wall, when his mind had been haunted by half-remembered legends and plots. Every dark shadow had seemed like a White Walker lurking in the distance. Every weirwood tree, its face carved in the bark, had made his skin crawl. By the end of the first day, he'd been so terrified that he could barely stand after dismounting his horse.

He had grown used to it since then. This was his eleventh trip beyond the Wall. He had encountered wildlings twice before and had learned to temper his fear of the forest.

But something about Waymar's presence set him on edge. The dense shadows between the trees felt oppressive, as though hiding something far more dangerous than wildlings.

Aegor forced himself to dismiss the thought. Maybe the sense of unease was just his imagination, heightened by his knowledge of Waymar's grim fate. Still, one thing was certain: when they returned to Castle Black, Aegor would do whatever it took to avoid patrolling with Waymar Royce again.

He shook his head and returned to where Gary and Waymar sat. Taking a seat beneath their watchful gazes, he waited silently for Will to return.

The cold wind howled through the trees, and the horses shuffled restlessly, their breath misting in the air. Aegor kept alert, listening for any unusual sounds. Time dragged on, and nearly an hour passed before Will finally rode back into view.

"Hm?" Waymar looked up as the poacher approached, his tone haughty and dismissive. "The savages must have stopped to make camp by now. Did you find them?"

Will dismounted slowly, his face pale and shaken. His eyes darted between the others as he swallowed hard.

"You won't believe this," he stammered. "I don't even know what happened... but the savages—they're all dead."

Chapter 4

"What?"

"What!"

Two voices rang out at the same time, one sharp with disbelief, the other laced with shock.

Waymar shot Aegor a strange look before turning his full attention to Will. "What exactly did you see? Tell me everything, and don't leave out a single detail."

"The camp is about two miles away, over a small snow-covered ridge next to a stream," Will reported, his voice tense. "The fire's burned out, there's only a pile of smoldering embers left. The wildlings are scattered around it, lying in the snow. I counted eight bodies, which lines up with my earlier estimate, but I didn't see any children among them.

"They're... motionless. Not a twitch. Even the one in the tree, it's like they're frozen in place. I crept as close as I could and watched for a while. There's no blood, no signs of a fight... but no living person would lie so still."

"Living people wouldn't let their fire die out either," Gary muttered, his tone grim. "The temperature's been dropping fast these past few days. Maybe they froze to death?"

"Maybe," Will agreed with a shiver. "What do we do now, my lord?"

"If it's cold, wear more clothes," Waymar snapped. "When we left the Wall nine days ago, it was still dripping with meltwater. We've had some frost and light snow since, but it hasn't been cold enough to freeze a group of wildlings to death. And they had warm furs, good shelter from the wind and snow, and a fire to keep them alive. That's not what killed them."

Aegor felt an icy chill creep down his spine as he listened to the exchange. His thoughts raced. How could this be happening?

The situation was too familiar. Even with his patchy memory, the feeling of déjà vu was overwhelming. He knew what this was, the beginning of A Song of Ice and Fire. The ill-fated Waymar Royce leading his patrol straight into an encounter with the White Walkers.

And now, thanks to whatever cosmic joke had placed him in this world, he was here too.

"Now that the wildlings are dead," Gary said uneasily, "maybe we should head back."

"Afraid of a few corpses, Gary?" Waymar sneered. He turned back, a trace of contempt tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Dead people don't scare me," Aegor finally spoke up, his voice steady but urgent. He knew he couldn't stay silent any longer, this was life and death. If Waymar led them to that camp, they would face the White Walkers head-on. And Aegor knew that the four of them wouldn't stand a chance against those ancient monsters. "What I'm afraid of is whatever killed them."

"Just because it killed wildlings doesn't mean it can kill the Night's Watch," Waymar said confidently, though he seemed momentarily taken aback by Aegor's uncharacteristic boldness. "Besides, are you sure they're even dead? Where's your proof?"

"Will may not be a fighter, but he's no liar," Gary said, his voice heavy with doubt. "If he says they're dead, I believe him. We were ordered to investigate the wildlings, and we did. They won't trouble the Wall anymore, so—"

"Do you think the commander won't want to know what killed them?" Waymar interrupted, his tone sharp. "We'll never find out unless we see for ourselves. Mount up and take me there."

Gary's face darkened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might argue. But in the end, he bit back his anger and turned to retrieve his horse.

"I'm not going," Aegor said firmly.

The words hung in the cold air, his defiance startling everyone. But Aegor couldn't afford to back down, not this time. "You can call me a coward if you like, but I'm not going. I've had a bad feeling these past few days, like something's been watching us. Whatever killed those wildlings, it's not something we can handle."

"I feel the same way," Will muttered hesitantly, emboldened by Aegor's stand.

Gary glanced between them, visibly conflicted. He had the seniority to challenge Waymar's decisions, but openly defying an officer's order wasn't something he could do lightly. "It's almost dark," he suggested cautiously. "Maybe we should wait until tomorrow?"

"Afraid of the dark, are you?" Waymar's face twisted with irritation. He wasn't used to being challenged, least of all by three subordinates at once. Their defiance only made him dig his heels in further. "I've made my decision. Get on your horses, we're going now. I won't say it again."

"No," Aegor said again, his voice quieter but no less firm. He turned to Gary, hoping for support from the older man. "I have a strong feeling that if we go there tonight, we'll die."

Gary hesitated, but after a moment, he shook his head. He wasn't willing to defy his superior for Aegor's sake.

Waymar narrowed his eyes, a dangerous glint in them. "I don't believe in your 'feelings,'" he said coldly. "But if you're that scared, fine. You can run back to the Wall, but you'll leave your weapons behind, and you're not taking a horse. If you think you can make it, go ahead. Run."

Aegor stared at him, his throat dry. Waymar's hand was resting on the hilt of his sword now, his meaning clear.

Run, and he'd be branded a deserter. No one would take him in. And even if he somehow made it back to the Wall on foot, he'd be executed for abandoning his post. But if he resisted... Waymar had the training, the bloodline, and the blade. Aegor wouldn't stand a chance against him.

His only option was to go along. Perhaps the small precautions he'd taken before would save his life.

Finally, he sighed and lowered his gaze. "Fine. Let's go."

Waymar smirked, clearly satisfied with his victory. "Good. Get on your horse. You and Will will lead the way. And don't even think about trying anything, I'll be watching you."

The four of them mounted their horses and set off. Will took the lead, with Aegor close behind him.

The snow was treacherous, a soft, thin layer concealing rocks, roots, and hidden puddles that could easily trip a horse. Aegor gripped his reins tightly with one hand, his other hand slipping into his pack. His fingers brushed against the cold, smooth surface of the obsidian dagger he'd spent so much effort acquiring.

Obsidian—also called dragonglass—was known as "frozen fire" in ancient Valyrian.

Back in Aegor's original world, it was nothing special: volcanic glass, commonly found and largely unremarkable. But in this magical realm, obsidian was said to hold unique properties. Legends claimed it could kill White Walkers, though few in the present day believed such stories.

The White Walkers had disappeared thousands of years ago, their existence reduced to myth. The only value obsidian held now was as a low-grade gemstone. Fragile and dark in color, it wasn't particularly desirable, and it fetched low prices on the market.

Still, it wasn't easy to acquire. Despite its lack of rarity, few merchants traded in it. It had taken Aegor months to track down a piece. He'd finally managed to buy a small chunk from an overseas trader at Eastwatch, paying for it with nearly all the allowances he'd earned since joining the Watch.

When he first got the obsidian, it had been a crude, forearm-sized chunk. Over the course of several weeks, he'd painstakingly carved and polished it into a rough dagger, wrapping its base in cloth to serve as a handle.

It wasn't much, but it was the only weapon he had that might give him a chance against the creatures he feared.

He had gone hungry for weeks to afford it, enduring ridicule from the other brothers for wasting his coin. They'd laughed at him then, but now, as he gripped the dagger tightly, Aegor could only hope it had all been worth it.

If this dagger saved his life, then every miserable, hungry night would have been worth the cost.

Everyone dies eventually. Some deaths are weighty, like a mountain. Others are as light as a feather.

Aegor wasn't a coward. He didn't fear death itself. But he refused to die here, in an unnamed forest beyond the Wall, with nothing to mark his grave but snow. To die alone, forgotten, with a name given to him by a group of farmers, killed by creatures the world refused to believe existed?

That was a fate he could never accept.

Chapter 5

Two miles wasn't far, but in the dense woods, progress was slow. Dusk was falling, and in the North, night descended quickly. The cloudless sky deepened into a bruised purple, the stars beginning to dot the heavens, and the moon rising pale and cold. Its light was faint, less than one-tenth of the sun's, but thanks to the snow blanketing the ground, the visibility was good enough.

"It's just ahead," Will whispered to Aegor, nervousness slipping into his voice.

"Be careful. If anything happens, run." Aegor took a deep breath, his chest tight. While Will feared the unknown dangers lurking in the dark, Aegor felt his blood pounding with a mix of dread and resolve. He knew what lay ahead. His body and mind were bracing themselves to face the natural enemy of mankind.

A lone wolf's howl echoed through the woods, distant yet clear.

Will stopped by an ancient ironwood tree, its gnarled trunk half-covered in frost, and dismounted. Aegor followed suit, the cold biting into his face like a blade. The wind whistled through the branches above, and the temperature seemed to plummet even further. Whether it was the presence of the White Walkers or just his own fears heightening his senses, Aegor couldn't tell.

If the story unfolded the way he remembered, the enemy would already be closing in.

"Something's wrong," Gary muttered.

"Really?" Waymar said mockingly. He smiled as if Gary's unease amused him.

"Can't you feel it?" Gary pressed. "Listen to the sounds in the dark."

"The wind, the rustling leaves, and wolves howling," Waymar replied dismissively. "Which of those terrifies you?"

Waymar dismounted, tying his horse to a low branch well away from the others. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, he drew his sword, the metal glinting faintly in the moonlight. "If you're scared, old man, stay here and guard the horses. Aegor, Will—come with me. We'll check the camp."

Gary scowled, clearly insulted, but didn't argue further. Instead, he began rummaging through his saddlebag. "I'll start a fire."

"Are you trying to advertise our position to the whole damn forest?" Waymar sneered. "If there's something out there, do you plan to lure it to us with your fire?"

"Some things fear fire," Gary countered stubbornly, holding up his flint and steel. "Bears. Wolves. And… other things."

Waymar snorted but didn't bother replying, turning his attention back to Will and Aegor. "Let's go."

Will took the lead, moving cautiously through the dense underbrush, with Aegor following close behind. Both men tried to step carefully, avoiding the crunch of snow beneath their boots. Waymar brought up the rear, making no effort to be quiet. His ringmail jingled softly, his boots scraped against the branches, and his cloak snagged on twigs, prompting him to mutter curses under his breath.

Every noise Waymar made sent a jolt through Aegor's already taut nerves. "This idiot." He clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to turn around and silence the knight with a harsh warning. But speaking up would only make things worse, draw even more attention to their position and Aegor had no desire to challenge the arrogant noble when his life might soon depend on Waymar's cooperation.

He had no choice but to move forward, step by agonizing step, trying to ignore the tension coiling tighter in his chest.

By the time they crested the snow-covered ridge, it felt like an eternity had passed. Aegor heard Will gasp beside him.

The camp lay below, bathed in pale moonlight. The embers of a fire still smoldered, a faint wisp of smoke rising into the frigid air. Rocks and tree roots poked out from beneath the snow. A half-frozen stream glittered nearby. But there were no bodies.

The savages Will had seen earlier were gone.

"Gods bless you," Waymar muttered as he joined them. He sliced through a branch that had blocked his path and stepped up beside Aegor and Will, his sword in hand. The wind tugged at his cloak, and the moonlight outlined his figure sharply against the dark woods.

"Get down!" Will hissed, grabbing Aegor's arm and pulling him into a crouch. "Something's not right."

Waymar remained standing, smirking down at the empty clearing. "Will, it seems those dead wildlings of yours decided to get up and leave."

Will's breathing was ragged as he stared at the deserted camp. Aegor's grip tightened on the steel sword in his right hand, while his left hand clutched the obsidian dagger hidden up his sleeve. He scanned the clearing, the slope, and the darkened treeline, his eyes wide and searching. Where are they? Where will they come from?

In the TV show, the White Walker had appeared behind Waymar, taking him by surprise. The details in the book were hazier in his memory. Would it happen the same way now?

"Will, get up," Waymar ordered sharply. "There's no one here, and it's undignified to crouch like that."

Will shot Aegor a nervous glance before rising reluctantly to his feet.

"I'm not going back empty-handed on my first patrol," Waymar declared, his voice filled with stubborn resolve. "We'll climb a tree and look around. If there's a fire nearby, we'll see it."

The final moment was approaching. Aegor's pulse thundered in his ears. He leaned close to Will and whispered, "Watch the dead."

"What?" Will turned, confusion and fear on his face.

"What are you two muttering about?" Waymar snapped irritably. "Hurry up!"

Will hesitated, his gaze darting to Aegor before he turned and trudged toward a towering sentinel tree. He pulled his dagger from his belt, gripped it between his teeth, and began climbing. Snow shook loose from the branches as he ascended, his figure soon swallowed by the shadows.

Aegor stood motionless, every muscle in his body tense, every sense heightened. The silence of the clearing was oppressive.

And then he heard it.

The sound was faint, something shifting in the snow nearby, too quiet to be natural. At first, Aegor thought he might be imagining it. But no, it was real. Something was moving.

He turned sharply, raising his sword, his eyes darting across the darkened forest.

"What's wrong with you tonight?" Waymar muttered. "You're not like the others. You—"

"Shut up," Aegor snapped, his voice low but urgent. "Listen."

"What are you—" Waymar began, but then he froze. His face paled as he heard it too.

"Who's there?" Waymar called, his voice unsteady. For the first time, the arrogance had vanished from his tone. He raised his sword and turned, scanning the shadows. "Will? Do you see anything?"

There was no answer from the poacher in the tree.

The camp lay in a shallow depression, surrounded by slopes on three sides. The wind had stilled completely, leaving the air heavy with silence. The faint noises—soft steps in the snow, the rustling of unseen figures—grew closer. Yet nothing appeared in the moonlight.

Aegor's knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword. Waymar's steel weapon caught the moon's glow, a sharper gleam than the dull standard-issue blades of the Watch. It was a fine weapon, no doubt—but would it matter?

The cold intensified, seeping into Aegor's bones. He gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness. And then—

It emerged.

From the far side of the clearing, a figure stepped into view. At first glance, it looked human, but only barely. It was tall and thin, its skin pale as milk, stretched tight over sharp, bony features. Its armor shimmered as it moved, shifting between black shadow, snow-white, and a deep forest green, as though reflecting the moonlight itself. Its sword, translucent and jagged, looked like a shard of ice.

Aegor spotted it immediately. His breath caught in his throat as the White Walker advanced, its steps slow and deliberate.

Waymar saw it too. He inhaled sharply and stepped forward, raising his sword with both hands. "Who are you? Stop!"

The Walker said nothing. It didn't even seem to hear him. It just kept walking, its dead, ice-blue eyes fixed on Waymar.

The wind had died, leaving only silence and the crushing weight of the cold. Aegor's pulse roared in his ears as adrenaline flooded his veins. His fingers tightened around the obsidian dagger hidden in his sleeve.

One chance. That's all he would get. The dagger was fragile, and he knew it. If Royce could hold the Walker's attention for even a moment, he might be able to strike.

"Since you won't stop," Waymar said, trying to mask his fear with bravado, "let's fight."

He stepped forward, his sword raised, cloak billowing in the windless air.

Aegor swallowed hard and followed, his steel sword ready in one hand, the obsidian dagger in the other. But before he could take another step, the world seemed to tilt beneath him.

Something unexpected happened.

Chapter 6

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.

Chapter 7

The last remaining horse collapsed to the ground. Though still breathing, it could no longer stand.

Aegor looked south toward the faint outline of the Wall and then glanced over his shoulder at the forest behind them. Finally, he sank down onto the snow, utterly spent.

Ten days had passed since that horrifying night, the night they encountered the White Walkers. For ten days and nights, Aegor and Gary had been on the run. In that time, they had slept no more than a few scattered hours. Exhaustion weighed on them like iron chains, their bodies and minds on the brink of collapse. Aegor wanted nothing more than to lie in the snow and let the weariness take him.

But the end was near. The Great Wall loomed only a few leagues to the south. They would make it, they had to make it. By tonight, they would sleep behind the safety of the Wall.

The escape hadn't been easy. Fleeing the White Walkers had been just the beginning of their troubles. Supplies were limited on patrols north of the Wall. Each member of their doomed group had carried part of what they needed. Waymar, the leader, had kept the lightest but most valuable supplies: dried meat and floss. Aegor's horse had carried blankets and spare clothes. Gary's mount had been laden with bread, and Will had brought oats for feeding the horses.

When two horses were lost, the first killed by the White Walkers and the second fleeing into the night. Aegor and Gary had been left with only half their provisions. Food, warmth, and survival were now in short supply. Horses, unlike wild animals, could not live on snow and grass alone. Without oats to sustain them, Gary's horse had faltered first, collapsing from hunger and fatigue after two days.

Aegor's mount had lasted longer, though he suspected that was only because he weighed less than Gary.

The solution had been both brutal and practical: they killed the first horse, butchered it for meat, and split the last of their bread between themselves and the remaining horse. Carrying only the barest essentials—food, weapons, and blankets, they had continued south on foot, leading the horse until it, too, finally gave out.

Now the poor beast lay gasping in the snow, its body trembling as it struggled to rise.

Gary let out a long sigh, his breath misting in the icy air. He unslung his sword and began removing the gear from the horse's back.

Aegor, leaning against a tree and catching his breath, frowned in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"Ending it," Gary replied gruffly, raising his sword.

"What? You're going to kill it?" Aegor's exhaustion momentarily gave way to disbelief. "It's gotten us this far—kept us alive. It's half a day to the Wall. Even if it has to crawl, it might make it!"

Gary snorted and shook his head. "You planning to go back to Castle Black?"

"Where else would we go?" Aegor shot back, irritation flaring. He was too tired for riddles.

Gary stared at him for a long moment before speaking. "I'm heading south. Over the Wall."

"Over the Wall?" Aegor blinked, stunned. "What do you mean? You can't just... bypass the Wall. Commander Mormont would never allow that."

"The Lord Commander doesn't have eyes everywhere." Gary's voice was low but firm. "At the far western end of the Wall, there's a canyon—natural, deep, and wide. The builders of the Wall decided it was secure enough on its own, so they didn't bother extending the fortifications across it. Instead, they built a stone tower on the south side and hung an iron chain bridge across the gap. It's called West Bridge Watch."

Aegor frowned, suspicion creeping in. "And you think it's unguarded?"

"Of course not. The bridge has been sealed for years, and men from the Shadow Tower patrol it to keep the wildlings out. But that's only a problem for a large group. The two of us, traveling light? We can climb down into the canyon, cross the bottom, and scramble up the far side." Gary's expression was grim. "It's dangerous, but we can make it."

"And then what?" Aegor demanded. "Once we're south of the Wall, what's your plan?"

Gary shrugged. "Take it one step at a time."

"Take it one step at a time?" Aegor repeated, incredulous. "We're rangers. If we run, we'll be deserters. You know what happens to deserters!"

"You don't get it, kid," Gary interrupted sharply. "Waymar Royce is dead. He was a noble."

"We didn't kill him," Aegor protested weakly.

"It doesn't matter!" Gary snapped. "In the eyes of the nobles, it might as well be the same thing. A superior officer dies, and the men under him survive? The blame always rolls downhill. It doesn't matter what we say, no one will believe us. White Walkers? They'll laugh in our faces."

Aegor swallowed hard. "What do you think they'll do to us?"

Gary's lips twisted bitterly. "At best? They'll brand us cowards. At worst, they'll decide we're deserters and execute us. The Royce family will want justice for their son. His father's a lord of the Vale, one of the oldest and most powerful families in Westeros. Even the Starks have to show them respect. Do you really think Commander Mormont can protect us if the Royces demand answers?"

Aegor fell silent. He hadn't thought of that. Gary's words rang painfully true.

The Royces were a powerful family, even if their role in the larger politics of Westeros had been minimal lately. Aegor could still recall the battle in the original story when Sansa brought the Vale knights to help Jon Snow reclaim Winterfell. Most of those soldiers had come at the behest of Waymar's father, Yohn Royce. The Royce family commanded respect and power. If they wanted someone to blame for their son's death, two Night's Watch rangers would make easy targets.

Aegor didn't know if Gary was exaggerating. Although he'd been here for nearly a year, he came from a world that championed equality for all. To be honest, he had no idea just how much power and influence nobles wielded in this world. Still, he knew one thing, no matter how much the great houses were manipulated by schemers like Littlefinger and Varys, dealing with a small Night's Watch deserter would be child's play for them.

No wonder the survivors of the original patrol trio had to run.

Now the question was this: in the original story, the survivors of the patrol who crossed the Wall ended up being executed by Eddard Stark. Aegor didn't think that, as a stranger to this world with no allies or sense of direction, he could avoid that fate by tagging along with Gary. Should he return to Castle Black and face judgment, or try to flee south? To put it more simply: should he entrust his fate to the Night's Watch, or take control of it himself?

"Even if the Lord Commander spares us, we'll still be marked men. The next time there's a dangerous, suicidal mission, guess whose names will come up first?" Gary added, voicing another compelling reason to escape. "And don't forget, Benjen Stark will definitely lead men north to find out whether the White Walkers really exist. If they don't chop our heads off, you can bet we'll be dragged along as guides and cannon fodder. I've been on the Wall for forty years. I know these officers. I can predict what kind of shit they're going to pull before they even drop their pants."

Aegor couldn't argue with that. Gary had a point. In the original story, Benjen Stark did indeed lead a search party north to look for Waymar, only to disappear himself. And even if Aegor survived another patrol, he knew what came next: the Lord Commander would lead a full expedition beyond the Wall to find Benjen. Then came the wildling invasion, and after that, the White Walkers besieging the Wall.

What chance did someone like him an ordinary man who'd only just learned to ride a horse and swing a sword stand against all of that? Surviving crisis after crisis wasn't something he could count on.

There was no time to plan for the long term. He had to leave the Night's Watch as soon as possible. If nothing else, fleeing with Gary seemed like the best choice.

It was a shame, though. The horse that had carried him through life-and-death situations, that had survived the White Walkers' swords alongside him, would likely become his food on the road to desertion.

Just as he was about to make up his mind, the horse, which had been lying on the ground in exhaustion, began to grunt uneasily. It struggled to its feet as if sensing Gary's intent to end its life. The old soldier raised his sword, ready to deliver a quick blow, but suddenly froze, his expression shifting.

"What's that sound?" Gary muttered.

"Don't mess with me," Aegor said, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Gary hushed him with a sharp gesture, and the two fell completely still, straining to pick up on the subtle noises in their surroundings.

The whistling wind and the rustling of branches formed the ever-present background hum of the wilderness. Beyond that, there was nothing but their own breathing, their own heartbeats, and the uneven panting of their exhausted horse. But gradually, another sound emerged, soft at first, almost imperceptible, but growing louder and clearer with every second. It was a rhythmic thudding, dull and repetitive.

Hoofbeats.

The sound was unmistakable. Horse hooves striking thin snow. After days of travel, they'd grown familiar with that noise.

But their horse was right here, standing unsteadily beside them. So whose horse could it be?

Was it Waymar's mount, spooked and now returning? Or was it…?

Chapter 8

The sound of hooves grew louder, and soon the visitor's identity was revealed. Emerging from the trees was Will's horse, a creature killed ten days prior, its head split by an ice sword. Now, its stiff, decaying body was coated in icicles, and on its back sat a thin, pale figure.

The White Walker, the one who had pursued Aegor, had reanimated the dead horse into a wight and ascended from an ordinary White Walker to something more terrifying, a White Walker Knight. If not for his poor riding skills, he might have caught up to the two Night's Watchmen sooner, before they reached the shadow of the Wall.

Still, he was satisfied. He had finally caught up.

To the Walker, the two humans in black had demonstrated surprising endurance and determination, particularly the younger one. From his instinctive decision to turn and run at first sight of danger, to his cool judgment when his weapon slipped from his grasp, to his agility in dodging thrown ice swords and his sheer speed, it was clear this human possessed admirable qualities. Soon, though, he too would join the ranks of the dead, a loyal servant to the cold and darkness.

It was two against one, but the White Walker was unfazed. With the overwhelming advantage of strength, weapons, and power, their numbers meant little. The two humans, already physically and mentally drained, were prey in a hunt, not opponents in a fight.

The horse crashed to the ground, kicking and screaming, before staggering upright and stumbling away. Aegor drew his weapon, his gaze fixed coldly on the advancing White Walker. The burn in his lungs forced a hoarse growl from his throat, as if the sound rose not from his voice, but from somewhere deep in his soul. Fear and shock churned within him, but instead of paralyzing him, they fueled an unshakable will to survive. The White Walker had a horse, there was no outrunning this foe. It was kill or be killed.

"This ends here."

"I'll hold him off," Gary said, raising his sword. His voice was rough with determination. "Run, Aegor. Someone has to warn the others—winter is coming."

"No. I'm not running just to die tired while you get cut down," Aegor shot back. He knew Gary couldn't hold this monster off alone. "We fight here, together. Then we escape across the Wall. We'll figure it out from there. Watch his weapon, it'll shatter steel. If he throws it again…"

The Walker didn't wait for him to finish. For a few long, chilling moments, it stared at them with glowing blue eyes, its face blank and emotionless. Then, with a sudden, unnatural lurch, it spurred the dead horse forward.

"Move!"

Aegor and Gary split apart, darting into the trees. The dense forest offered some cover, forcing the White Walker to maneuver awkwardly. The two men circled through the undergrowth, dodging between trunks and branches as the mounted Walker charged again and again, unable to land a strike. Finally, with an enraged shriek, the Walker dismounted, abandoning its horse and advancing on foot.

"Go!" Gary roared, lunging forward.

"Be careful!" Aegor cried out, his heart pounding.

The sword training of the Night's Watch was simple: block, counterattack, strike. It worked well enough against wildlings, who relied more on brute strength than skill. But that kind of combat assumed the weapons could withstand a blow. Against the White Walkers, this basic truth shattered—literally.

The fight erupted in an instant, the ferocity of the confrontation obliterating any preamble. Gary had decades of experience, and his instincts were second nature. When he saw the Walker expose a weakness, he struck with everything he had.

It was a masterful blow, deceptively simple but executed with flawless precision. Gary's timing was perfect, his blade arcing toward the Walker just as it dismounted. It was the kind of strike born from forty years of battle, a culmination of every lesson learned and every fight survived. Even the Sword of the Morning himself would have had to take this attack seriously.

Gary felt it in his gut: this strike would end the battle. If by some miracle the Walker managed to block it, Gary was already ready to withdraw, adjust his stance, and swing again. Aegor would finish it off from behind. This ghostly monster would die, and they'd drag its body back to the Wall. They wouldn't have to live as deserters after all.

But that first, perfect step went horribly wrong.

Gary's sword shattered.

The sword Waymar had brought from home had only lasted a few strikes against a White Walker's ice blade. The standard weapon issued to Night's Watch soldiers was little more than crude steel, barely worthy of the name. Its strength and resilience were laughable compared to finely forged weapons. When Gary's sword clashed with the White Walker's weapon for the first time, it shattered with a loud, ringing crack, splitting cleanly in two, with shards flying in all directions.

In all his fifty years, Gary had never seen anything like it. He froze, momentarily stunned, and in that split second, the White Walker drove its ice blade through him.

"No!" Aegor's bloodshot eyes widened in horror. He was too far, just two meters away but he'd been unable to intervene. Helpless, he could only watch as his companion fell, pierced through by the ice sword. Desperation turned to fury, and he charged at the creature from behind without hesitation.

Aegor didn't have any great fondness or admiration for Gary. How could anyone truly admire a man who had served in the Night's Watch for forty years and remained nothing more than a foot soldier? It was like his own life before, when he'd worked as a site inspector on behalf of the client, visiting construction projects. He hadn't become friends with the older laborers who were still hauling bricks in their sixties, unable to read or write. There was no malice in it, no disdain for their work, it was simply the reality of different lives. With no shared perspective or common interests, how could friendship be expected?

But still… Gary had been his roommate, someone who'd shared the same roof and taken care of him when he first arrived at the Wall. More importantly, at this moment, Gary had been his last ally, his comrade-in-arms against an enemy far beyond their strength. Aegor had been counting on him. He'd had a plan, if he could bait the White Walker into making a mistake, there'd be an opening to drive the obsidian dagger he carried into the creature's body.

If all had gone well, Gary would have been there to help him escape over the Wall afterward.

Now, though, all of it was gone. The plans, the chances, they were all shattered along with Gary's sword. The last human ally he had left was struck down before the fight even began. How was he supposed to stand alone against an enemy with such inhuman power?

"Damn you—die!" Aegor roared, his voice hoarse with rage. Rational thought vanished in an instant, replaced by unfiltered madness. When hope is lost, even the most composed and cautious men will turn reckless. Fear evaporated like mist. There was nothing left to lose. He gripped his sword in his right hand and swung it at the back of the White Walker's head while, in his left, he clenched the obsidian dagger, stabbing with every ounce of strength he had. If there was no way out, he'd fight to the death. If he was going to die here, then he'd make damn sure his enemy paid for it.

The pale figure turned, its icy weapon raised to parry, its face as blank as ever. It regarded this final prey with faint disappointment. The last man it killed had been defeated in the exact same way, and yet this one attacked just as recklessly.

Did this human truly believe such a slow, telegraphed attack, a strike warped by rage and desperation could land? The sword's trajectory was clear as day, predictable enough for him to counter a dozen different ways. And the dagger in the other hand? A pitiful gesture.

The White Walker's expression twisted faintly in disdain. Its form was held together by magic; it had no weak points. A strike to the head or stomach might create some inconvenience, but even if it stood still and allowed the human to attack, it would suffer no harm.

The creature's ice sword flashed. With effortless precision, it parried Aegor's strike, shattering his blade just as it had shattered Gary's. In the opening that followed, the Walker's weapon swept across Aegor's body in a cold, final arc.

Chapter 9

The ice sword struck the human, but it didn't produce the smooth sensation of slicing through flesh as expected. Instead, with a sharp crack, it shattered into countless fragments. At the same time, the White Walker felt something warm in its lower chest. A small, burning-hot object pierced through its ice armor and embedded itself in its abdomen, where it radiated an unbearable heat, like fire consuming its very soul.

What's happening?

Even against the finest steel in the world, there shouldn't have been so much as a crack. And as for whatever had pierced its body… A creature born in the land of eternal winter, sustained by endless magic, shouldn't feel pain. Boiling lava wouldn't even scald its flesh—unless...

The magic holding its form together began to unravel, scattering like dust in the wind. The White Walker could no longer think. It dropped the remains of its ice sword, clutching at its abdomen in a futile attempt to stop the magic leaking from the wound. Frosty blue blood sprayed from the gash, hissing as it met the air and pooling around the obsidian dagger lodged in its flesh. It reached for the blade with skeletal, pale hands, but the moment its fingers touched the obsidian, smoke curled from its fingertips, and its flesh began to dissolve. Unable to remove the weapon or stop the destruction, the White Walker let out an agonized, furious scream before falling to its knees, motionless.

Aegor collapsed into the snow, his body trembling as he stared blankly at the shrinking remains of the White Walker. The first to disintegrate was the armor, a strange material now crumbling to dust. Then the pale flesh underneath began to rot and dissolve, turning sticky and grotesque, like a snowman melting in the sun. Within seconds, all that remained was a milky, glass-like skeleton, clear and polished as carved crystal. It shimmered faintly, but even this evidence of the creature's existence slowly melted, leaving nothing behind but the obsidian dagger.

The dagger lay in the snow, encased in frost, its surface so cold that the surrounding air condensed into vapor. Aegor watched as the dark blade turned pure white, blending almost seamlessly with the snow around it. It would be nearly invisible to anyone who wasn't looking closely.

It wasn't until half a minute later that Aegor realized, to his shock, that he was still alive.

His sword hand throbbed painfully, his fingers numb and bleeding from cracked knuckles. The sheer force of the White Walker's blow had been overwhelming; even if his steel sword hadn't shattered, his grip would never have held. Tentatively, he touched his shoulder with his other hand, feeling where the icy blade had struck. The fur of his coat was sliced clean through, but the clothing beneath was intact. There was no gaping wound, no blood.

His thoughts swirled in confusion before relief crashed over him like a wave. He was alive.

In the moment of that desperate, final clash, he'd expected to die alongside the White Walker. By all accounts, the icy sword and his obsidian dagger should have struck at the same time. Given the force behind the White Walker's blow, it should have cleaved his entire upper body apart. But somehow, somehow, his dagger had found its mark a fraction of a second earlier, maybe just a hair's breadth faster.

That tiny lead was the difference between life and death. The moment the obsidian pierced the White Walker, its magic failed. Its sword was no longer a weapon of supernatural power; it was nothing more than brittle ice. When it struck Aegor, it shattered into pieces, like a frozen puddle underfoot.

Had he been just a moment slower, he'd be dead, cut clean in two. If the White Walker had noticed the dagger and fought more cautiously, Aegor wouldn't have stood a chance. But none of that mattered now. He'd won. By sheer luck, coincidence, and his enemy's overconfidence, he'd survived.

The realization of how close he'd come to death finally sank in. Aegor shuddered uncontrollably, fear spreading through his chest like ice water. His legs felt weak and twitching, and for a moment, he feared he wouldn't be able to stand. If he hadn't emptied his bowels earlier, he suspected he would've pissed himself right there.

A faint groan broke the silence.

Aegor froze, then twisted to look. Gary, his fallen comradewas moving. Another faint, guttural sound followed. Aegor's heart leapt in surprise, and he crawled forward to retrieve the frost-covered obsidian dagger, along with the half-shattered steel sword. These would be enough to deal with any more wights that might still linger.

"Gary," he called out cautiously. The question on the tip of his tongue—Are you dead? sounded absurd, so he rephrased: "Are you still alive?"

Another faint groan came from the older man. Aegor couldn't make out the words, but there was enough sound and effort behind them to give him hope. He let out a long, shaky breath and sank back into the snow.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, his mind began to clear. He remembered the lore: when Jon Snow had killed a White Walker, all the wights it had raised instantly collapsed into lifeless corpses. If the same rule applied here, then this White Walker's victims wouldn't rise again.

Aegor turned his head and saw confirmation of his theory: the wight horse that the White Walker had ridden was now nothing more than a lifeless carcass sprawled in the snow. Its collapse must have happened at the exact moment the dagger struck its master, though Aegor had been too preoccupied with survival to notice.

Summoning what little strength he had left, Aegor forced himself to his feet. His instincts told him there wouldn't be any more White Walkers nearby, but he knew better than to trust instinct alone. He needed to get out of here fast. With the broken sword in one hand and the obsidian dagger in the other, he carefully approached Gary.

Gary's face was pale, his lips tinged blue from the cold, but his eyes were open, and there was still life in them.

"C-Cold…" Gary's voice was faint and broken.

Aegor scanned the area quickly. His own horse had bolted, but Gary's supplies had been left behind when they'd prepared to kill the animal earlier. Blankets, clothing, and other gear were scattered nearby. Moving quickly, Aegor pieced together a makeshift bed to keep the man warm.

After examining Gary's wound, Aegor was relieved to find it wasn't as dire as he'd feared. The White Walker's sword had cut deep, but the blow had missed any vital organs. The wound itself was small, and the freezing cold had slowed the bleeding, causing the blood to coagulate into thick clumps. However, the frostbite spreading from the wound was another problem entirely. The freezing magic that lingered on the White Walker's weapon had preserved Gary's life for now, but it would make recovery far more difficult.

Aegor glanced up at the distant silhouette of the Wall. Its gray-blue outline loomed faintly on the horizon.

Chapter 10

"So, you brought back two broken swords to prove that you and Gary weren't deserters, but heroes who killed White Walkers?" Commander Mormont stared at Aegor with a grave expression, scrutinizing him as though searching for signs of deceit.

Aegor took a deep breath and replied calmly, "I wouldn't dare call myself a hero. The truth is, I fled the battlefield ten days ago. I failed to save Ser Waymar Royce, and I didn't bring back his body. But I thought it was more important to return to the Wall with the warning about their existence than to die fighting the White Walkers in vain."

"Obsidian can indeed kill White Walkers. That much is recorded in many old legends," said Maester Aemon, his blind eyes turned toward the obsidian dagger Aegor had handed over. Despite his lack of sight, he ran his fingers along its crude edges, clearly intrigued. "If I recall correctly, you're not from Westeros. You've only recently begun learning the Common Tongue. How is it that you know these legends so well?"

"There are similar tales in my homeland," Aegor said. "Back then, I thought they were just myths. But when I came here. when I saw the Wall with my own eyes. I started to understand."

The wight horses ridden by the White Walkers still had bags of oats tied to their saddles. After killing the Walkers, Aegor had found his own terrified horse a few hundred meters away. Feeding it the oats, he rested briefly before placing the gravely injured Gary on its back and leading it southward to the Wall.

Now, Aegor sat in a warm meeting room by the fire, facing the leaders of the Night's Watch for the first time. Over the year since being conscripted into their ranks, he'd tried everything to draw the attention of these high-ranking men. Finally, he had succeeded, but as a suspected deserter.

"Maester Aemon, you're a learned man," Aegor said, his tone steady but firm. "You should know this: when legends from entirely different places tell of the same event, it often means the story is based on truth. White Walkers are real, and they've returned."

The old man nodded slightly. Though he couldn't confirm what had happened north of the Wall, at least the latter part of Aegor's statement made sense.

"Hmph." Alliser Thorne's cold sneer broke the silence. "To me, it sounds like he wounded himself to avoid punishment, found a way to break those swords, and cooked up a convenient tale to make it look like he'd fought a great battle. This one was lazy during training, always cutting corners. And now we're supposed to believe he killed a White Walker? If such creatures even exist."

Aegor didn't respond immediately. He knew Thorne wasn't singling him out unfairly. Back in his former life, Aegor had also worked as a material testing engineer—a desk job. While he wasn't completely helpless, his pampered life had made him softer than even some of the noble-born recruits, let alone the low-born men conscripted into the Night's Watch. When he first arrived at the Wall, the rigorous training had been a brutal adjustment, and his occasional slacking had left a poor impression on Thorne.

That said, Thorne's own bitterness ran deep. A Targaryen loyalist forced to take the black after the dynasty fell, he was a cynical, humorless man who delighted in berating others. Few in the Night's Watch could tolerate his condescending tone. Even if Aegor had thrown himself into the training with full effort, it was unlikely Thorne would ever think well of him.

"Ser Alliser," Aegor said after a moment, keeping his voice level. "Have you seen many broken swords in your time?"

"More fine swords than you'll ever lay eyes on," Thorne replied curtly.

"Then take a look at the broken ends of the swords I brought back," Aegor said, his tone sharpening slightly. Thorne might be his superior, but Aegor was now a Ranger, and his fate wouldn't be decided by the man's disdain alone. "Night's Watch swords are forged from steel. Steel is strong and flexible, not brittle, like glass or ice. No matter how much force is applied or how quickly a blade is broken, the fractured ends will always deform. But that isn't the case with these swords."

He gestured toward the fragments he'd laid before them. "I brought back every piece on purpose. If you reassemble them, you'll see the edges fit perfectly, almost seamlessly. Except for a few minor gaps, it's like the blades were never broken at all."

Commander Mormont frowned and leaned forward, piecing the fragments together as Aegor instructed. Sure enough, aside from a few tiny chips along the edges, the swords looked whole again—straight, sharp, and nearly flawless.

"How could this happen?" the Commander murmured, clearly unsettled.

Aegor hesitated. He understood the science behind the phenomenon: low temperatures weaken the bonds between metal atoms, increasing brittleness. But there was no way to explain such concepts to these men, none of whom had ever studied physics. And in this world, full of magic and mysteries beyond reason, who could say what rules truly applied?

"Legends say White Walkers use ice magic," Aegor explained, choosing his words carefully. "Maybe their sorcery froze the steel, causing it to crack. I don't know the exact reason. But I swear, no matter who you ask or what tests you run, you won't find a way to replicate this. Lord Commander, take these swords to the blacksmiths of Castle Black. If any of them can break a steel blade in the same way, then you're free to call me a liar and a deserter."

Donal Noye, the one-armed blacksmith of Castle Black, a man with a storied past. Once a private blacksmith and soldier in service to House Baratheon, he had joined the Night's Watch after losing an arm during the Siege of Storm's End. Before that, he had followed Stannis Baratheon across the Seven Kingdoms, eaten the finest food, bedded women from all corners of Westeros, and fought in countless battles. It was said that the warhammer Robert Baratheon used to kill Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident was forged by his hands. In the original story, Donal Noye would later sacrifice his life in the tunnels under the Wall, battling the giant king Mag the Mighty during the wildling assault on Castle Black. Truly, he was a legendary figure.

Compared to a man like that, Aegor had little to his name. Other than the fact that he had just killed a White Walker, there was nothing worth praising about his past. However, before he found himself in this world, he had worked as a material testing engineer. Right next to his office had been an array of metal performance testing machines, including impact testers. When it came to forging iron, he couldn't hold a candle to Donal Noye. But in terms of theoretical knowledge about metal properties, no blacksmith in this world, no matter how skilled, could rival him.

To make a steel sword brittle enough to break like those he brought back, the temperature would have to drop to at least -200 degrees Celsius. Even in the modern world Aegor had left behind, achieving such conditions required highly specialized and expensive equipment. Medieval blacksmiths could easily reach temperatures of 200 or even 2,000 degrees but below zero? That was beyond their capabilities. It would be easier to capture a White Walker and force it to demonstrate its ice magic firsthand.

Aegor's calm expression and confident tone had a visible effect on the Night's Watch officers seated behind the long table. These men, most of whom came from noble backgrounds, seemed to sense that Aegor was no ordinary soldier from some forgotten corner of the realm. He carried himself with an air of knowledge and conviction, one that even the so-called "nobility" could not shake.

"I've sent someone to examine Gary's wound," Maester Aemon finally broke the silence. "It's strange. The wound was made by a sharp weapon, but it shows clear signs of severe frostbite. Yet the frostbite is contained to a very small area, both inside and around the wound itself. It took several men half a day to remove all the necrotic tissue. I don't know if Donal could break a steel sword in the way you described, but I know that I could not create a wound like this."

Among the senior officers present, Maester Aemon was the first to openly express his belief in Aegor's account. Aegor remained composed, though relief swept over him. No matter the time or place, it was always easier to reason with learned and insightful individuals. His life, it seemed, had a chance of being spared.

Commander Mormont turned his attention to the chief ranger seated silently beside him. "Benjen, this man is under your command. What do you think?"

Benjen Stark, the leader of the rangers and the only Stark in the Night's Watch, raised his head. Thin but sharp-eyed, he had been quietly studying the evidence Aegor had brought back. Now, called upon by the Lord Commander, it was time for him to speak.

"We are the Night's Watch," Benjen began, his voice steady. "We guard the northernmost reaches of the kingdom. Yet when it comes to the vast unknown lands beyond the Wall, we know little more than the southerners do." His expression darkened slightly. "I've never seen a White Walker myself, but I would not dare claim that they don't exist. Seeing is believing. In a few days, I will personally lead an elite patrol north to investigate the claims made by Ser Aegor. But for now..."

Aegor held his breath as Benjen paused, awaiting his judgment.

"The most pressing matter at hand is to inform Waymar Royce's family of his disappearance and provide them with an explanation," Benjen continued. "As for Aegor, he will be placed in solitary confinement for the time being. When I patrol north, he will lead the way. Whether or not his words are true, he will have the chance to prove them with his actions."

As expected, Gary had been right, Aegor would end up leading the way.

Two brothers escorted him out of the meeting room, his mind already racing with thoughts of what lay ahead. Just before the door closed behind him, he caught the tail end of a conversation between Maester Aemon and Benjen Stark.

"Before you lead a patrol north, there is something else that requires your attention," Aemon said. "The raven brought word—Jon Arryn is dead, and the king is on his way north. Lord Eddard has requested that you return to Winterfell to meet him."