Chapter 8

Two miles wasn’t far, but moving through the dense forest made their progress slow. The twilight deepened, and the northern night descended quickly. The cloudless sky darkened to a deep bruised purple, with stars and the moon gradually appearing. While their light was faint compared to the sun, the snow reflected it enough to provide passable visibility.

“It’s just ahead,” Will whispered to Aegor, his voice betraying a hint of unease.

“Stay sharp. If anything happens, run,” Aegor said, taking a deep breath. Unlike Will, who feared the unknown lurking in the darkness, Aegor, knowing full well what awaited, felt his blood boiling. Both his body and mind understood that he needed to prepare to face humanity’s ancient enemies.

A wolf howled in the distance.

Will stopped his horse beside a gnarled weirwood tree, its bark covered in lumps. Aegor did the same. The cold wind whistled through the trees, and Aegor felt the temperature drop. Whether it was his imagination or the chilling presence of the Others, he couldn’t say.

If the story was following its original course, they were already surrounded.

“Something’s off,” Gary murmured.

“Is that so?” Royce sneered dismissively.

“Can’t you feel it?” Gary pressed, his tone heavy with concern. “Listen to the sounds in the dark.”

“Wind. Rustling leaves. Wolves howling. Which of those has you trembling?” Royce dismounted gracefully, tied his horse to a low branch far from the others, and drew his longsword. “If you’re scared, stay here and watch the horses. Aegor, Will—come with me to check on those corpses.”

Gary frowned, but instead of arguing, he reached for his tools. “I’ll start a fire.”

“Old man, don’t be stupid. If there’s an enemy in these woods, do you want to light a beacon to guide them straight to us?”

“Fire frightens some things,” Gary replied, holding his flint. “Bears, direwolves... and other things.”

“I said no fire.”

...

Aegor watched their exchange with a frown, wondering if they could avoid the Others entirely if everyone simply kept quiet. But he had no way to make them stop arguing. He opened his mouth to speak but ultimately held back. Instead, he tightened his grip on the obsidian dagger hidden in his sleeve.

Gary glared at Royce for a long moment before finally lowering his head and relenting. Royce, satisfied, nodded and turned to Will and Aegor. “Let’s go.”

Will advanced cautiously, constantly glancing around as he led Aegor through the dense underbrush and up a gentle slope. Both moved with care, trying to avoid making any noise. Royce, however, followed loudly behind them, with no attempt at stealth. His movements were anything but subtle—his armor clanked, his cloak snagged on branches, and he cursed every time his sword or fine clothing got caught.

Each noise Royce made sent Aegor’s heart racing. This fool, he thought angrily. Royce, who had insisted on silence earlier, now seemed incapable of following his own advice. Aegor briefly entertained the idea of pointing his sword at the knight and ordering him to shut up, but he knew it would only escalate things.

He had no choice but to grit his teeth and press on.

The hundred paces felt like a hundred miles, but finally, Aegor and Will reached the top of the snow-covered hill. Aegor’s heightened state of awareness made him acutely aware of the sharp intake of breath from Will beside him.

The clearing below was bathed in pale moonlight, illuminating the remnants of the wildling camp. The fire was reduced to smoldering embers, white smoke curling lazily into the cold air. Snow-covered rocks, a half-frozen stream—everything looked normal, except for one glaring anomaly: the bodies Will had reported were nowhere to be seen.

“Gods above!” Ser Waymar Royce emerged from the brush, hacking away at a low-hanging branch with his sword. He reached the hilltop and stood beside the two rangers, his sword drawn, his fine cloak flapping in the wind. The moonlight highlighted his noble features, lending him a majestic air.

“Damn it! Get down!” Will yanked Aegor into a crouch. “Something’s wrong.”

Royce remained standing, surveying the empty clearing with a smug smile. “Will, it seems your dead wildlings decided to move.”

Will said nothing, his breathing uneven as he stared at the deserted camp below. Aegor, meanwhile, felt an icy dread seep into his bones. He tightened his grip on his sword with one hand and the obsidian dagger with the other, his eyes straining to catch any sign of the Others. He remembered how, in the show, the White Walker had appeared behind Royce out of nowhere. The book’s description was long forgotten. Where will they come from this time?

“Will, get up,” Royce commanded. “There’s no one here. Stop cowering like a child.”

Will hesitated, glancing nervously at Aegor before reluctantly rising to his feet.

“I won’t return from my first patrol empty-handed,” Royce declared, scanning the surrounding area. “Climb a tree and look for any sign of fire. Move quickly.”

The final moment was near. Aegor steadied his breathing and leaned in to whisper to Will, “Watch out for the dead.”

“What?” Will froze, confused.

“What are you whispering about? Get on with it!” Royce barked.

Will shot Aegor a bewildered look before reluctantly heading toward a tall sentinel tree. Knife in his teeth, he began to climb, his movements sending small clumps of snow tumbling to the ground. Soon, he disappeared into the foliage, leaving Aegor and Royce alone in the empty camp.

Aegor’s nerves were stretched to their breaking point. Every muscle in his body was tense, every sense heightened. He understood why people described intense listening as “pricking up one’s ears.” If he could, he would have physically raised his ears to their limits.

And then he heard it—a faint sound in the trees.

Something was moving among the forest shadows, the crunch of snow and the rustle of leaves barely audible. The thin layer of snow on the ground muffled most of the noise, making it hard to tell if the sound was real or imagined.

Aegor scanned the woods, raising his sword into a defensive position.

“What’s gotten into you?” Royce frowned. “I’ve noticed you’re not like those thieves and rapists we usually get, but—”

“Shut up!” Aegor snapped, his sense of impending doom overriding all considerations of rank. “Listen!”

“Listen to what? Just the—” Royce began, but his words faltered as his expression changed. “Who’s there?” For the first time, doubt crept into his voice. “Will, do you see anything?”

The poacher in the tree didn’t respond. Whether it was fear, the cold, or the knife in his mouth, Aegor couldn’t say.

The wildling camp was situated in a depression, surrounded on three sides by slopes. While the frigid air and faint sounds unsettled the two men below, the darkness of the moonlit night obscured their vision. Royce raised his sword, a finely crafted weapon that gleamed in the faint light. Unlike Aegor’s standard issue, Royce’s sword was a noble heirloom, far superior in craftsmanship.

The rustling of leaves, the babbling of the stream, and the distant hoot of a snow owl were drowned out as the source of their fear finally revealed itself. The maker of the sound stepped forward—a White Walker emerged from behind a snow-covered slope, its skeletal form gliding silently into view.

Aegor spotted it first. The figure was tall and gaunt, its milk-white skin stretched over its bones like parchment. Its armor shimmered with an otherworldly hue, shifting between snowy white, shadowy black, and the muted greens of the forest as it moved. Every step it took sent shivers down Aegor’s spine.

Royce followed Aegor’s gaze and froze. He inhaled sharply, raising his sword toward the intruder. “Who goes there? Stand fast!”

The knight’s voice carried none of the arrogance it had held earlier. Instead, he seemed to be drawing courage from the act of shouting, his trembling hands betraying his fear. The wind died down, the air turned deathly cold, and Aegor felt his own hands begin to shake—not purely from fear, but from the surge of adrenaline that coursed through him. His blood felt like it was boiling as the White Walker approached, silent and deliberate, holding a translucent blade that shimmered like glass.

Aegor knew the truth—Valyrian steel and dragonglass could kill a White Walker, but only the former could parry their weapons without shattering. And Valyrian steel was something Aegor could never afford, even in the smallest quantity.

The obsidian dagger in his hand was fragile. He had one chance. If he missed, he was as good as dead. His only hope lay in Royce’s ability to buy him a moment of opportunity.

“Since you won’t stop,” Royce declared, stepping forward with forced bravado, “let’s see what you’ve got!”

Aegor gripped his sword in one hand and the dagger in the other, steeling himself to follow Royce into battle. But just as he took his first step, his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

Something unexpected had appeared.