Chapter 101: The First White Walker Falls
The battlefield had changed.
Only minutes ago, Frost Station Seven had stood alone against an endless tide of death.
Now?
Five thousand soldiers of Winter's Heaven surged across the snow-covered plains like a black storm.
Valyrian steel flashed beneath the blizzard.
Dragon glass arrows filled the sky.
The dead that had once surrounded Frost Station Seven were now being pushed backward.
Not because the dead had weakened.
Because Winter's Heaven had arrived.
---
Commander Harl dropped to one knee.
Blood covered his armor.
His body screamed from exhaustion.
Around him, the surviving defenders of Frost Station Seven finally allowed themselves a moment to breathe.
They had done it.
They had held.
For hours.
Long enough.
The giant Othar leaned heavily upon his mace, blood running from dozens of wounds.
The surviving direwolf collapsed into the snow beside him.
Alive.
Barely.
But alive.
Harl looked south.
Thousands of soldiers continued pouring across the battlefield.
Train whistles still echoed faintly through the storm.
More reinforcements.
More supplies.
More warriors.
Winter's Heaven had answered.
---
Far ahead, Tormund stood at the center of the advancing army.
His Valyrian steel katana dripped black blood.
Every swing tore through multiple wights.
Every step pushed the dead backward.
Around him, soldiers fought with terrifying efficiency.
Breathing techniques.
Valyrian steel.
Years of training.
Everything Jon had built was now being tested.
And it was working.
---
Then the battlefield grew colder.
Instantly.
The temperature dropped.
Frost spread across weapons.
Snow swirled unnaturally.
The soldiers nearest the front line immediately felt it.
Many turned.
Searching.
Looking.
Then they saw it.
A White Walker.
Standing atop a snowy ridge overlooking the battlefield.
Motionless.
Watching.
Its blue eyes glowed through the storm.
The dead immediately shifted.
Parting.
Making way.
The creature stepped forward.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The battlefield itself seemed to react to its presence.
---
Tormund stopped walking.
His eyes narrowed.
Finally.
The bastard showed himself.
Around him, nearby soldiers instinctively created space.
Not out of fear.
Out of understanding.
This fight belonged to their commander.
---
The White Walker continued approaching.
Twenty meters.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Then it stopped.
A long spear of ice slowly formed within its hand.
Sharp.
Deadly.
Beautiful.
The same weapon that had slaughtered countless warriors across centuries.
The same weapon that had shattered ordinary steel swords with ease.
---
For several seconds neither moved.
Snow fell.
Dead fought.
Men died.
Yet within that small circle, silence seemed to exist.
Only the two warriors mattered.
---
Then the White Walker attacked.
The spear exploded forward.
Fast.
Inhumanly fast.
A blur of ice aimed directly at Tormund's throat.
CLANG!
The sound echoed across the battlefield.
Tormund's katana intercepted the strike perfectly.
The White Walker froze.
Its glowing eyes widened.
The blade hadn't shattered.
Not even cracked.
Impossible.
For centuries, ordinary steel had failed.
Every sword.
Every axe.
Every spear.
Broken.
Destroyed.
Worthless.
Yet this dark blade remained intact.
---
Valyrian steel.
The White Walker understood immediately.
Its gaze shifted.
Another soldier nearby carried a similar blade.
Then another.
Then another.
Everywhere.
Thousands.
Not heirlooms.
Not treasures.
Weapons.
Mass-produced weapons.
The realization struck harder than any sword.
An entire army equipped specifically to kill them.
---
The White Walker attacked again.
Faster.
Harder.
A storm of spear thrusts exploded toward Tormund.
One.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
The icy weapon became a blur.
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
Steel and ice collided repeatedly.
Snow exploded around them.
The ground cracked beneath their feet.
Every impact carried monstrous force.
Yet Tormund blocked every strike.
His movements remained calm.
Controlled.
Years of training.
Years of battle.
Years following Jon Snow.
--
the White Walker pressed harder.
The spear darted toward Tormund's eye.
His heart.
His throat.
His stomach.
Each strike capable of killing ordinary men instantly.
Yet Tormund simply laughed.
A deep, savage laugh.
"That's it?"
The White Walker attacked again.
Tormund inhaled.
Deep.
Slow.
Controlled.
Beast Breathing.
Steam escaped his mouth.
His muscles tightened.
The snow beneath his boots cracked.
Power surged through his body.
His heartbeat accelerated.
The world sharpened.
Every movement became clearer.
Every opening visible.
Every weakness exposed.
---
The White Walker thrust again.
This time Tormund moved.
Not backward.
Forward.
Directly into danger.
The spear missed by inches.
Tormund's katana descended.
BOOM!
The impact shook the battlefield.
The White Walker barely managed to block.
Even so, the creature was launched backward several meters through the snow.
The ridge cracked beneath its feet.
---
The soldiers nearby stared.
Even the dead seemed momentarily frozen.
The White Walker rose immediately.
Its expression unchanged.
But its movements had become sharper.
More cautious.
The creature finally understood.
This human was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
---
The White Walker formed another ice spear.
Then another.
Both weapons appeared instantly.
It hurled one.
Then charged behind the second.
A deadly combination.
Designed to overwhelm.
Designed to kill.
---
Tormund grinned.
Finally.
A real fight.
He swung.
The first spear shattered instantly.
Ice exploded through the air.
Then the White Walker arrived.
Its remaining weapon aimed directly at his chest.
---
Beast Breathing.
Second Fang.
Mountain Crusher.
---
Tormund's katana descended like a falling avalanche.
CRACK!
The ice spear exploded apart.
Fragments scattered across the battlefield.
The White Walker's eyes widened.
For the first time.
Fear.
Real fear.
---
The creature immediately jumped backward.
Trying to create distance.
Trying to recover.
Trying to think.
Too late.
---
Tormund moved.
The snow exploded beneath his feet.
The distance vanished instantly.
The White Walker attempted to create another weapon.
Not fast enough.
---
Beast Breathing.
Third Fang.
Savage Pursuit.
---
Tormund became a blur.
The White Walker barely raised its arm.
A desperate defense.
A desperate attempt to survive.
---
The katana flashed.
One perfect strike.
Clean.
Precise.
Absolute.
---
Silence.
The battlefield froze.
The White Walker stopped moving.
Its glowing blue eyes locked onto Tormund.
Almost confused.
Almost disbelieving.
Then cracks appeared.
Thin blue fractures spread across its body.
Across its face.
Across its chest.
Across its arms.
---
The White Walker shattered.
Thousands of ice fragments exploded outward.
Its body collapsed into frozen dust.
Gone.
Completely gone.
---
For one heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
Across the battlefield—
Thousands of wights collapsed.
Entire sections of the undead army simply fell.
Like puppets whose strings had been cut.
Bodies dropped into the snow.
Motionless.
Dead once more.
The effect spread across the battlefield.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
More.
The army of the dead suddenly lost an enormous portion of its strength.
---
The soldiers stared.
Then realization struck.
A White Walker had died.
One of their commanders had fallen.
---
Cheers erupted instantly.
"TORMUND!"
"TORMUND!"
"TORMUND!"
The battlefield thundered with victory.
Morale exploded.
The soldiers surged forward with renewed fury.
The dead began losing ground rapidly.
---
Tormund stood in the center of the battlefield.
Breathing heavily.
Katana resting upon his shoulder.
Snow drifted around him.
The remains of the White Walker slowly disappeared into the wind.
---
Far away.
Upon two distant ridges.
Two other White Walkers watched silently.
Neither moved.
Neither attacked.
They had witnessed everything.
The breathing techniques.
The Valyrian steel.
The giant.
The discipline.
The army.
And now—
The death of one of their own.
---
For the first time since entering Winter's Heaven's territory...
The White Walkers looked uncertain.
Not afraid.
Not yet.
But no longer confident.
Because they finally understood the truth.
They were not fighting wildlings.
They were not fighting Westeros.
They were fighting Winter's Heaven.
And the war had only just begun.
--------------------------
Author's Note:
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