Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader

Chapter 1

In the heart of the eternal winter, where the cold whispers secrets that chill the very bones, I stand, a solitary figure cloaked in the night itself. My eyes, two pools of icy blue, gaze out upon the frozen wasteland that stretches as far as the eye can see. The air is still, the world holding its breath, as if it knows the fate that is soon to unfold.

The whispers of the dead are my lullaby, their cold breaths echoing through the ancient halls of the Nightfort. Their spirits are restless, yearning for the warmth of life that I shall soon bring them. They are my army, the legions of the fallen that march beneath my command. I am the Night King, and I shall not be denied.

I feel a shiver run down my spine, not from the cold that has become as much a part of me as my own breath, but from the power that stirs within me. The Wall looms in the distance, a monument to the folly of mankind. It is a barrier that has held for centuries, but now it trembles at the approach of my undying horde. The dragonglass that once pierced the hearts of the first men is now sharpened into weapons for the end of times.

The scouts return, their frostbitten faces etched with fear. They bring news of the living, the ones who still dare to claim this world as their own. The Houses of Westeros have united, a flickering candle in the encroaching dark. Their fires burn bright with hope, but hope is a flimsy shield against the storm that is to come. They speak of dragons, of fire that breathes, and a girl with the blood of the dragon in her veins. A smile tugs at the corner of my icy visage. A new toy to play with.

The time has come to march south, to lay waste to the lands that were once ours. The roar of the undead is the symphony of the night, a cacophony of bone and sinew, a reminder of the power I wield. They follow me without question, a sea of cold steel and frozen rage. Each step we take sends tremors through the earth, the very ground aware of the inevitable fate that approaches.

My dragon, Viserion, soars above us, his scales shimmering like an icy aurora in the moonlit sky. His breath is a blast of icy wind that cuts through the air, a harbinger of the cold fury we bring. He is a creature of beauty and destruction, a tool to be used in the great game that is about to unfold. The living are but ants beneath my gaze, their petty squabbles and wars a mere distraction from the true enemy that stalks the shadows of their dreams.

As we march, I feel the warmth of the dragon's breath on the nape of my neck, a strong contrast to the cold that emanates from the rest of my form. It is a power that I crave, a power that I intend to use to reshape this world in my image. The living are weak, clinging to their fires and their false gods, but the night is endless, and so is my patience.