Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader

Chapter 5

He looks up at me, his eyes filled with terror, yet something else, something akin to determination. "Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible above the din of battle. "I do not wish to die."

The word strikes me like a hammer, reverberating through the hollow chambers of my frozen heart. "Die?" I murmur, the concept feeling foreign on my lips. I have not considered the fate of the individuals I have been fighting for so long, only the warmth they will bring to my eternal kingdom.

I lower my weapon, the icy blade glinting in the moon's pale light. The boy's eyes widen in disbelief, his breath a misty cloud in the frigid air. "You wish to live?" I ask, the very thought of it strange and alien to my mind.

The squire nods, his teeth chattering from the cold and fear. "I-I have a mother," he stammers. "A sister. I want to see them again."

His words cut through me like a warm knife through butter. Empathy, a feeling long forgotten, stirs within the ice of my soul. The memory of my own mother, her gentle touch, her warm embrace, floods my thoughts. I look down upon the trembling boy and see not just a soldier, but a son. A spark of something warm and human ignites within me, a flicker of the man I once was.

"Your mother," I murmur, my voice a frosty whisper. "Your sister. They await you in the warmth of the south. But the South will soon fall to endless night, my boy. It's just how the world works. "

The squire's eyes, brimming with hope and desperation, bore into mine. "Please," he begs, "Let me go. Let me warn them, bring them to safety."

I am torn. The living are but moments in the endless night, yet here is one who clings to life with the tenacity of a weed in a frozen wasteland. "Flee," I command, my voice a whisper that cuts through the roar of the battle. "Tell them of the Night King's mercy."

The boy's eyes widen in disbelief, and with a stumble, he turns and runs, disappearing into the swirling snowstorm. The wight before me, awaiting its command to kill, pauses, sensing a shift in the air. I gesture for it to let the boy pass, and it complies, its movements stiff and unyielding. The warmth in the squire's eyes lingers, a stark contrast to the cold that fuels my march.

As the battle came to an end, the whispers of the dead around me grow louder. One of them, a creature that was once a proud lord, approaches me with a question that echoes through the icy air. "Why did you spare the boy?" His voice is a hollow rasp, a testament to the life that was stolen from him.

I looked at the retreating figure of the squire, the warmth of his life fading into the distance. "To understand the enemy," I reply, my own voice as cold as the very air we breathe. Yet, deep within the recesses of my frozen heart, the seed planted by the Three-Eyed Raven grows. The warmth of his plea lingers, a stark reminder of the world that once was.

The creature before me, a twisted parody of the man he once was, cocks his head to the side, a glimmer of confusion in his lifeless eyes. "But they are not our enemy," he croaks, his voice a testament to the countless lives he has taken in my name. "They are food for the crows, fuel for our march."

"No," I reply, the cold wind carrying my words across the battlefield. "They are the last vestiges of the world that was. The warmth that once thrived before the Long Night fell."

The creature, a mere echo of its former self, does not understand. "But you are the Night King," it insists. "You bring the final peace to this world of chaos and suffering."

I stare at the lifeless eyes that once held the warmth of humanity. "Peace..." I repeated, the word feeling alien on my lips. "We will grant them peace, but we have fought enough for today, you shall return and rest, I need some time to think."

The creature nods, a jerky motion devoid of understanding, but obeying nonetheless. As the Army of the Dead retreats into the shadows of the forest, I remain, the warmth of the battle fading away, leaving me once more in the cold embrace of the eternal night. The whispers of the past grow louder, the warmth of the squire's words a beacon in the dark. The balance the Three-Eyed Raven spoke of, could it be that I have been the instrument of destruction, not of balance?