The throne, a symbol of power and warmth that I have not felt for so long, calls to me. The promise of balance, a concept so alien to the eternal night that I have embraced, stirs something within me that has been buried under the frost of time. For a moment, I am torn between the cold comfort of the known and the warmth of a possibility that seems as fleeting as a shooting star in the midnight sky.
"How do you intend to claim this throne?" I ask Aegon, the question hanging in the air as thick as the frost that coats the trees around us. His eyes never leave mine, the fire within them flickering with the passion of a thousand suns.
"With your power," he says, his voice steady and unwavering. "You control the dead, and with them, we can lay waste to the armies of the usurpers. With your might and my birthright, we shall unite the realms once more."
I consider his proposal, the warmth of his words seeping through the cold shell of my being. The Iron Throne, a seat of power that had been the catalyst for so much bloodshed and pain. Yet, in the hands of a true king, one who understood the price of peace, could it not be a bastion of hope? The whispers of the Three-Eyed Raven echo through my mind, a gentle nudge towards a path unexplored.
"The throne," I murmur, the ice cracking around my heart. "But what of the others who claim it?"
"They are mere players in the game," Aegon says dismissively. "Puppets dancing on strings pulled by the dead and the living. Their wars are meaningless. Together, we can end this cycle of death and rebirth, of power and destruction. The Iron Throne will be ours, not for conquest, but for peace."
The warmth of his vision is seductive, the promise of an end to the endless cold that has been my existence for so long. Yet, the whispers of the dead remind me of the countless lives I have taken, the warmth I have extinguished in the pursuit of my own dominion. The balance he speaks of, is it truly within my power to restore?
"The Iron Throne," I murmur, the very words feeling like a warm ember in my frigid lungs. "It has brought nothing but pain to the realms. This pain shall end when you claim it."
Aegon nods, a determined glint in his eye. "With your help, we shall usher in a new era of peace. Gather the Undead, we will march to the throne "
The whispers of the dead grow silent, the chilling wind the only sound in the forest. The weight of the decision is a pressure that feels as if it could shatter the very ice that sustains me. Yet, the warmth within me, the flicker of hope that Aegon's words have kindled, refuses to be extinguished.
"We march together," I declare, the sound of my voice resonating through the trees. The shadows of the dead stir, sensing a shift in the air, a glimmer of something other than the cold command to destroy.
Aegon nods, the fiery hope in his eyes unwavering. "We shall," he says, extending his hand. I hesitate, my icy grip feeling alien against the warmth of his flesh. A single touch, a bridge between worlds of fire and ice.
We turn as one, our eyes on the horizon where the Wall looms, a bastion of the living world. The whispers of the dead swell into a crescendo, their anticipation palpable. Yet, it is not hunger for warmth that drives me now, but a glimmer of understanding, a shared goal with this unexpected ally.
The march to the Wall is swift, our steps echoing through the silent night. The living are asleep, their fearful dreams haunted by the icy grip of the nightmare that approaches. I can feel the tremors of their fear, a delicious morsel that I dare not indulge. The warmth inside me has grown, a beacon that guides my steps towards a destiny unforeseen.
As we near the colossal barricade, the first light of dawn breaks the horizon, painting the sky a fiery red. The living have gathered, their forces a burning contrast to the monochrome of my undying legion. The sight of their banners, fluttering in the cold breeze, stirs something deep within me, a memory of a world once vibrant with color.
Aegon Targaryen, the rightful heir to the throne, stands tall on the back of his steed, his silver hair being stroked by the cold wind. He looks to me, his eyes alight with the warmth of hope. "The time has come," he says, his voice carrying the weight of destiny.
The Army of the Dead halts at my command, the clanking of their bones and armor a macabre symphony that sends a shiver down the spines of the living. The defenders of the Wall watch us in silent terror, their torches flickering like candles in the face of an oncoming storm.
The gate before us, the last bastion of the living, is a reminder of the divide between our realms. I look at Aegon, his fiery resolve tempered by the gravity of the task ahead. "When we breach this Wall," I say, my voice a cold wind through the night, "the real battle begins. Are you prepared to face those who stand in your way?"
He nods, the light in his eyes a reflection of the fiery heart of his ancestors. "I am ready," he declares, raising his hand to the sky. "For the sake of the realm, and for the balance of life and death, I will claim what is mine."
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Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader
Fiksi Penggemar"Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night." Game of Thrones x Night King Reader
