Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader

Chapter 8

The battle that follows is as fierce as the storm that brews above us. The living, driven by fear and valor, charge forth to protect the wall, their weapons shimmering with the light of the breaking dawn. My undead legion, an unstoppable force of bone and ice, meets them with unyielding fury. The clang of steel and the crunch of bone fill the air as the two sides collide with the ferocity of a thousand battles.

The living fight with the strength of the desperate, their screams and war cries a cacophony that pierces the icy silence of the night. Yet, for each one that falls to my wights, two more rise in their place, their warmth a fleeting spark in the ever-expanding sea of cold. The wall is stained with the crimson of their blood, a stark reminder of the futility of their resistance.

The battle rages on, a tapestry of chaos and brutality that stretches for leagues. The living are numerous, but their warmth is no match for the relentless tide of the undead. Limbs are torn from bodies, the cries of the dying muffled by the crunch of shattering bone and the hiss of freezing flesh. The air is thick with the scent of iron and despair, a potent mix that only serves to fuel my power.

And yet, amidst the carnage, the archers on the Wall stand as silent sentinels, their eyes narrowed with grim determination. Their arrows, tipped with the fiery essence of dragonglass, fly like a shower of meteors, each one a beacon of hope in the face of my endless night. With each twang of a bowstring, a wight falls, its icy form shattering into a thousand crystalline shards. The archers are a thorn in my side, a persistent reminder of the strategic advantage of the Living.

I turn to my most loyal steed, my ice dragon Viserion, and with a silent command, he unleashes a torrent of frosty breath. The archers, bathed in the icy gale, are swept from the ramparts like leaves before a gale. Their fiery projectiles fall harmlessly to the ground, the warmth of their volatile tips extinguished by the cold. The dragon's power, a weapon forged by the very essence of the Night, leaves no trace of the archers, only a frigid silence that echoes through the battlements. The Wall, once a bastion of fiery defiance, is now a bastion of frozen dread.

Yet, even as the cold claims victory, the skies above us darken further. Two dragons, the beasts of the living, descend like furies from the heavens, their scales gleaming with the light of the rising sun. The warmth of their fiery breath is a hot contrast to the frigid air that we breathe. The roar of their approach sends a tremor through the earth, a challenge to my dominion over the skies. The dragonriders, clad in the colors of the houses that have united against me, look down upon us with the confidence of the living, their eyes filled with the warmth of life and the promise of fire.

Viserion, my undead steed, snarls in the face of the incoming heat, his eyes a swirl of blue ice. He knows the danger these beasts pose, the living fire that can melt the very fabric of his existence. The dragons, both ridden by fierce warriors, unleash a torrent of flames upon my dragon, their fiery breaths a reminder of the world that I have lost. The battle in the skies is a dance of fire and ice, a clash of two worlds that mirrors the one below.