Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader

Chapter 11

Arya's hand moves with surprising speed, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of her Valyrian steel dagger. The blade glints in the light of the rising sun, the warmth of the metal a hot contrast to the chilling grip of the ice that surrounds her. She struggles to her feet, her body trembling with cold and resolve.

"I am not afraid of you," she says, her voice a fiery declaration in the face of the endless winter.

I smile, a cold and mirthless expression. "Fear is for the living," I reply, watching as she stumbles forward, her limbs stiff with cold. "But perhaps, you are not entirely of the living anymore."

The battle rages on around us, a blur of fire and ice, steel and shadow. Yet, in this moment, all is still as I await her charge, the warmth of her defiance a tantalizing mirage in the frozen wasteland that has become my world.

And then she moves, a fiery comet hurtling towards me, her dagger a beacon of hope in a realm of despair. She screams, the sound a warm, human cry that pierces the icy silence of my existence. Her eyes, those pools of fiery determination, lock onto me as she raises her weapon.

The blade, a sliver of warmth in a world of cold, plunges towards my chest, aimed at the heart that has not beaten in a millennia. I stand unflinching, my gaze never leaving hers, watching the warmth of life drain from her features as the cold embraces her. The dagger strikes, the impact resonating through my frozen frame. She stepped back after realizing her attack did absolutely nothing, "W-what? That's... That's impossible!"

Her shock is a fleeting warmth that dissipates into the air as she stumbles, her strength waning. The cold is relentless, seeping into her very soul, and yet she does not break. The fire in her eyes flickers, not with fear, but with something else, something that has been lost to me for so long. It is the warmth of hope, the stubborn ember that refuses to be snuffed out.

I looked down at the dagger, the warmth of her touch lingering on the hilt. It is a weapon of the living, forged to combat the very essence of the Night. Yet, it does not shatter against my icy form. Instead, it remains lodged, a testament to the resilience of the warmth that she carries.

"Your weapon cannot harm me," I tell her, the coldness in my voice a strong contrast to the warmth in her eyes. "But your spirit, Arya Targaryen, that is something I can feel."

The girl's eyes widen, the realization of her ineffectual strike sinking in. Yet, she does not falter, the warmth of her determination unwavering. "What do you want from me?" she demands, her teeth chattering.

"I want what is rightfully yours," I reply, the words echoing through the frozen air. "The Iron Throne."

Arya's eyes narrow, the warmth of her spirit burning brighter amidst the cold. "You expect me to help you take the throne?" she asks incredulously. "You even admitted that it's rightfully mine just now!"