Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader

Chapter 12

I nodded, my gaze unwavering. "But it is not just the throne that I seek," I explain. "It is balance. The realms of the living and the dead are out of balance. The Long Night was meant to come, to reset the cycle, but the living have stolen it from me, prolonging the agony of the world. Your fire can help restore that balance, if you are willing."

The girl's expression is a storm of emotion. "How can I trust you?" she asks, her voice shaking with cold and doubt.

"You do not have to," I reply, the coldness in my words an icy contrast to the warmth of her spirit. "But consider this: your kind has forgotten the true nature of the world, of the endless dance between life and death. The Iron Throne is but a symbol of the power that once balanced the realms. With it, we can bring peace to the living and final rest to the dead." I paused, taking a look at the battle around us, all the fallen figures from both sides bring a small smile on my face before I continued, "Tell your people to stop the fight so you and Aegon can have a duel for the throne. Whoever takes it, shall be granted the rule over this land."

Arya stared at me, her breathing ragged, the warmth of her body fading as the cold of the night tightened its grip. "I will beat Aegon just so you can kill me right after the duel?" she asked, her voice a whisper of doubt against the cacophony of war.

I felt a twinge, a flicker of something that I hadn't felt in centuries. It was a strange warmth, a recollection of a time when words meant more than just strategies and commands. "No," I said, the ice in my voice cracking slightly. "You will fight him to live. To prove that your fire is the one that can melt the iron, and to show that you are worthy of the throne. If you win I will grant you my help."

Arya's eyes searched mine, the warmth of doubt slowly giving way to a spark of hope. "And if I don't?" she whispered, her breath frosting in the air.

"Then you will die," I reply, the coldness of my voice unyielding. "Right now, the living fight the dead, the warmth of your world devouring the cold of mine, until the balance is lost and all is consumed by the flames of dragons. We can restore the balance, make the fighting stop. It is your choice, Arya. The fate of the realm rests in your trembling hands."

The girl looks around, the warmth of the battle's fury a deadly contrast to the cold that emanates from my words. The living forces fight with desperation, their hearts aflame with the warmth of life. The dead march in endless rows, an unfeeling tide that consumes all in its path. Yet, amidst the chaos, there is something else, something that transcends the boundaries of warmth and cold, life and death. It is the bond of kinship, the shared blood of the Targaryens.