Their blades clash, the sound echoing through the battlefield, a warmth that pierces the cold silence of the dead. Steel meets steel, sparks flying in the air, a fiery dance in the heart of winter. Aegon is strong, a force of living warmth that I had not anticipated. He presses his attack, the blade a fiery arc that demands submission.
Arya, however, is a tempest of defiance, her movements swift and precise. The warmth of her breath fogs the air as she parries and counters, her dagger a sliver of hope that darts through the shadows. The living watch in rapt silence, their breaths held as the siblings battle for the fate of the realm, their swords singing a grim melody of steel and ice.
The duel is a whirlwind of warmth and cold, each strike a testament to the unyielding will of the Targaryens. Aegon's blade, a fiery extension of his desire, clashes against Arya's icy dagger, a tool of her relentless determination. The ground beneath them churns with the power of their blows, the snow staining red with their shared bloodline.
"You think you're a dragon?" Aegon sneers, his breath hot with rage. "You're nothing but a worm, a fleeting spark in the eternal winter." His swings become more wild, more vicious, each one fueled by the warmth of his contempt.
Arya, undeterred, meets his blade with a cold precision, her eyes never leaving his. Each parry is a silent rebuke, each counter a declaration of her own power. The warmth of her breath mingles with the frosty air, a testament to her enduring spirit. Her dagger, a whisper of hope amidst the carnage, finds its way through Aegon's defenses, leaving a trail of red in its wake.
Aegon snaps, the warmth of his anger boiling over. He slaps her across the face, the force of his hand leaving a stark red mark against the alabaster skin. The blow sends her staggering back, the warmth of pain and humiliation briefly extinguishing the fire in her eyes. Yet, she does not fall. Instead, she straightens, the warmth of her determination rekindling into a roaring blaze.
With a fiery scream, Arya charges, her dagger a blur of motion as she slices through the air. Aegon parries with ease, the warm steel of his sword clanging against the cold Valyrian steel. His counterstroke is swift and brutal, his sword catching hers and sending it flying from her grasp. The dagger spirals through the cold air, a silent scream of rejection, landing in the snow with a muffled thud.
Aegon presses his advantage, his sword a fiery arc that sings with the warmth of his victory. Arya stumbles back, the coldness of fear and pain gripping her as the reality of her vulnerability sets in. Her hand reaches out, desperate to grasp the warmth of the weapon that was once her lifeline. But it is too far, a lost hope in the sea of snow.
With a roar of triumph, Aegon raises his sword for the final blow, the warmth of his breath misting in the frigid air. The living watch in horror, their warmth of hope waning as the coldness of despair takes hold. Yet, amidst the chaos, the girl does not falter. The warmth of her spirit burns brighter, a beacon in the night.
In a flash of fiery defiance, Arya's hand darts to her belt, where a second Valyrian dagger, a twin to the one that lies buried in the snow, awaits her grasp. Her hand, slick with blood, closes around the hilt with the tenacity of a drowning man grasping for air. The blade, a symbol of the warmth of the living, glitters with a cold light as she pulls it free.
Aegon's eyes widen with shock, the warmth of his victory turning to ice in his veins. His sword arcs downward, a fiery plume of intent aimed at ending her challenge. Yet, Arya's movement is swift, fueled by the warmth of her desperation. Her dagger darts upward, a silent promise of vengeance against the coldness of fate.
The steel of his sword meets the warmth of her flesh, the impact sending a jolt of coldness through her body. The blade slices through, a clean, cruel line that separates her hand from her arm. The warmth of her life spurts forth, painting the snow a vibrant crimson, a hot contrast to the coldness of the world around her. Her scream, a fiery wail of agony, pierces the air, a poignant reminder of the cost of hope.
Aegon laughs, the sound a warm, mocking echo in the frigid air. "Is that all you have, worm?" he asks, his voice dripping with contempt. His sword, now stained with the warmth of her blood, points at her, the very symbol of his triumph.
Arya, her body a canvas of pain and determination, does not answer with words. Instead, she reaches up with her remaining hand, the warmth of her grip surprisingly firm around the hilt of her third dagger. With a guttural roar that defies the cold, she pulls it from her belt, her arm a fiery arc of defiance.
Aegon's laughter dies in his throat, the warmth of his triumph freezing into horror. The blade, a silent shout of rebellion, plunges into his chest, the warmth of her blood mingling with the coldness of the steel. Arya's eyes, now burning with the fire of a thousand suns, lock onto his as the blade sinks deeper, a warmth that pierces the coldness of his soul.
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Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader
Fanfiction"Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night." Game of Thrones x Night King Reader
