Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader

Chapter 15

He stumbles back, his legs giving way beneath him, his sword slipping from his grasp to clatter against the frozen ground. The warmth of his life seeps from the gaping wound, steaming in the frigid air as the coldness of the dagger's bite takes hold. His eyes widen with shock, the warmth of disbelief briefly overpowering the coldness of his rage. "Night King..." he groans, "Help me..."

The battlefield holds its breath, the coldness of anticipation thick in the air. The living and the dead, both spectators to this dance of fire and ice, wait for my command. The warmth of Arya's triumph is a shift in the balance that resonates through the very fabric of the world. "Night King!" Aegon shouted in anger as he stands on his knees. "That was not the plan!"

I look down at him, my gaze unflinching. "The plan was to bring balance," I reply, my voice as cold as the very ice that forms the foundation of my power. "Your greed has brought us to this impasse."

Aegon's eyes flicker with understanding, the warmth of his anger dimming as the coldness of death's embrace wraps around him. His hand reaches out to me, the warmth of his blood staining the snow beneath him. "Please," he begs, the warmth of his voice now a feeble whisper. "I will serve you. Together, we can conquer the living."

"Yes, you will serve me," I said coldly as I gently grabbed his hand and went down on one knee to be closer to him "as one of my dead warriors. "I finished as my other hand softly rested on his cheek. "You can let go now, Aegon. Death is Peace."

The warmth of his breath stilled, his eyes glazed over as the coldness of the grave claimed him. His body slumped down, the warmth of his lifeblood staining my icy touch. I felt the faintest twinge of something I hadn't felt in millennia, sorrow. Yet, it was not for Aegon, but for the lost potential of our alliance.

Arya knelt down before her severed hand, the warmth of her grief stark against the coldness of the surrounding snow. She picked it up, the crimson blood a bitter contrast to the pale skin, a symbol of her sacrifice. The warmth of her pain, a poignant reminder of the price of power. "My hand..." she stuttered as she looked at it in shock.

Unmoved by the sight, I loomed over her, the coldness of my gaze unwavering. "A small price for victory," I said coldly, my voice a bitter reminder of the world she had stepped into. The warmth of her anger, the fire of her spirit, it was something I had not seen in ages. It was... intoxicating.

The living forces watched in horror and amazement, their warmth of hope now a mix of fear and awe. They had seen their champion rise from the jaws of defeat, but at what cost? The warmth of their cheers was muted by the coldness of reality that had just unfolded before them. The balance had shifted, but the scales remained unsteady.