Ignoring the girl's pain-filled glare, I turned my gaze towards the distant horizon. "We should go to your throne," I spoke, my words a cold wind that cut through the tension. The Iron Throne was our prize, a symbol of the power that could restore the balance of the realms.
The warmth of anger flared in Arya's eyes, but she bit her tongue, her breath misting in the frigid air. The battlefield around us remained eerily still, the living and the dead locked in a silent truce, as if waiting for our next move. She sheathed her dagger, her trembling hand leaving a smear of crimson on the gleaming metal, a stark reminder of her humanity amidst the cold indifference of our world. "Alright, let's go then."
The journey to the Iron Throne was a silent march, our footsteps echoing through the snow-covered lands like a funeral procession. The coldness of the world around us mixed with the warmth of her resentment, which I felt with an unexpected curiosity. She walked with a newfound resolve, the stump of her arm wrapped in a makeshift bandage, a crimson testament to her defiance.
As we approached the castle gates, the warmth of anticipation grew among the living. The Night King and the girl with the fiery spirit, united by blood and fate, brought hope to those who had long ago forgotten the warmth of victory. The castle loomed ahead, its stones stark against the darkening sky, a bastion of warmth in the eternal winter. The Iron Throne, a monstrosity of swords, gleamed with a cold light, the crown atop it seeming almost inviting.
The castle's corridors were lined with the silent sentinels of the dead, their cold, empty eyes watching us pass. Their coldness fought against the warmth that radiated from Arya, a beacon that pierced through the shadows of doubt that had once been my only companions. We walked in silence, the warmth of her anger a comforting presence amidst the coldness of the undead.
Finally, we reached the throne room. The warm light of torches flickered off the gleaming steel of the Iron Throne, casting eerie shadows across the floor. The warmth of anticipation in the air was palpable, a hot contrast to the coldness of the dead that filled the space. Arya paused, her eyes locking onto the throne, the warmth of her determination was bright. "Take it." I demanded as I gave her a soft pat on her shoulder, "It is rightfully yours." I added.
Her gaze met mine, the warmth of her defiance warming the coldness of the room. Slowly, she stepped up to the throne, the warmth of her breath the only sound in the stillness. She reached out, her trembling hand a fiery testament to the life she refused to give up so easily. Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the crown, the warmth of her touch a promise of change in a world of eternal winter.
Arya's hand closed around the crown, the warmth of her flesh gripping around the icy metal. As she lifted it from its resting place, the room seemed to hold its breath, the warm light of the torches reflecting off the gold, as if the very air was watching her every move. The weight of it was substantial, the warmth of its power a seductive whisper against her palm.
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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
