Face The Darkness | GoT x Night King Reader

Chapter 20

But before the blade could fall, a wall of cold, lifeless bodies materialized between us, their decayed limbs moving with an eerie precision. My own undead soldiers had stepped forth, shielding her from my icy gaze. The warmth of shock and confusion filled the chamber, replacing the coldness that had once reigned supreme. Their cold, vacant stares bore into me, a silent challenge that seemed to echo the warmth of Arya's words.

The warmth of doubt began to creep into my cold heart. Had they turned against me? Or did they merely wish to protect the one who had offered them the warmth of purpose once more? The room was a tableau of ice and fire, the living and the dead caught in a stalemate, each side unsure of the other's true intent. "Get out of my way." I ordered sternly.

The undead didn't move, their cold eyes never leaving mine. The warmth of their newfound resolve was unmistakable, a wall of unyielding ice standing between Arya and the coldness of my blade. The warmth of her hope had touched them in a way my coldness never could. They had tasted the warmth of a world beyond the endless night and would not be easily swayed from her side.

With a roar of fury that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle, I struck down the first of them, the warmth of their lifeblood spattering against the cold stone. Yet, instead of retreating, the rest of the undead surged forward, their cold hands reaching for me, their icy breath a chilling rebuke. The warmth of Arya's influence had turned them against their own master.

I fought with a ferocity that had not been seen since the Long Night, my blade moving in a blur as it cleaved through the cold flesh of the dead. Yet, for every one I sent back to the icy abyss from which they had come, two more took their place, their eyes filled with the warmth of rebellion. They were no longer mindless drones, but soldiers with a purpose, and that purpose was to protect her.

Arya's laughter echoed through the castle halls, a warm taunt that pierced the cold armor around my heart. She was the warmth that threatened to melt the very core of my being, the spark that had rekindled a fire long extinguished. "You see," she called out, her voice a warm breeze that carried the scent of victory, "even in death, they choose life."

The living forces watched from the sidelines, their warmth a mocking contrast to the coldness that had once defined my existence. They jeered and cheered as I hacked away at my own creation, the irony of their jubilation not lost on me. Yet, the warmth of their spite only fueled my rage, my blade moving with a ferocity that belied the coldness of my touch.

The undead fell before me like leaves in a storm, their lifeless eyes filled with a warmth that burned with a fierce rebellious glow. Each one that fell sent a shiver of coldness through me, a reminder that the balance I had sought was slipping from my grasp. Yet, the warmth of anger pushed me forward, a force as potent as the fire that had once consumed the world.

The living watched from the sidelines, their warm bodies casting taunts like fiery embers. They threw stones at me, their warm, mocking laughter echoing through the cold halls. The warmth of their spite stung more than their crude projectiles, each one a reminder of the world that had abandoned me to the cold embrace of the Long Night.

The undead surged around me, their cold, lifeless eyes aglow with the warmth of rebellion. They had turned against their own master, driven by the fiery hope that Arya had offered them. The castle walls reverberated with the clang of steel on bone, the sound a grim symphony of the battle between the coldness of my reign and the warmth of the living's determination to survive.

With a snarl of anger, I slowly began to retreat, slicing through the sea of decay that reached out for me. Each step backward was a concession, a retreat from the very fortress I had sought to claim as my own. The warmth of their betrayal burned like a brand against the coldness of my soul, fueling a fury that had not been felt in millennia. Yet, even as I fought, a sliver of doubt began to creep in, a warmth that whispered of the possibility that I had been wrong in my quest for endless winter.

Once outside of the castle, the cold winds of the north greeted me like a slap to the face, a reminder of the world that awaited beyond the warmth of the walls. The sky was a canvas of swirling blues and purples, the warmth of the sun a distant memory lost to the encroaching cold. And there, my dragon Viserion, the last bastion of warmth in this frigid land, landed heavily behind me, his wings casting a brief shadow over the battlefield.

"Rise," I commanded, my voice carrying the weight of a thousand winters. With a powerful beat of his wings, Viserion lifted into the air, his icy breath visible in the chilly atmosphere. The living watched in awe, the warmth of their fear palpable as the creature of myth and legend took to the skies once more.

The dragon's eyes, once cold and lifeless, now burned with the warmth of Arya's defiance. His roar shook the very earth, a declaration of war against the coldness that had once been his master. The undead paused, their cold limbs stilled for a brief moment in the face of the fiery beast that had been their doom. "Punish them!" I ordered.