The Arrival of the Apostles
The icy winds howled through the endless tundra beyond the Wall, a land untouched by the warmth of men. The sky above churned with a pale, eerie glow, casting ghostly shadows over the frozen wasteland.
At the heart of this frozen abyss lay the Night King's chamber—a fortress of black ice, towering like a monument to death itself. Its jagged spires clawed at the sky, and beneath them, an army of the dead lay in waiting.
The three Apostles stepped forward, their long black robes fluttering in the wind. Their eyes glowed with unnatural power, their bodies humming with dark energy. They came not as allies, but as conquerors.
"Night King!" one of them called out, their voice a distorted echo against the icy cliffs.
From the shadows, a presence stirred.
The Night King sat upon a throne of frozen bones, his ice-blue eyes locking onto the intruders. Four of his generals stood beside him, their skeletal armor gleaming under the pale light.
The Apostles did not bow.
"We seek your power, creature." The lead Apostle took a step forward, his voice filled with venom. "The Wild Hunt has no need for you. Serve us, or perish."
The Night King did not move.
A stillness settled in the air.
Then, with a flick of his hand, the battle began.
The Battle of Ice and Shadow
The dead surged forward, their weapons glistening with frost. The Apostles unleashed their dark magic, twisting the very air around them into storms of black lightning and crimson flame.
The White Walkers shattered upon impact, their icy bodies crumbling into dust.
The Apostles moved like shadows, teleporting across the battlefield, striking down dozens of wights with effortless precision.
One of the Apostles raised his hands, summoning a swirling vortex of dark energy—it expanded outward, ripping the undead apart limb from limb.
The Night King remained still. Watching. Waiting.
The four generals of the Night King descended upon the Apostles, their swords coated in frost magic.
A brutal duel erupted—
The first general met an Apostle in combat, but the Apostle was faster. He dodged, twisted, and plunged his blackened dagger into the Walker's skull. The White Walker screamed before shattering into ice.
The second Apostle was not as lucky.
A general grabbed him by the throat, ice creeping over his skin. He struggled, clawing at the creature's arm, but the frost consumed him from the inside out. His screams were muffled by the ice.
His body froze solid—
Then shattered into a thousand pieces.
Two Apostles remained.
They turned toward the Night King, their fury ignited.
"You will pay for that."
They attacked together—one from the left, the other from above. Dark tendrils lashed out, aiming for the Night King's chest.
But he caught them mid-air with a single gesture.
The cold was unbearable.
With a wave of his hand, he threw them both back, crashing into the frozen ground.
The Apostles gasped in shock.
The Night King stepped forward, his breath turning the air to ice. He raised his hand—
And the fallen Apostle's corpse twitched.
Then rose.
The remaining Apostles stumbled back.
Their fallen comrade's eyes were now glowing blue. His voice was hollow, cold, his soul utterly consumed.
He had become the Night King's new general.
"We must leave." One of the remaining Apostles snarled. "NOW!"
They vanished in an instant, their magic twisting reality itself.
The War Was Changing
The Night King sat upon his throne once more, his new Apostle-General kneeling before him.
The war between fire and ice had begun.
Far to the south, the remaining two Apostles arrived at their camp. They were injured, furious.
"The Night King is more powerful than we expected."
The others turned to them.
One of the Apostles smirked. "It does not matter. We have what we need."
He motioned toward a large cage at the center of their camp.
Inside, Daenerys Targaryen lay unconscious, her silver hair spilling over the cold ground.
"We have the blood of the Dragon."