Chapter 244 — Lightbringer
[There is a legend of Azor Ahai, a hero chosen to stand against the endless night.
To forge a weapon capable of challenging the darkness, he labored without rest for thirty days and thirty nights, only for the blade to shatter when tempered in water. Undeterred, he began again.
Fifty days and fifty nights—this time the sword was stronger, finer—yet it still broke when he tried to temper it in the heart of a lion. Only on the third attempt did he finally understand.
With a heavy heart, he forged the blade for a hundred days and nights, then drove the burning sword into the chest of his own wife. Her cry—of agony and ecstasy—was said to crack the moon itself, and her blood, her soul, her strength, and her courage all flowed into the blade.
Thus was born Lightbringer—the sword meant to end the darkness.]
To Lance, the story had always been ridiculous.
Saving the world by sacrificing the one you loved?
Building a hero's glory upon the corpse of someone dear?
"What kind of bullshit legend is that…?"
And yet—
Just as his will teetered on the brink of collapse, a searing warmth exploded in his palm, as though he had grasped a newborn sun.
His eyes snapped open.
The pale greatsword in his hand was no longer what it had been. It burned with impossible radiance. Ancient runes shimmered across its surface, forming and dissolving like stars igniting and dying along the blade. The light forced back the suffocating darkness, turning the foul seawater into molten gold.
At the hilt, three intertwined flames spiraled together—white, gold-red, and deep blue—like king, queen, and knight. Their bloodlines, their wills, had fused through brutal sacrifice into the final forging.
Lance fell silent.
There was no divine hymn.
No blessing from the heavens.
Only a mad king's dying will—
And a mad woman's final sacrifice.
There was no body beside him.
Yet he could feel her.
Rhaella Targaryen.
Her pride.
Her obsession.
All of it now burned within the blade.
He lifted a hand and brushed his eyes.
Warmth.
A tear slipped free.
The last time he had cried… was on Dragonstone, holding a cold corpse.
"You Targaryens…"
His voice was hoarse, thick with something between anger and grief.
"You're all fucking insane."
"One stubborn to death… and one so mad she'd throw her life away."
"You two really were a perfect match."
A dragon's scream tore through the darkness.
Lance's head snapped up.
Beyond a jagged reef, the sea of monsters had already swallowed Rhaego. They crawled over the dragon's massive body, tearing and devouring. The dragon thrashed violently, wings beating, flames pouring from its jaws—but it was like throwing water into an endless tide. The swarm did not stop.
The hesitation in Lance's eyes vanished.
His grip tightened.
He raised the sword—Lightbringer—before his chest.
It ignited.
Not flames cast outward—
But the blade itself burning.
The heat was overwhelming.
Within a hundred meters, damp sand hissed into steam. Lesser creatures didn't even have time to scream before they dried, cracked, and turned to ash.
Within the blazing light, something flickered.
A figure.
Rhaella Targaryen again—
Laughing.
Wild.
Defiant.
As if mocking fate.
As if mocking him.
"Running again, Lance Lot?"
"Where are you going to run this time?"
Lance let out a cold snort.
This time—
He didn't look away.
His fingers tightened around the hilt until his knuckles turned white, as if he could crush the sword—and the soul within it—into his very bones.
"I owe you Targaryens…"
"Looks like I'll never finish paying that debt."
Then—
The abyss surged.
The horizon darkened as the monster tide rose—not water, but flesh. Thousands upon thousands of twisted forms, writhing and shrieking, a living ocean of corruption. They came from sea and land alike, an unstoppable wave of hunger and hatred, crashing toward the lone source of light.
Before such horror—
Lance closed his eyes.
Not in fear.
But to gather everything.
His will.
His rage.
His grief.
His debt.
All of it—
Into the sword.
Into Lightbringer.
Then he opened them.
"Ha—!!!"
No technique.
No flourish.
Just one strike.
A single swing toward the devouring darkness.
Toward the abyss that sought to consume everything he protected.
The blade fell.
There was no explosion.
No sky-splitting arc.
No earth-shattering force.
Only light.
Warm.
Gentle.
Like the glow of a setting sun.
It flowed from the tip of Lightbringer, steady and inevitable, like paint poured by a god. It did not rush, yet it could not be avoided. It spread outward, softly embracing the oncoming tide.
The first monsters touched by that light tried to scream—
But no sound came.
Their blood boiled.
Smoke poured from their mouths.
Their eyes melted, sliding down their faces.
And then—
They burned.
All of them.
Without exception.
The radiance of Lightbringer surged forward like a living, sacred tide—steady, unstoppable, expanding with quiet authority.
Wherever it passed, darkness recoiled, corruption was purged, and the creations of the abyss were reduced to ash by the law of flame born from its core.
Smoke and steam became their funeral hymn; the golden-red blaze their final gravestone.
The golden light illuminated the sharp contours of Lance's face. Clad in white armor, he stood at the center of that blazing domain like a titan carving order out of chaos. In his hand, Lightbringer hummed softly. Along the blade, the fiery outline of Rhaella Targaryen grew clearer, her lips seemingly curling into a wild, satisfied smile.
Before that sacred fire, the tide of the abyss melted like snow under the sun.
But Lance's gaze had already pierced through the burning remains and choking fumes, landing on the deeper darkness cloaking the distant bay.
"Come out already, you filthy bastard," he said calmly, though his voice seemed to echo across the entire shoreline. "Bring that disgusting power of yours with you."
He closed his eyes slightly, his awareness sinking into the system interface.
[Current Template: SSR — Azor Ahai, Wielder of Lightbringer!
(Assimilation: 100%)]
[Chosen by fate. The sole hope in the Long Night. The one who sacrificed his beloved to the forge, creating an immortal blade.
This body is flame.
This sword is dawn.]
[Skill — Dawn Brand]: Mastery of flame, dealing radiant fire damage. Double effectiveness against creatures of darkness.
[Skill — Will of the Kindling]: Dispels corruption, ignites an undying sacred flame.
• Restores 15% max health per second
• Grants "Kindling Mark" — attacks deal true damage to dark beings
• Purifies curses and corruption
[Skill — End of the Long Night: Summons a colossal sword phantom that annihilates all dark-origin entities at their core.]
[Passive Skills — Divine Blade of Dawn… Weapon Master… Unburnt… Dragonlord…]
With fusion reaching 100%, the final ability had unlocked. Its description was simple—but its presence alone dwarfed everything that came before.
The tip of his sword touched the scorched sand, hissing as white vapor rose.
Lance stared at the roiling black sea, golden flames flickering deep within his pupils.
From Euron Greyjoy sacrificing Casterly Rock to summon the so-called "Drowned God," to the mindless, corpse-like monsters—he had already drawn his conclusion.
A single "god" could never produce an army like this.
Only the master of the far north… the lord of eternal winter… could orchestrate something on this scale.
That thing had been pulling the strings from the shadows, staging this entire catastrophe.
A test.
A test for him—the anomaly.
A deep, thunderous tremor rolled up from the abyss, like an ancient leviathan turning in its sleep. The coastline shuddered violently. Cliffs fractured, rocks collapsed, and the sand split into jagged cracks.
The ocean swelled.
But it wasn't water.
A towering mass rose—a grotesque mountain of flesh formed from rotting tentacles, whale carcasses, and shattered warships fused together. Its surface bulged with the agonized faces of drowned souls.
Lance tightened his grip on the sword and bared his teeth in a grin.
Now—
the real battle begins.
With a wet, tearing sound, the peak of the mass split open.
A colossal squid-like creature forced its way out, its body covered in barnacles, coral spikes, and writhing decay. Its dozens of tentacles were lined with rows of serrated, bone-white teeth.
But what froze the soul—
were its eyes.
The outer layer was a murky yellow compound eye.
But within it—
a single icy blue pupil, like a shard of frozen crystal.
Cold.
Absolute cold.
It pierced through the sea wind and into the marrow.
Lance chuckled, raising Lightbringer and pointing it forward.
"Night King… our real battle will be beyond the Wall."
"Wash your neck and wait for me."
The creature seemed to understand.
Its icy pupil shrank violently.
A blasphemous gurgle echoed as ten massive tentacles lashed forward, dragging entire volumes of seawater into a towering, cursed tsunami that crashed toward the shore.
At the same moment—
Lance swung his sword.
High above, beyond the clouds, a colossal blade phantom materialized—like a constellation igniting across the heavens.
…
Some time later—
Lance walked toward the fallen dragon.
Rhaego lay collapsed across the shattered docks, its once-majestic form broken and pitiful. Scales had peeled away in great patches, exposing raw flesh. Some wounds cut so deep that bone was visible, their edges blackened with corruption. One wing was twisted unnaturally—broken—while the other was riddled with holes.
Its breathing was ragged, like a broken bellows. Each inhale came with a spasm of pain. Its bronze-gold eyes flickered weakly, as if the flame of life might extinguish at any moment.
Lance crouched and placed a hand upon the dragon.
The moment his palm touched its body, the power of kindling flowed forth. A warm golden glow spread rapidly, enveloping the dragon.
A miracle unfolded.
Wounds closed at visible speed. Torn flesh knit together. Damaged scales smoothed and regrew—stronger than before, gleaming with renewed vitality.
The dragon's dim eyes sharpened.
Its strength returned.
More than that—the power seemed to awaken something deeper within its bloodline.
In mere seconds, the dragon that had been on the brink of death stood renewed.
It raised its head and unleashed a thunderous roar that shook the sky.
"RAAAAAHHHH!!!"
Lance withdrew his hand, the light fading from his palm.
His expression remained calm, as though reversing death itself were no more than brushing dust from his armor.
"We're going back to King's Landing."
His voice was flat, devoid of triumph.
He mounted the dragon in a single smooth motion—effortless, natural, as though he had always belonged there.
The dragon rumbled softly in acknowledgment.
Its powerful hind legs pushed off the ground. Massive wings beat down, unleashing violent winds that scattered ash, blood, and debris in all directions.
Then—
it soared.
Higher and higher.
Leaving behind the ruined harbor.
Below them, the battlefield shrank into the distance.
Blackened corpses of monstrous creatures slowly sank back into the depths—
as if nothing had ever happened.
Want faster updates? Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier. Read early at [email protected]/A_divin5