Chapter 246 — This Sword Will Be Glorious (Finale)
Seventy miles north of the Wall, deep within the forest, the wind howled like poisoned ice needles, piercing chainmail and sinking into bone.
Arthur Dayne tore his greatsword free from a wildling's spine. The warm blood that splashed across the hilt froze almost instantly in the killing cold. The breath he exhaled hadn't even risen before the gale shredded it apart among the frost-coated weirwood branches.
"Five."
The voice of Qhorin Halfhand drifted out from the mist. His black iron dagger was just as bloodstained. With only two fingers left on his right hand, the veteran ranger had honed his left into something even deadlier.
Arthur said nothing.
He flicked his blade. Frozen droplets traced an arc through the storm before shattering against a rock face.
As a Dornishman, he had never hated the cold this much.
Every swing of his sword dragged memories with it—sun-blasted training grounds in Starfall, lemon trees swaying in warm winds—not this suffocating stench of frozen rot filling his lungs.
The cold was unbearable.
Only when he swung his sword did the blood in his veins feel alive again.
"No matter how many times I see it, it's still unbelievable," Qhorin said as he stepped forward, his tone carrying only pure admiration. "A two-handed greatsword, wielded with one hand to split skulls—there's no second man like you in all of Westeros."
Since Arthur joined the Night's Watch, the title of its finest swordsman had quietly changed hands.
Qhorin had seen warriors from every corner of the realm.
But the fusion of strength and precision in Arthur's technique—
Was something close to a miracle.
"Not enough."
Arthur's voice was low, almost stubborn.
He gripped the hilt again, knuckles whitening against the leather wrap. The blade lowered toward the snow, but his gaze pierced the storm, fixed on something far away.
"Compared to him…"
"…I'm still far behind."
Qhorin frowned slightly. "That man really that strong?"
He had heard the story. The Sword of the Morning, the pride of House Dayne, once the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms—
Defeated in a public trial by combat.
By a man who rose like a legend—
Lance Lot.
That loss had cost Arthur everything.
His white cloak. His title. His place in the world.
And yet—
Qhorin still doubted it.
Because the man standing before him now was already beyond reach.
And still, he claimed there was someone stronger.
Ridiculous.
"Commander!"
A snowdrift nearby burst open as a young ranger tumbled out, teeth chattering. "We spotted a large wildling force ahead!"
"Damn it!" Qhorin spat into the snow. "Why are they acting like this?!"
Wildlings coming south in winter wasn't unusual.
But this—
This was different.
Since the temperature dropped months ago, they had encountered wave after wave. Too many. Far too many.
Without Arthur, they would have retreated long ago.
This wasn't migration.
This was flight.
As if something far worse was driving them south.
"I'll take a look."
Qhorin climbed higher—
And froze.
What he saw made his scalp crawl.
Endless.
Not hundreds.
Not thousands.
But a sea of figures stretching across every inch of the snowfield.
They marched in silence, the wind tearing at their ragged clothing, forming a low, oppressive murmur.
"Run!"
Qhorin's shout broke as he turned and bolted downhill.
"Fall back! Move!!"
A scream ripped through the storm.
The young ranger collapsed, kicking wildly.
The wildling corpse he had killed—
Was on top of him.
Biting.
Tearing.
Alive.
Its exposed skin had turned a sickly blue-gray.
"…Wights?"
The word stabbed into Qhorin's mind like ice.
Arthur moved first.
His blade flashed—
The corpse's head flew.
But the body didn't fall.
It twitched.
Clawed.
Kept moving.
And then—
More bodies stirred.
Bones cracked. Limbs jerked.
One by one, the corpses rose, hollow eye sockets glowing with faint blue light, all turning toward the living.
Chaos erupted.
Arthur became a storm of steel.
Each strike crushed limbs like rotten wood—clean, efficient, unstoppable. Wights shattered beneath his blade like brittle sticks.
But it wasn't enough.
As the sound of footsteps thickened ahead, Qhorin looked up—
And finally saw the truth.
Those marching figures weren't wildlings at all.
Most of them were stiff, lifeless, their skin the same dead gray.
This wasn't an army of the living.
This—
Was an army of the dead.
"Fall back!!" Qhorin roared, desperation breaking through. "South! Back to the Wall! Run!!!"
The snow intensified.
The dead kept rising.
From the ground, from the front—
Their howls merged into a maddening chorus.
The Night's Watch began to collapse, fighting as they retreated.
Then a voice cut through everything.
"You go."
Arthur stepped forward.
One swing of his greatsword cut three wights in half at the waist. Frozen flesh and shattered bone scattered across the snow.
He stood like a fortress.
And instead of retreating—
He stepped forward.
Into the tide.
"Go!!"
He didn't look back again.
Behind him—
The only road to survival.
Ahead—
An endless sea of death.
The blade lowered.
One man.
One sword.
Facing annihilation.
"RAAAAH!!!"
Arthur roared, drowning out the low, dreadful chorus of the dead.
There was no more hesitation in his eyes.
Only burning battle intent.
He charged.
Straight into the tide.
Each swing carried everything he had. Wights exploded under his blade, frozen blood and bone scattering, a path of death carved beneath his feet.
At that edge of life and death—
His swordsmanship broke through another unseen limit.
Faster.
Sharper.
More brutal.
The dead fell in swathes.
But even legends have limits.
The tide never ended.
His arms began to tire.
His swings slowed.
And then—
"Thud."
A sharp, ice-blue spike pierced deep into his flesh.
Arthur collapsed to one knee.
The cold flooded in.
His vision blurred.
The dead closed in.
"Knights…"
He gasped, every breath burning his lungs.
"…should die like knights!"
He roared it into the storm.
And in that moment—
He thought of that man again.
The one who defeated him.
The one who sent him here.
The man who had defeated him in the arena of King's Landing—almost humiliatingly—and cast him to the Wall.
Was that shame?
Or… another kind of completion?
At this moment, it no longer mattered...
He stood straight.
His grip tightened around the hilt once more.
The blade angled forward, pointing toward the surging tide of the dead.
Every last breath.
Every last drop of strength—
Gathered at the edge of that sword.
He was ready.
Ready to meet a knight's end.
And just as he was about to swing—
A dragon's roar shattered the heavens.
A sound so vast, so overwhelming—
It drowned out the storm itself.
Then—
Heat.
A terrifying, divine heat descended like judgment from above.
A torrent of dragonfire crashed down just yards ahead of him.
Hundreds of wights—
Erased.
No screams.
No resistance.
Only instant annihilation.
The shockwave slammed into Arthur, nearly knocking him off his feet as scorching air tore past him.
And just like that—
A space.
A clearing.
Carved out of death itself.
Arthur stood there, mind blank, unable even to look up.
Then—
The earth trembled.
A deep, rolling thunder.
Snow leapt from the ground.
He turned.
And what he saw—
Was a tide of steel.
An unstoppable flood.
Helmets gleamed like cold stars in the storm.
The clash of drawn blades, the roar of knights, the screams of warhorses—
Merged into a single, unstoppable force.
Banners snapped violently in the wind.
Golden roses bloomed through the snow—House Tyrell.
A falcon spread its wings—House Arryn.
A red vulture tore through the storm—House Blackmont.
A silver trout leapt—House Tully.
A crowned stag charged—House Baratheon.
The finest forces of Westeros—
All gathered here.
For the first time.
But above them all—
One banner towered.
At the very front.
Like a beacon guiding the world.
Three-headed dragon.
House Targaryen.
Against the lifeless gray of the dead—
It burned.
Like a torch tearing through eternal night.
Arthur's heart surged.
But before he could move—
White cloaks flashed past him like arrows.
"Fall back, Ser Arthur!"
A blade cut cleanly through a lunging wight.
Jonothor Darry.
Another rider followed—
Valyrian steel sang as it shredded wights apart.
"Don't piss yourself, Sword of the Morning!"
Lyn Corbray flashed past with a mocking grin, white armor stained fresh with blood.
"If you can't keep up—get behind us!"
A harsher voice roared as another knight tore a path through the dead—
Brynden Tully, his white cloak blazing in the storm.
Kingsguard.
Here.
At the edge of the world.
Charging into death.
A sudden heat surged into Arthur's eyes, blurring his vision.
He had never imagined—
That at the end of the world—
At the edge of death—
He would stand once more beside those white cloaks.
Then—
A rider stopped beside him.
Qhorin Halfhand extended his remaining fingers.
"The regent is here," he rasped. "We're going to win this."
…
Far to the north—
Beyond the battlefield.
The wind no longer howled.
It became something else.
A frozen lament.
Like countless souls weeping beneath ice.
High above—
Lance Lot sat astride Ilyon.
The beast's wings now spanned nearly thirty meters, its scales no longer dull ash but flowing with molten gold and crimson like living magma.
Each beat of its wings stirred the frozen air.
Though not yet as vast as the legendary Balerion—
It was already the only flame in this dead land.
The only life daring to challenge eternal winter.
Lance did not look back.
Because he knew—
Whatever happened there—
Would end with what happened here.
Ilyon hovered in the sky.
Below stood a colossal weirwood.
Not like those south of the Wall.
This one—
Was deep, unnatural blue.
Leafless.
Silent.
Exuding a cold so absolute it could freeze the soul.
Its trunk was covered in countless faces—
Twisted.
Suffering.
As though souls were trapped within forever.
Lance felt it clearly.
The power of Azor Ahai within him recoiled violently.
Inside that tree—
Two immense wills clashed.
Or rather—
One was devouring the other.
The Lord of Darkness, the Soul of Ice, and the God of Night and Terror.
The master of eternal cold.
Gathering itself.
Preparing to descend.
"Come out," Lance said calmly.
"Hiding won't change anything."
"Your long night… ends now."
The tree remained silent.
Only its blue glow deepened.
Lance sighed.
Then lightly patted the dragon's neck.
"Bring him out."
Ilyon roared.
A roar that split the heavens.
Then—
Dragonfire.
A beam of molten gold and red, like liquid sunlight—
Pierced straight through the weirwood.
Seconds later—
Nothing remained.
Only a charred crater.
And—
A figure.
Floating.
Humanoid.
Yet not.
Its body was deep blue.
Its head bore a single vertical eye.
Cold.
Absolute.
The air itself screamed as temperatures plummeted, frost forming instantly in the void.
Lance let out a short laugh.
"So you finally crawled out."
The creature said nothing.
A shard of ice formed in its hand—
And shot forward.
Clang.
The sound rang sharp and clear.
Lance caught it with his blade.
"Rude," he said lightly.
"We Should return the favor, right?"
Then—
He closed his eyes.
And opened them.
Flames ignited within his pupils.
Pure.
Gold-red.
At that exact moment—
Hundreds of miles away—
Every soldier in the allied army felt it.
Their weapons—
Ignited.
The entire battlefield became a forest of fire.
Lance glanced back—
And smiled.
The greatsword rose before him.
Flames surged—not coating it—
But living within it.
Flowing.
Roaring.
Like a chorus of countless voices singing war.
"Watch closely," he said softly, staring at the being of ice.
"This sword…"
"…will be glorious."
(Note: Yep, THE END!😭)
[If you enjoyed this story, do check out:
Game of Thrones: This Knight Needs Money (Ongoing)
Game of Thrones: Reborn as Drogon (Completed)
House of the Dragon: Symbiosis with Dragons (Ongoing)
Game of Thrones: Starting as a Druid (Ongoing) ]
Read early at [email protected]/A_divin5