Chapter 239 — The Abyssal Leviathan!
"ROOOOOOOAR—!!!"
In that instant, the Dragonrider's power and the dragon's fury fused completely through the bond of [Will of the Kindling].
Molten fire surged beneath Ilyon's ash-gray scales, flowing like living lava. Its massive jaws opened to the limit, and a torrent of golden dragonfire erupted forth, roaring like a collapsing sun. Everything in its path vanished—shattered limbs, crawling remnants, even the faintest trace of smoke—reduced instantly to ash under a heat that defied mortal understanding. Newly emerging monsters didn't even have time to scream before their twisted forms were incinerated, their slick, blue-green flesh erased the moment the flames touched them. Even the stone beneath was carved open, leaving behind a scorched trench as the inferno surged forward—straight toward its target.
Ilyon remembered.
It remembered who had hurt it.
"DAMN YOU!!!"
The voice that burst from Euron Greyjoy was no longer mocking or composed. For the first time, there was real panic. His pupils shrank violently as he stared at the incoming blaze. He hadn't expected this—not the knight's overwhelming strength, and certainly not this impossible resurgence of the dragon. The Abyssal Chains, meant to bind souls and drag them into the dominion of the Drowned God, were breaking—shattered by nothing more than sheer will and fire. It overturned everything he believed about death and the abyss.
A harsh, drowning gasp escaped him. Then he slammed his clawed arm into his chest, the impact echoing like a drum.
"Arogance… the prison that binds the sky…"
His voice deepened into something layered and inhuman, as if countless drowned souls were speaking at once. Blood-red runes began writhing across his chest, crawling like living parasites. The flesh bulged—and then split.
A face emerged.
Distorted, stretched in agony—but unmistakable.
Tywin Lannister.
The former Warden of the West, his once-commanding features now twisted into a mask of unbearable suffering.
Then another.
Jaime Lannister.
Golden-haired, his green eyes filled with confusion and defiance even as his soul was torn apart.
And a third.
Tyrion Lannister.
Warped, bitter, his face contorted with hatred and mockery, now reduced to raw torment.
They were screaming—though no sound escaped. Their souls were being ripped out, piece by piece.
"Refuse to sink?" Euron hissed, blood-red tendrils tightening around them. "Before me, you have no choice. You are nothing but foundations—remnants of a dying age."
His grin widened into something monstrous.
"In the name of the Drowned God—flesh as sacrifice, souls as bricks… build my wall."
The three souls were forcibly torn free, compressed, fused together—and in the blink of an eye, a massive barrier took shape. Nearly three meters tall and spanning the width of the platform, it was not a wall of energy, but something far more grotesque: a living construct of flesh and soul. Across its surface, the three faces stretched and twisted, writhing in silent agony, forming a nightmarish mural of suffering.
And then—
Impact.
The molten dragonfire slammed into the wall with overwhelming force. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. This was no ordinary collision—this was the clash of annihilation and corruption, of fire against twisted soul. The sound that followed wasn't physical, but something far worse: a piercing, layered shriek, as if thousands of souls were being burned alive at once.
The flames pressed forward relentlessly, devouring, clawing, trying to tear through the barrier. Thick black-green smoke poured outward, heavy with hatred. The faces embedded in the wall stretched further, distorting beyond recognition as the structure groaned under the strain. Behind it, Euron's body trembled violently, his eyes locked onto the center of the clash.
Because the fire wasn't just burning.
It was fighting.
Like a living beast, it surged again and again, tearing at the wall, refusing to be denied. The excess energy burst outward in violent detonations, shaking the platform and sending debris raining down. Even the immense structure of Casterly Rock trembled under the strain.
And still—
the flames continued to burn.
Ilyon's chest heaved violently, molten gold blazing within its vertical pupils—not weakening in the slightest, but growing even more ferocious as its attack was resisted. Its claws dug deep into the softened, half-molten stone, neck muscles bulging as it forced out even more dragonfire.
"Burn it! Burn it to ash!!!"
Lance roared from the dragon's back, pouring every ounce of Azor Ahai's power into Ilyon without restraint. He would reduce that blasphemous barrier—and the monster behind it—to nothing.
Seconds… or perhaps an eternity.
Then—
Crack.
The grotesque wall forged from the souls of the Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister, and Tyrion Lannister finally shattered.
Overwhelmed.
Vaporized.
The dragonfire surged forward unimpeded.
Flames, smoke, molten stone, shattered debris—everything became a single unstoppable torrent crashing toward Euron Greyjoy.
The inferno struck like a colossal fist, blasting apart any surviving monsters and sending fragments scattering. Even the bedrock of Casterly Rock groaned under the pressure.
At last—
The flames died down.
Ilyon drew back its head, exhaustion washing over it as it breathed heavily, though its molten gaze remained locked on the smoke-choked battlefield ahead.
On its back, Lance stood steady despite the heat radiating from his armor. His white cloak had long since turned to ash, but his grip on his blades remained firm, his eyes sharp as ever.
The air reeked of melted stone and rotting sea-creatures.
Slowly, the smoke began to clear.
What remained was a vast, scorched crater, its surface glowing with dark red magma. And at its center—
A figure.
Still standing.
Euron.
His grotesque, deep-sea-infused body remained intact—barely. The thick crimson carapace was scorched black and cracked throughout. The parasitic growths that once writhed along his body were gone, and his massive claw was dulled, webbed with fractures. One of his tentacle-like limbs dragged uselessly behind him, clearly crippled. The membrane over his face was burned away in places, revealing rotting gray flesh beneath.
Only that pale, spinning eye remained—
Bloodshot.
Filled with pure, undiluted hatred.
"…This power… this flame…"
His voice rasped, layered with echoes of countless suffering souls.
"It reminds me… of that one… from Volantis…"
Lance said nothing.
He simply watched.
Measured.
Then his wrists flicked, blades crossing before him as his battle intent surged again, like a volcano on the brink.
"Tch… tough bastard."
He crouched, ready to finish it.
He had to end this now.
But—
"Die, Euron!!!"
A furious roar exploded from above.
A figure plunged down—
THUD!
A steel dagger drove deep into Euron's neck.
Lance's eyes widened as he halted mid-charge.
Balon Greyjoy.
He looked half-dead—pale, ragged, clothes torn and soaked in slime and ash. One eye was gone, reduced to a blackened hollow, but the remaining eye burned with a hatred fierce enough to incinerate the world.
"You killed Father!!!"
Balon's voice shook violently as he gripped the dagger.
"For your madness—you butchered your own blood!"
"You dragged the Ironborn into filth—turned them into these rotting abominations!"
He yanked the dagger free, dark green fluid spraying out, and stabbed again—harder.
Euron's body convulsed beneath him.
But the writhing tendrils around his jaw only moved faster.
"You don't deserve the name Greyjoy!"
Balon roared, pouring out everything—rage, grief, years of festering hatred.
He had hidden here for two days.
Survived like a rat among monsters, feeding on foul moss and tainted water.
Waiting.
For this moment.
For revenge.
Lance's mind raced.
This was the opening.
Whether Balon succeeded or not—
This was the chance to end Euron.
He tensed—
Blades blazing—
Ready to strike.
But then—
Laughter.
Cold.
Mocking.
"Does it hurt?"
"Does it enrage you… my dear brother?"
With a grotesque motion, Euron's claw snapped sideways—grabbing Balon's waist.
CRACK.
Bones shattered.
Balon gasped, the dagger slipping from his hand.
"You thought…"
Green fluid poured from Euron's neck wound, but he didn't care. He twisted Balon's head, forcing him to look into that spinning eye.
"…I didn't know you were hiding here?"
"This is my domain. My flesh."
"I kept you alive… for this moment."
His jaw split open unnaturally wide—
And from within, a mass of writhing, slime-covered tentacles burst forth, lined with teeth and suckers.
"Look at it."
"This was meant to be the Ironborn's ultimate glory."
"But you… your father… too small-minded to understand evolution…"
"Then become part of me."
In an instant—
Balon was torn apart.
Limbs ripped.
Organs scattered.
Then—
Consumed.
"Shit—!"
A chill shot down Lance's spine.
Danger.
Real danger.
Ilyon growled beneath him, molten light gathering again.
Lance launched forward—
Blades flashing—
Striking Euron clean through.
But even split apart—
Euron laughed.
"You're fortunate… Lance Lot…"
"You'll be the first human… to witness my true form."
And then—
The world broke.
The ground trembled violently.
Casterly Rock—
Shook.
As if something ancient—
Had awakened.
Lance reacted instantly, leaping onto Ilyon just as the platform collapsed.
"Up! Now!!"
He shouted, looking down—
And froze.
The entire castle—
Was changing.
Stone didn't fall—
It melted.
Reformed.
Under a dark green, viscous glow.
Walls twisted.
Towers stretched and fused.
Granite softened, reshaping into jagged, bone-like structures.
Spires elongated into massive, writhing tentacles, spewing thick black-green fluid that hardened into monstrous limbs.
The castle's foundation swelled—
Mutating—
Becoming something vast.
Something alive.
Cracks split open across its surface—
Revealing massive, vertical eyes within.
Cold.
Endless.
Ancient.
Windows became suckers.
Gateways became folds of flesh.
The moat became part of its body.
The entire structure rose higher and higher, each movement shaking the world like an earthquake.
Water and slime cascaded down its form like waterfalls.
This—
Was its true body.
A being fused with the will of the Drowned God.
A monstrosity born from the ruins of Casterly Rock.
A creature forged from sacrifice.
A horror beyond reason—
A deep-sea leviathan.