Chapter 240 — The Dragonrider's Descent
A roar steeped in blasphemy and annihilation tore through the dead skies of the Westerlands.
The abyssal leviathan coiled around the ruins of Casterly Rock lashed out—countless colossal tentacles, forged from reef-stone, rotting flesh, rusted metal, and writhing slime, sweeping across the heavens.
Above it, Ilyon—the magma-forged dragon reborn in fire—struggled through the air.
Molten light shimmered along the edges of its scales, and every beat of its wings churned scorching currents through the sky. Under the amplification of the Flame-Will, its speed had reached an unprecedented peak.
It became a streak of lightning, tearing through the gloom, weaving impossible flight paths as it narrowly evaded the crashing tentacles.
But the horror born of sacrifice and the will of the Drowned God far exceeded imagination.
The creature's limbs intertwined, weaving a suffocating net of death across half the sky, its surface pulsing with thick, dark-green veins.
"Left wing!!!"
Lance roared.
Ilyon twisted violently midair. A massive, sucker-lined tentacle studded with bone spurs whipped past its wing membrane, the fetid wind nearly choking the life from him.
Lance slashed backhanded with Dragontooth. A crescent of black light carved into the limb—
Valyrian steel bit through the hardened surface, spraying foul blue-green ichor that hissed and smoked in the air.
But the assault never stopped.
From below, another tentacle burst from the sea with terrifying speed.
Ilyon had no time to react.
It struck.
Wrapped.
A colossal force seized the dragon's hind leg and yanked downward.
The dragon's immense body jerked violently in midair, wings beating in a frenzy as it fought to break free—but the pull was overwhelming, as if the weight of the entire ocean had been concentrated into that single limb.
Scales scraped against chitin.
Sparks flew.
A grinding screech split the air.
Ilyon's molten pupils shrank to slits under the agony. It twisted its neck and unleashed a torrent of blazing fire at the binding tentacle.
Golden-red flames engulfed it, scorching and blackening its surface.
The limb convulsed—
But it did not release.
Instead, it tightened.
Crushing.
Trying to snap bone.
Lance's heart sank.
This couldn't continue.
In the air, a dragon without mobility was nothing more than a target.
And more tentacles were already closing in—from every direction.
They were being sealed in.
Trapped.
"Hold on!!!"
His roar tore from his throat, eyes blazing with resolve.
Then—
He let go.
Pushed off the dragon's back.
"Dawn—!"
"Clear me a path!!!"
His voice thundered as both blades erupted with blinding radiance. He became a falling star of white flame, plunging straight toward the tentacle gripping Ilyon's leg.
The wind screamed past his ears.
The stench of the sea clawed at his lungs.
But his eyes saw only one thing—
The chain binding his companion.
A scream rose—like the collective agony of drowned souls.
Another tentacle lashed toward him from the side.
Lance's pupils contracted.
Midair.
No foothold.
No escape.
But no fear.
He drew in a breath—and poured everything into his blades.
"BREAK!!!"
At the instant the spiked limb was about to smash into him, his body dropped sharply—barely slipping past the attack.
He crossed his blades—
And drove straight into the tentacle below.
Both swords sank deep.
Valyrian steel and Dawn tore through flesh and armor alike.
Lance's muscles bulged, veins standing out as he twisted his body, using the full force of his fall and rotation to carve, rip, and shred.
His swordsmanship reached its absolute peak.
Every strike sent foul ichor spraying.
Every cut tore deeper.
The wet crunch of severed tissue mixed with the hiss of burning flesh.
He became a living grinder—tearing a massive, mangled wound into the colossal limb.
The stench of charred rot exploded into the air.
The leviathan howled—
A roar so immense it shook the sea itself.
Then—
The missed spiked tentacle changed course.
Faster.
Deadlier.
It came crashing down toward Lance.
But his eyes flashed.
This—
Was what he'd been waiting for.
At the last instant, he wrenched his blades free, his body bending backward with impossible flexibility. His feet slammed against the torn flesh beneath him—
And he launched upward.
The massive limb struck down—
Directly onto the wounded tentacle.
CRACK!
A clean, brutal fracture.
The already mangled limb split apart.
A mountain-sized section tore free and crashed into the sea below, sending waves skyward.
The monster's roar twisted with pain and fury.
Lance spun through the air, barely stabilizing himself. His chest churned—blood surging wildly from the strain.
But he didn't stop.
His gaze snapped to Ilyon.
Freed.
The dragon roared triumphantly, wings surging—
Rising—
But the abyss struck back instantly.
Two thicker, armored tentacles surged upward—
And wrapped around both of Ilyon's legs.
Again.
The dragon cried out in pain.
Its ascent halted.
Dragged downward.
Its massive body even began to sink.
Lance's vision burned red.
Rage ignited the last reserves of his strength.
"LET IT GO—YOU FILTHY BASTARD!!!"
His roar shattered the air.
No more restraint.
No more calculation.
Both blades blazed to life—Dawn and Dragontooth igniting with solid golden fire.
He twisted midair—
Kicked off the air itself—
And shot upward again.
Straight toward the limbs binding Ilyon—
This time, with nothing held back.
And at that exact moment—
As if their wills were one, Ilyon's molten pupils locked onto the source of the tentacles binding its legs. Its neck arched back to an impossible angle, chest swelling as a furnace-like rumble built deep within its throat.
Lance dove.
Both swords raised high, drawing out the very last drop of strength from his body—
"BREAK!!!"
With a tearing roar, his blades crossed and cleaved downward.
At the exact same instant—
Ilyon unleashed everything it had gathered.
A massive golden column of dragonfire erupted from its jaws, so intense that even the air warped under its heat, aimed straight at the two tentacles constricting its legs.
In that moment—
The world dimmed.
Two powers of the same origin resonated, amplified beyond reason.
A heat capable of melting steel exploded outward.
The tough, sinewy flesh of the tentacles was torn apart by blade and flame alike. Blue-green ichor vaporized the instant it touched the golden fire.
The restraints shattered.
Ilyon roared—loud, free, thunderous.
Its wings slammed downward with full force, its massive body finally breaking free as it surged upward into the sky.
But just as it turned to catch Lance—
It saw him falling.
That white-armored figure was already plummeting straight toward the sea.
At the same time—
A tentacle burst from the ocean and lashed toward him.
Lance had just completed the devastating joint strike. His strength was gone—drained in an instant.
He saw the shadow rising from below.
He tried to dodge.
His body felt like lead.
He tried to block.
His arms wouldn't respond.
Too late.
The massive tentacle struck him full-on.
It felt like being hit by a mountain moving at full speed.
Every bone in his body screamed under the impact.
A mouthful of hot blood burst from his lips, blooming into the air like a crimson flower.
He—and his swords—were flung away like a severed kite, completely losing control as he was hurled downward at terrifying speed, plunging toward the dark, churning ocean below, its surface glowing with that vile green light.
"ROOOAAARRR!!!"
Ilyon's cry tore through the sky.
Its molten eyes ignited with pure fury as it dove recklessly, trying to catch him.
But the abyss responded instantly.
Countless tentacles surged upward, weaving into a dense wall—thick, suffocating, inescapable—like sharks scenting blood.
They blocked the dragon.
Wrapped.
Closed in.
Ilyon roared and spewed furious fire, burning the wall before it.
Chunks of flesh and burning limbs fell like rain—
But the tentacles were endless.
Regenerating.
Reforming.
Unstoppable.
The dragon let out a cry filled with rage, grief, and helpless fury, its gaze locked onto the place where Lance had vanished beneath the dark sea.
But there was nothing left.
Only ripples spreading across the surface—
And a fading trace of white.
At last, faced with the overwhelming obstruction, something broke in Ilyon's gaze.
A flicker of painful resolve.
It released a piercing cry that split the clouds—rage, hatred, and unwilling despair woven into one—
Then beat its battered wings with all its strength.
It turned.
And fled east.
A streak of crimson lightning tearing through the clouds, disappearing into the horizon.
Behind it—
Only the silent, devouring sea remained.
At the same time, far away at the Prince's Pass, Melisandre suddenly stiffened in the saddle.
She had felt something.
"What is it?"
Ser Brynden asked sharply, turning toward her.
He remembered clearly—the Regent had ordered him to keep watch over this woman.
Melisandre didn't answer.
She dismounted abruptly and ran toward the mountain pass.
Her crimson robes dragged across the ground like a trail of blood.
She fell to her knees before a withered, twisted old pine tree.
"Follow her!" Brynden barked, jumping down and striding after her, hand already on his sword. Several knights followed, tense and ready.
Melisandre stood before the dead tree, facing west.
She spread her arms wide, as if embracing the oppressive sky.
Her lips began to move rapidly, chanting in a language foreign to the Seven Kingdoms.
"Lord of Light… hear me. Guide me."
The dead tree ignited.
Flames erupted from its trunk out of nowhere.
She stood before it, only a few feet away, bathed in firelight.
Throwing back her hood, her red hair whipped wildly in the heat, her crimson eyes glowing with something deep and unnatural.
Time stretched.
The crackling of flames was the only sound.
Even Brynden had never felt a quarter-hour last so long.
Then—
Melisandre's body began to tremble violently.
Her face turned deathly pale, sweat beading on her brow only to evaporate instantly in the heat.
She staggered forward with a muffled groan.
Her lips trembled as she spoke.
"The dragonrider… sinks into the lightless sea…"
"The abyss opens… devouring the child of the sun…"
"Only the wrath of dragonfire… and… the reforging of the bearer of light… can tear apart… the eternal night…"
Each word struck Brynden like a hammer.
Dragonrider? Lightless sea? Sinks?
What did it mean?!
"What 'bearer of light'? What happened to the Regent?!"
He rushed forward, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.
Melisandre slowly turned her head, her gaze distant and hollow.
"It means…"
Her voice was cold, exhausted.
"We must turn back. Return to King's Landing."
"Absurd!"
Brynden snapped.
"My orders come directly from the Regent himself!"
"Without his written command or a royal raven, I will not change course!"
"Lady Melisandre, get back on your horse. You can speak your prophecies on the road—but the direction does not change!"
"Ser…"
Her pale face remained expressionless, touched only by a faint, sorrowful calm.
"You still don't understand."
"The catastrophe has already begun. The road to the Westerlands now ends in the abyss."
"If we turn back now… we might still have time to find the one fragment of light capable of piercing the darkness before the storm consumes everything."
She shook her head slightly, resolve flickering in her red eyes.
"We have no time left."
"I don't care what you saw!"
Brynden growled, his grip tightening on his sword.
"I follow orders! Either show proof or—"
He stopped.
Because Melisandre didn't argue anymore.
Before their eyes—
She spread her arms wide, like a child running into a mother's embrace—
And leapt.
Straight into the towering pillar of flame.
"Wait—!"
Brynden lunged forward, reaching out—
But his hand caught only a fragment of her robe, already igniting in the fire.
The cloth burned instantly to ash, slipping through his fingers.
The flames surged, flaring brighter—
Then settled.
As if nothing had happened.
The fire danced.
The light flickered.
And Melisandre—
Was gone.