Chapter 237 — What Do You Think You're Doing to My Dragon?
From the blazing red sands of Dorne to the fertile plains of the Reach, and further north beyond them—the world began to change.
The wind grew colder.
Sharper.
Heavier.
It howled past the vast wings of Ilyon, battering against Lance's helmet like invisible blades. The heat and blood of Dorne still lingered in memory, yet the land below had already transformed beyond recognition.
A day and a half of flight—no more—and the towering outline of Casterly Rock had already emerged beneath a darkened sky.
On the way, Lance had briefly descended at Highgarden, landing beside the Mander River.
The moment Ilyon touched down, Olenna Tyrell—the famed "Queen of Thorns"—was already waiting on a private terrace.
Even she, a woman renowned for her composure and cunning, could not fully conceal the flicker of shock in her eyes when she beheld the dragon.
A dragon was not merely a weapon.
It was authority made flesh.
She wasted no time. Every request Lance made, she accepted without hesitation, promising the full support of the Reach for the western campaign.
She even raised, once again, the matter of a marriage alliance—between Margaery Tyrell and Viserys Targaryen.
After brief consideration, Lance agreed—on Viserys's behalf.
The Reach's loyalty had always been reliable. Even when Daeron Targaryen once broke a betrothal, Olenna had done little more than sharpen her tongue.
With matters settled, Lance took to the skies once more.
But the ease he felt after leaving Highgarden did not last.
The sky changed.
The air thickened—like it was being pressed down by an invisible weight.
Gone was the pale winter gray of the Reach. In its place loomed a suffocating, leaden sky, heavy and unmoving. Sunlight vanished entirely, leaving behind only a dim, lifeless glow.
And then came the silence.
Once Ilyon crossed the hills dividing the Reach from the Westerlands, the world below fell into a deathly stillness.
No farmers in the fields.
No caravans on the winding roads.
No smoke rising from villages.
No livestock.
No birds.
Nothing.
Only barren hills, skeletal forests, and rivers that flowed like cold veins through a corpse.
"Too quiet…" Lance murmured, his hand brushing over Ilyon's cold, iron-hard scales.
Even the dragon seemed uneasy.
A low rumble vibrated from its throat—as though resisting some unseen pressure.
This was not winter's stillness.
This was death.
Lance's thoughts drifted to the message sent by Tywin Lannister—the annihilation of the western fleet, the destruction of the Redwyne navy… and the prophecy whispered by Melisandre.
A terrible power.
His unease deepened.
It felt as though the entire continent had already begun slipping into something… unnatural.
He lowered altitude, circling.
The view below was worse.
Villages stood intact—yet empty. Doors shut. Windows sealed.
Like tombs.
Streams lay frozen under thin sheets of ice, exuding a faint, rotting stench.
Even hardy evergreens—holly, pine—had dulled, their needles coated in a lifeless gray.
"What is this… a disaster… or—"
His hand tightened around the hilt of Dawn.
His thoughts returned to Euron Greyjoy—the man who had attempted to control a dragon through a blood ritual… and had somehow returned from death.
"The Drowned God…?"
"Or something worse…"
He ascended again.
But the closer they drew to Lannisport, to Casterly Rock—the heavier the air became.
It was no longer just silence.
There was a smell.
Faint at first.
Then unmistakable.
Rotting flesh.
At last, through the oppressive haze, the colossal fortress of Casterly Rock rose at the edge of the horizon.
A fortress carved into stone, overlooking the Sunset Sea.
Yet now—
It looked like a dying beast.
The structure itself stood intact. No visible damage.
But there were no banners.
No horns.
No guards upon the walls.
Only an overwhelming, suffocating stillness.
"The fleet is destroyed. Jaime Lannister's fate unknown. I will hold the Westerlands at Lannisport."
Tywin's words echoed in Lance's mind.
He exhaled slowly.
Instead of rushing forward, he guided Ilyon into a cautious circling pattern, eyes scanning every inch of the fortress below.
Then—he shifted course.
Toward the ruins of the harbor.
And that was when he saw it.
Below, along a shattered stretch of coastline—once part of Lannisport—the waves churned against jagged rocks.
And among them—
Bodies.
Hundreds of them.
Armored in torn red-and-gold of House Lannister… or the purple and green of House Redwyne.
Their limbs twisted.
Torn apart.
As if ripped open by something monstrously strong.
The tide dragged them up—
Then slammed them back down again.
Over and over.
The entire bay had become a grotesque slaughterhouse.
Even Lance couldn't help but inhale sharply at the sight.
The scene before him had long since surpassed anything that could be called a naval battle.
This wasn't war.
This was slaughter.
It looked as if some colossal abyssal horror had surged up from the depths—dragging ships into the dark, crushing them between titanic jaws… and spitting the remains back onto the shore.
Whatever power lurked around the Iron Islands was far more grotesque than Lance had imagined.
A chill sharper than the northern wind crawled down his spine.
For the first time in a long while, true danger pressed in on him from all sides.
He silently thanked himself for coming ahead alone.
If he didn't uncover the truth here soon, then not only would the army marching behind him be useless—
Even the fall of all Westeros might simply become a matter of time.
"Illiyon…"
Lance drew a slow breath.
"We're going down."
The dragon threw back its head and unleashed a roar that shattered the deathly silence. Flames flickered in its molten pupils as it folded its wings and dove toward the fortress below.
They landed atop the highest platform of Casterly Rock.
"Illiyon, stay alert."
Lance patted the dragon's neck before stepping away.
The ash-scaled beast let out a low growl, its vertical pupils scanning the silent fortress below with predatory vigilance.
The gates stood open.
But there were no guards.
No movement.
Only wind howling through hollow stone corridors.
Lance knew the dragon couldn't follow him inside.
Steadying himself, he turned and leapt down from its back, landing cleanly on the cold stone terrace.
Behind him, Illiyon spread its wings and circled, guarding the entrance.
Inside the fortress—
The silence thickened.
It clung to him like something alive.
The great hall stretched out before him, vast and empty. His footsteps echoed, hollow and distant.
The hearth was cold.
A thin layer of dust coated the banquet tables.
Several silver goblets lay toppled across the carpet, their contents long since dried into dark stains—like coagulated blood.
No corpses.
No signs of struggle.
That was the worst part.
This unnatural cleanliness was more terrifying than any battlefield.
It felt as though everyone here had simply… vanished.
All at once.
Without a trace.
Descending the spiral staircase deeper into the rock, the smell hit him.
Rot.
Thick.
Like deep-sea sludge.
His boot stepped onto something slick.
Squish.
He looked down.
The stone steps and walls were coated in patches of wet, glistening slime—cold, viscous, and faintly reflective.
And then—
Instinct screamed.
Lance didn't turn.
He moved.
His body twisted sideways in a sharp roll just as something tore through the air behind him, slamming violently into the stone wall.
Steel sang.
"Dawn" flashed free—its pale brilliance slicing through the darkness as it cut clean through the attacker's torso.
But—
There was no blood.
The upper half of the creature fell to the ground.
The lower half… kept running.
Lance finally saw it clearly.
This was no human.
Its skin resembled waterlogged leather—grayish-blue, bloated and sickly. Barnacle-like growths and slick scales covered its body.
Its face was twisted, barely human.
Only its eyes were clear—
Glowing with a vicious, unnatural green.
From the severed waist oozed not blood, but a thick, dark green sludge that stank of rot.
The creature didn't feel pain.
Its upper body dragged itself forward, clawing across the stone, spilling its own insides as it lunged toward him with a rasping hiss.
Lance frowned.
With a swift motion, he drew his second blade—and cut its head clean off.
The head rolled.
Its mouth still moved.
The green light in its eyes did not fade.
"…Even Valyrian steel doesn't work?"
His gaze sharpened.
The Others would shatter under such blades.
But this thing—
Didn't care.
Without hesitation, Lance grabbed the severed head.
Flames erupted from his palm.
"Boom—!"
The head shrieked as it burned, flesh melting, form collapsing—until it vanished into a wisp of foul-smelling black smoke.
The fire died.
Lance flicked away the lingering ash and exhaled slowly.
"…Good. Fire works."
Relief lasted less than a heartbeat.
Then—
Sound.
From everywhere.
All around him.
Eyes opened in the darkness.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
All glowing with that same venomous green.
From the slime on the walls—
From cracks in the stone—
From vents, floors, shadows—
They came.
Twisting.
Crawling.
Leaping.
An endless tide of warped, sea-rotten bodies surged toward him, drawn to the only thing alive in this dead place.
"Damn it!"
Lance snapped both wrists.
His blades ignited.
Light and darkness intertwined—purifying flame and destructive fire roaring along their edges.
He moved.
A storm of white and crimson tore through the horde.
Limbs fell.
Rotting bodies split apart.
Green ichor sprayed across the stone.
But they didn't stop.
For every one he cut down, two more took its place.
The blades struck their elastic, gelatinous flesh with reduced effect.
"Dawnbrand!"
With a roar, he slashed—sending a blazing arc of fire sweeping forward, incinerating a swath of monsters.
But the gap closed instantly.
Worse—
They were adapting.
Some began scaling the walls, attacking from blind angles.
"Get off!"
He cut left, cut right—but the tide was endless.
This wouldn't work.
The narrow interior was killing him.
He needed space.
With a shout, he slammed both blades downward—
A shockwave of dark-red flame erupted outward, blasting everything nearby into the air.
Seizing the moment, Lance leapt upward—bounding off protruding stone and vaulting onto a higher platform.
For a brief second—
He was clear.
Then claws gripped the edge.
More were climbing.
"Dawn!"
A backhand slash cleaved through two emerging creatures—and the rock behind them.
But more hands followed.
"Ilyon!"
Lance shouted upward, calling for his dragon.
But the response—
Was wrong.
A roar answered him.
Furious.
Painful.
And beneath it—
Fear.
Lance's heart dropped.
"…Damn it!"
He didn't hesitate.
Turning away from the swarm, he kicked off the wall—scaling upward in rapid bursts, using the stone like footholds.
He burst through a vent—
And froze.
In the center of the platform—
Illiyon struggled.
Massive crimson chains of energy—thick as a man's torso—wrapped around its limbs and wings, tightening with every movement.
The dragon groaned in pain.
And before it—
Stood something.
Not a man.
A thing.
Over three meters tall.
Even larger than Gregor Clegane.
Its body was a grotesque fusion of sea creatures—armored shell across its torso, writhing leeches and starfish embedded in its flesh.
Below—
Tentacles.
Above—
A massive claw.
In its other hand—
A twisted, bone-like trident.
Its face was barely human, hidden beneath a veil of seaweed-like membrane.
The claw reached toward Illiyon's head—
Not with rage.
But with curiosity.
Like a man examining a new toy.
Lance's fury exploded.
Power surged through him—like a volcano erupting.
"DAWNBRAND!!!"
Still midair, he swung.
A blazing white beam tore forward—
"BOOM!!!"
The blast ripped through the air—
But the creature twisted, its armored body bending unnaturally.
The beam grazed its neck—
And detonated against the cliff behind it.
Stone exploded.
Debris rained down.
Lance landed between the monster and his dragon.
Both blades raised.
White flame.
Crimson fire.
His stance lowered, eyes sharp as steel.
No fear.
Only killing intent.
Slowly—
He lifted his head.
"…What do you think you're doing to my dragon?"
A pause.
Then, coldly—
"Davy Jones?"