NIP Chapter 213 213: The Will of the Kindling!
Chapter 213 213: The Will of the Kindling!
"—Hiss… haaa—!"
Salt-stained seawater flooded his lungs. Euron Greyjoy jerked upright from the dark green sea like a drowning squid clawing its way back from death, his chest heaving violently.
He gulped down the damp air in greedy gasps, each breath laced with a stabbing pain.
Icy seawater streamed down his soaked black curls.
Am I dead…?
Or… not?
The violent dissonance in his mind made it feel as though his skull were filled with molten lead.
It was as if he had been dragged—by sheer force—out of an endless void of darkness. The suffocating silence of death still clung to him, yet the biting cold of the sea felt undeniably real.
He twisted his stiff neck.
Above him stretched a sky heavy with lead-gray clouds.
The air reeked of rust and rotting seaweed, thick with brine.
Jagged black reefs jutted from the water like the spine of some ancient leviathan, waves crashing against them in a ceaseless, furious roar.
"This is… Pyke?"
Impossible.
Absolutely impossible!
He had been—clearly—in King's Landing. In that narrow, damp, suffocating room.
His last memory…
…was endless agony.
…and eternal darkness.
Lowering his gaze, he saw seawater sloshing around his waist, numbing him to the bone.
Then—
His pupils shrank.
The hand that had been severed at the wrist… was whole again.
He stared at it in disbelief.
Gritting his teeth, he reached down and viciously pinched the inner side of his thigh—his bare skin already bluish-purple from the freezing sea.
Pain exploded through him.
And with it—
Ecstasy.
"I'm alive…!"
The pain was real.
Gloriously, undeniably real.
He staggered to his feet, dragging his waterlogged body forward step by step, wading through waist-deep waves toward the shoreline.
At last, he collapsed onto the cold, unyielding rocks, lying flat on his back as his chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.
But the fear did not fade.
It clung to him like a parasite gnawing at his bones.
His hands roamed frantically over his body.
His wrist—once cleanly severed.
His thighs, knees, ankles—
Even his eye… the one that had been gouged out—
All of it was intact.
Every inch.
"…How is this possible…?"
He struck his temple with his wrist.
Fragments of memory surged like a storm.
And then—
From the deepest recesses of his soul, a true terror ignited.
"Lance Lot!"
He growled the name aloud, his entire body trembling uncontrollably.
He had never encountered someone so powerful—
…nor so utterly devoid of emotion.
That black Valyrian steel sword in the man's hand had seemed alive. Every swing tore through the air itself.
Euron's proud Blood Chain Formation—
…had been nothing.
Worthless.
No matter how desperately he swung his iron blade to defend himself, every resistance had been laughably futile.
Each flash of black steel—
…took something from him.
An arm.
A leg.
A piece of flesh.
Gone.
The precision was terrifying.
Every strike avoided vital arteries and organs with surgical perfection—as though the man possessed an intimate understanding of the human body.
And worse—
That calm face.
Not a ripple.
Not a flicker of emotion.
He was not a warrior.
He was—
A scholar.
A butcher.
Methodically dissecting him.
As if that weren't enough, black flames coiled along the blade, searing into his wounds, burning his nerves, preventing him from bleeding out.
Keeping him alive.
Keeping him conscious.
For the pain.
An hour?
Longer?
Euron didn't know.
In that nightmare woven entirely from suffering—
Time had ceased to exist.
Eventually, he had even stopped begging.
All he wanted—
…was for it to end.
At last, when Lance had vented enough of his fury…
Mercy came.
Death.
The pain ended.
But—
Why was he here now?
He pushed himself up onto one knee, cold blue eyes sweeping across the all-too-familiar coastline.
In the distance, uneven towers rose into view.
And there—
Fluttering wildly in the wind—
The golden kraken banner.
Pyke.
His castle.
"What is dead may never die… what is dead may never die!!!"
A manic thought exploded in his mind.
In that instant—
All fear.
All pain—
Vanished.
He had been dismembered.
Beheaded.
And yet—
He stood here again.
Alive.
Reborn upon Pyke.
This was the Drowned God's blessing!
He—Euron Greyjoy—was destined to be…
King.
"Ha… haha… HAHAHAHAHA!!"
A suppressed chuckle rolled from his throat, low and hoarse—before erupting into wild, unrestrained laughter.
He spread his arms wide, letting the freezing sea wind lash against his soaked, naked body, as though embracing an unseen divine force.
"The king risen from the sea!"
"Flesh reforged by salt and tide!"
"Lance Lot—!"
"I, Euron Greyjoy, will return!"
"And the humiliation you dealt me—"
"I will repay it a thousandfold!!"
He snarled each word, biting them out with savage intensity.
As if that black blade—
That endless agony—
Were nothing more than a trial.
A trial he had to endure—
On his path…
…to becoming the King of the Iron Islands.
He lowered his head, staring at his feet submerged in the freezing seawater.
Euron Greyjoy began to walk forward, step by step.
The confusion and fear in his eyes were gone.
In their place—
greed, brutality, and an insatiable hunger for power.
And more unhinged than ever before.
His gaze pierced through the crashing waves and jagged reefs, locking firmly onto the looming castle ahead.
If his guess was correct…
Then inside that fortress now, there should only be his weak, tradition-abandoning father—
…and his two young brothers.
A cold smile slowly crept across Euron's face, his eyes gleaming with a darker, more venomous light than ever before.
"The rotten have no right to rule the Iron Islands."
"The Drowned God… has already made His choice."
His drenched body stood in the biting wind like a demon clawing its way out of hell.
Ahead, beneath the oppressive storm clouds, the silent castle marked the beginning of his conquest.
Behind him, the vast sea howled in fury, waves crashing violently as if some unseen entity whispered in the storm.
Between sea and sky, ink-black clouds churned wildly, swallowing both starlight and hope.
---
King's Landing.
Lance planted the massive black greatsword before him.
At his feet lay a scattered pile of indescribable gray-black ash.
Yet there was no relief in his eyes—no victor's ease.
Only deeper suspicion burned within them.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The battle itself had been a complete one-sided slaughter.
Even without relying on the power granted by the Azor Ahai template, his perfected swordsmanship and reinforced physique alone had been enough to utterly crush Euron Greyjoy.
There had been no unexpected surge of power—nothing like the bearded Norvos priest in Duskendale who had erupted with strange magic.
And yet—
At the exact moment Dragontooth severed Euron's neck…
Lance had sensed something.
A faint, elusive fluctuation.
As though something intangible had been forcibly stripped away from that ruined body.
He had reacted instantly, using Dawn Brand to incinerate the corpse—
…but it hadn't been enough.
Whatever slipped away—
What was it?
A curse?
Or something… given?
"Which rat hiding in the shadows is pulling strings now?"
His voice was low, echoing through the empty chamber, heavy with anger at being watched—manipulated.
His mind raced, sifting through every so-called "god" lurking behind the veil of Westeros.
There weren't many.
Not like across the Narrow Sea, where dozens—hundreds—of deities were worshipped.
The Seven?
Impossible. They had never shown any real miracles—more likely a tool to fool the masses.
The Old Gods?
Mysterious… plausible.
After all, the mad king's wildfire inferno—
That had likely been influenced by them.
And the Three-Eyed Raven… seemed to act as their agent.
At the thought, Lance's fist clenched.
A flicker of anger ignited in his narrowed eyes.
Then—
A voice echoed in his memory.
Melisandre.
"Since the return of true dragons… since dragonfire reignited the world, the tides of magic have begun to stir."
"The ancient powers… are awakening from their long slumber."
"My lord… what you sense is only the beginning."
He could feel it.
A cold, invisible hand from the shadows—
Plucking at the strings of fate.
No one guards forever against thieves.
Euron's bizarre resurrection was no isolated event—
…it was a test.
A calculated probe.
If they dared to reach for Ilyon this time using such methods…
What would they try next?
"Seems I'll have to take a trip north soon… and settle accounts with these so-called 'gods.'"
"Grrr…."
A soft, pained whimper pulled him back to reality.
He glanced aside.
The young dragon lay sprawled on the cold floor—its body still weakened from the profane ritual's corruption.
Ilyon pressed its lava-veined head gently against Lance's greaves, letting out low, pitiful whines.
Lance lowered his gaze, meeting the dragon's massive vertical pupils.
Once fierce and molten—
now dimmed, as if veiled in cold blue haze.
Its scales were cracked, corroded like they had been eaten away by acid.
"Don't be afraid."
"I'm here."
He gently patted Ilyon's head.
Then slowly raised his right index finger.
A tiny flame appeared at its tip—
pure, almost transparent white.
Unlike the destructive blaze of Dawn Brand, this flame did not flicker violently.
It was dense.
Condensed.
Like a droplet of pure life itself.
Without hesitation, he pressed that spark—
That kindling—
onto the dragon's head.
In an instant—
It flowed.
Like living liquid fire, racing through Ilyon's entire body.
A violent surge of energy erupted outward, expelling thick black smoke—the stench of corruption.
The dragon's cracked scales began to regenerate at a visible rate.
Molten red light surged between them—
as if a new furnace had been ignited within its body.
More importantly—
That final trace of parasitic blue corruption within its eyes—
was burned away completely.
"SKREEEEE—!"
Seconds later, Ilyon sprang to life, lifting its head and letting out an excited cry.
Its wings spread wide, nearly filling the entire chamber—
like a child who had just received its favorite toy—
before it burst out of the room, soaring into the sky.
Watching it fly freely once more, Lance finally allowed himself a faint, satisfied smile.
His theory was correct.
After killing Euron Greyjoy, the synchronization with the Azor Ahai template had reached 60%.
And with it—
A new ability unlocked.
---
[Current Template: SSR — Azor Ahai, Wielder of Lightbringer!
(Assimilation: 60%)]
[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]: Locked
---
Each ability was overwhelmingly powerful—
and almost entirely specialized in countering dark entities.
Even Ilyon now carried the Kindling Mark, granting it enhanced damage against darkness.
Highly targeted.
The only drawback—
That tiny spark had nearly drained all of Lance's strength.
To use it again, he would likely need several days of rest.
But as his power grew…
That limitation would fade.
Perhaps one day—
Using it repeatedly wouldn't even be a problem.
"Your Majesty!"
A respectful voice broke the silence.
Qyburn entered with several gold-cloaked soldiers.
They had been waiting outside, not daring to enter without permission.
Qyburn glanced briefly at the remains on the floor—barely recognizable as a corpse—
and wisely chose not to ask.
Instead, he stepped forward and bowed slightly.
"Ser Manly… has been pierced through the heart. He cannot be saved."
"His wife, Lady Tanda, was also found dead in her chambers. Time of death matches—most likely Euron's doing."
Lance lowered his gaze slightly, a faint curve of regret touching his lips.
"What a pity."
Whether for Manly—
or the stubborn Lady Tanda—
…was unclear.
Perhaps both.
Perhaps neither.
His gaze shifted to the bed.
A girl lay curled up, still fast asleep.
"In other words…"
"The main line of House Stokeworth—"
"…is now just her."
Lollys Stokeworth.
She slept soundly—lightly snoring.
The battle, the dragon's roar, even Euron's hour-long screams—
had failed to wake her.
Sometimes…
ignorance was a blessing.
Lance tapped lightly on his sword hilt, the metallic rhythm echoing softly as he thought.
Then he turned to Qyburn.
"Ask Balman if he's willing to marry her."
"If he agrees—"
"I'll name him Lord of Stokeworth."
A faint chuckle followed.
Cold.
Practical.
Stokeworth wasn't massive—
but it was valuable.
Without protection, a girl like her would be devoured by her own kin within a month.
That was simply human nature.
Greed.
Cruelty.
Universal.
"And if he refuses…"
Lance's smile turned darker.
"I could always have a word with our Hand."
"After all… House Lannister does have a rather unfortunate son."
A dangerous joke.
No one laughed.
Not Qyburn.
Not even the Gold Cloaks.
In King's Landing—
mocking the Lannisters was never wise.
Silence lingered.
Then Qyburn cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty… tomorrow is the Dragonfall Festival. Most of the great lords will be present."
"You should rest. I'll handle everything here."
Lance smirked knowingly.
"Worried your position as Grand Maester might vanish if I collapse?"
Qyburn flushed faintly—
and chose not to deny it.
"…Very well."
Lance turned and walked out, dragging Dawn behind him.
Outside, the Red Keep loomed beneath the winter sky.
He exhaled slowly, white mist fading into the cold night.
His thoughts sharpened.
Euron's target…
had never been Ilyon.
His presence had been coincidence.
So—
what was the real objective?
"…I'd like to rest too, old man."
His voice was quiet.
Tired.
But simmering with restrained fury.
"But those things hiding in the shadows—"
"They won't let me."
A snowflake fell into his palm.
Melted.
Vanished.
His blue eyes ignited once more.
"Then…"
"…I'll burn them all."