Bab 529: Chapter 530: All Gods Are Lies
The raging snowstorm swept across the land, wild and untamed, like an inferno devouring the world.
Samwell stared at the figure below, crowned with ice and snow, and instantly knew he had found his target—the Night King.
The mythical leader of the White Walkers.
The source of the Long Night.
The lord of ice and snow.
Samwell had heard Bran Stark's prophecy many times: Only by killing the Night King can this war end.
Yet, Samwell had always harbored doubts—not about Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven, or even the Old Gods, but about the very notion of gods themselves.
Samwell distrusted divine beings on an instinctual level. He had resolved never to trust their words or intentions until he fully understood their secrets and purposes.
But as he looked upon the Night King, an overwhelming killing intent surged within him, as though this being was his fated enemy. As if his very purpose in this world was to slay the Night King.
He could feel his blood boiling, coursing through his veins with a fiery determination.
At that moment, all his doubts evaporated like morning mist.
He licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with fervor.
Ever since becoming the King of the Seven Kingdoms and receiving the blessings of the Seven, Samwell's strength had grown immeasurably. It had been far too long since he had fought with all his might.
Even on the night he had bathed Braavos in blood, he had held back.
This was because the moment his spiritual attributes surged, he chose to reapply the seals placed on him long ago by the Red Priestess.
Samwell had no choice—without the seal, the constant whispers of the gods would have driven him mad.
But now, he felt ready to lift that seal. Ready for a battle where he could truly unleash himself.
Whether killing the Night King would end the Long Night or not, he no longer cared.
First, he would fight. First, he would kill.
With that thought, Samwell drew the massive sword on his back—Dawn. He leaped from the white dragon's back and charged toward the eerie altar below.
In his right palm, the petal-shaped seal began to bloom one flower at a time. Samwell felt an indescribable, terrifying force awaken within him, like a volcano on the brink of eruption.
Boom!
A sudden burst of silver light split the darkness.
Clang!
The light shattered into a cascade of fiery sparks, orange and white interwoven in brilliance.
The combatants moved so fast they seemed to vanish from sight, their forms no longer visible to the naked eye.
This was a duel no one could interrupt.
But that didn't mean the others, or the White Walkers, stood idle.
The White Walkers riding ice spiders turned their attention to the dragons in the sky. The massive white dragon was especially troublesome, its fiery breath like a volcanic eruption, searing everything in its path.
The black and green dragons, while slightly weaker, were piloted by skilled riders who utilized clever tactics, creating no small amount of chaos for their foes.
Below, Arya Stark had been ecstatic since spotting the dragons. Although restrained, she couldn't help but cheer and shout:
"Take down that crowned freak! Go, Sam-Your Majesty Caesar! Finish him off!"
But despite her enthusiasm, Arya couldn't actually see the battle. The combatants were too fast, their movements blurred into a chaotic clash of gold and gray light streaking through the air like lightning bolts colliding.
Their speed defied comprehension, pushing nerves and muscles to the absolute limit.
Screeeech!
A streak of gray light tore across the sky, carving a deep scar into the snow below and sending a geyser of blood and gore among a cluster of wights.
The Night King staggered, the icy sword in his hand shattering into two pieces.
But his frozen blue eyes betrayed no shock, no fear—only the same dead silence that seemed even colder than the Long Night itself.
As the golden light rushed toward him, the Night King calmly raised his hand. Wisps of grayish-white mist emerged from the altar, curling around his arm.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Suddenly, a terrifying maw formed in mid-air, a vortex of black energy with jagged edges.
From its depths shot a lightning-fast black tongue, snaking through the air like a monstrous serpent, tearing through the atmosphere toward Samwell.
Samwell's instincts screamed at him. This energy was unlike anything he had encountered, yet it felt disturbingly familiar.
Though a thousand thoughts raced through his mind, his actions remained swift and decisive.
He spun Dawn with elegant precision, tilting the blade upward.
Threads of golden energy converged on the blade, imbuing it with a brilliance far exceeding anything he had unleashed before.
Boom!
Golden energy met the black tongue, colliding with explosive force. The resulting shockwave lit up the night sky like fireworks.
But the battle was far from over.
The Night King drew another stream of black energy from the altar, his entire body now shrouded in a dark, unholy radiance. His icy armor seemed to ignite with black flames.
Bang!
Black fire surged outward, spreading like ripples across the snow, consuming everything in its path.
Even the surrounding White Walkers and wights, despite keeping their distance, were hurled away by the sheer force of the energy.
The three dragons soared higher into the sky, instinctively avoiding the deadly flames.
Samwell, however, couldn't dodge.
He stepped back, raising Dawn to shield himself from the tidal wave of power.
In an instant, Samwell did not feel the burning pain of the fire, nor the coldness of the ice and the snow, he only felt a powerful pressure.
Not of the body, but a pressure on the soul.
Boom!
The flames engulfed Samwell, swallowing him whole.
"Sam!" Daenerys screamed from atop Drogon, her face stricken with panic.
Even from afar, she could feel the terrifying aura emanating from the Night King's attack. It was a power that seemed invincible, a force that pierced straight into the depths of her heart.
But as the black flames dissipated, a radiant golden barrier was revealed, standing tall and unwavering.
Behind the barrier, Samwell remained, his body intact.
Daenerys exhaled in relief, but her tension quickly returned.
The Night King's assault was far from over.
Wave after wave of black energy poured forth, each surge laced with eerie, glowing runes. The oppressive power radiated outward, unrelenting.
Samwell held firm, summoning golden threads from the void to reinforce his barrier.
But even as the golden cocoon shielded him, he found himself unable to counterattack. The onslaught left him rooted in place, struggling to hold the line.
"It seems… I have no choice," Samwell muttered, glancing at the petal-shaped seal on his left hand.
"If I can't suppress it any longer… then I'll unleash it completely."
As soon as he finished speaking, he put down the sword on his own initiative, as if he was ready to give up.
The Night King's piercing blue eyes flickered with a trace of emotion—confusion, tinged with disbelief.
But the next moment, a large ball of golden threads bloomed from the human king opposite like a shadow, just like flowers blooming in midsummer.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Countless golden tendrils shot out, enveloping Samwell in radiant light. His eyes turned gold, his skin etched with glowing patterns.
He raised his hand and pointed, the threads surged forward, converging on the Night King.
Boom!
Gold overwhelmed black, illuminating the darkness with an unparalleled brilliance.
Chapter 530: All Gods Are Lies
The murmurings returned, faint and persistent, echoing in Samwell's ears like whispers from another world. But he ignored them, his focus locked on the retreating figure of ice and shadow before him.
"Let this be the end."
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Sharp, bone-deep sounds of ice fracturing filled the air, each one more piercing than the last.
Samwell watched as the Night King's crystalline armor began to split apart, spiderweb cracks spreading rapidly across its surface.
The Night King's body trembled violently, as if something gray and ethereal was struggling to escape the confines of his icy shell.
Samwell's gaze turned cold. He wasted no time, raising his sword once more and charging forward, intent on finishing the job.
But he was too late.
A massive wave of black energy erupted from the altar, shattering the towering pillar of darkness that reached into the heavens. For a moment, a faint light pierced the sky above.
Boom!
Countless black threads exploded outward, shaking the earth as though heralding the end of the world.
The wind howled like a maddened beast, and the wails of the dead echoed across the landscape.
The ancient graves of the First Men stirred. It was as if the land itself, slumbering for millennia, was awakening.
Blackness surged back with renewed ferocity, reclaiming dominance over the battlefield.
In the midst of the swirling tides of shadow, the Night King's body glowed with an eerie gray-white light. The sight was both chilling and awe-inspiring.
For the first time, there was a flicker of emotion in his ghostly blue eyes—complex and unreadable, no longer the dead void they had been.
Yet, with this newfound intensity came an even more terrifying aura.
A ring of black energy, pulsing with strange gray runes, surrounded Samwell, isolating him.
The pressure emanating from the Night King was overwhelming—dozens of times stronger than before.
This kind of pressure is simply not something he can resist at his current level.
Even though he had completely lifted the seal, he was still powerless.
Moreover, Samwell felt an extremely strong threat from the Night King, the threat of death.
Swish!
A streak of black light flashed past Samwell's vision. Instinctively, he tilted his head.
A chilling cold pierced his left shoulder, freezing half his body solid.
If he hadn't dodged at the last moment, he might already be dead.
Too strong.
How could he be this strong?
For the first time, Samwell felt a pang of despair.
The Night King, unhurried and deliberate, advanced toward the human king. In his hand, a dagger of pure blackness began to take shape, sharp and malevolent like the scythe of death.
This can't be happening.
Samwell refused to believe it.
If the Night King truly possessed such overwhelming power, why had he hidden in the shadows for so long? Why not crush the Neck's defenses outright and end this war in one decisive blow?
This power didn't belong to this world.
Samwell had defied gods before because he had learned their limitations. They were mighty but could not fully manifest their strength in this realm. Otherwise, they wouldn't waste time playing at prophecies and games of fate.
So what had gone wrong?
Samwell tried to lift his greatsword, but the Night King's oppressive aura pinned his arms down like anchors. Each movement felt as heavy as dragging the earth itself.
The Night King drew closer with every step, and from the skies above, Daenerys's frantic voice pierced the storm.
"Sam!"
Startled, Samwell looked up and saw a streak of green light hurtling toward him.
"No! Stay back!" he roared.
But the green dragon showed no signs of stopping.
"No!"
Samwell roared again, wrenching his sword free with a surge of desperation.
But time seemed to slow, the world turning into a surreal, dreamlike haze. Every movement, every sound stretched into an agonizing crawl.
It was like watching a tragedy unfold in slow motion, powerless to intervene.
Samwell's chest tightened with unbearable pain as he watched Daenerys charge forward recklessly.
Images flashed before his eyes:
The red comet streaking across the sky.
The blood-soaked reefs of Hardhome.
The ruins of Ghiscari cities.
Death. Resurrection. Betrayal. Control. Sacrifice.
Finally, the face of a woman—radiant and sorrowful.
Nissa Nissa.
The ancient tale echoed through his mind.
The hero of the last Long Night.
The warrior of light who forged the flaming sword Lightbringer with the blood of his beloved.
The prophesied prince, Azor Ahai.
Victory demands sacrifice.
Light is born from darkness.
"No! Never!"
Anger and despair surged within him, drowning out everything else.
For a moment, his vision went black.
When Samwell opened his eyes again, the Night King, the altar, Daenerys—everything was gone.
He stood alone in a desolate landscape, a wasteland of molten rock and blazing fire.
The ground beneath him was riddled with cracks, golden flames roaring within.
Across from him stood a man, his face obscured by shadows.
"Do you still not understand, Caesar?" the man asked softly.
"Who are you?" Samwell demanded, his voice sharp with suspicion.
"Who I am doesn't matter," the man replied. "What matters is who you are."
"I'm Caesar!" Samwell snapped instinctively.
But the man shook his head slowly.
"No. You've been running from the truth. You can delay it for a while, but you can never escape it forever. Your destiny will always follow you, like a shadow."
Samwell's expression hardened.
"Then tell me—who am I?"
The man's voice turned solemn, almost reverent, as he recited:
"After the long summer, when the stars bleed and the cold darkness descends upon the world, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. This sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes. He who wields it is Azor Ahai reborn, the one destined to banish the darkness."
He raised his head, and Samwell saw his own face staring back at him.
"You," the man declared, "are Azor Ahai reborn."
The revelation carried the weight of inevitability.
"Accept your fate. Fulfill your destiny," the man urged. "Kill your wife, Nissa Nissa. Let her sacrifice forge the true Lightbringer. End this Long Night."
Samwell remained silent, staring at the man's words with an unreadable expression.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a dry, bitter sound.
"So, it's you. R'hllor," he said.
The man's expression remained impassive.
Samwell, however, seemed almost amused as he continued, ignoring the figure before him.
"You know, I once heard a saying," he said. "It came from an enemy, but it struck me as profoundly true."
The man regarded him with calm indifference. "What saying?"
Samwell raised a hand, as if brushing away an invisible fog.
"All gods are lies."
(End of Chapter)
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